The works of Mr. John Oldham, together with his Remains
         Works. 1684
         Oldham, John, 1653-1683.
      
       
         
           1684
        
      
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             The works of Mr. John Oldham, together with his Remains
             Works. 1684
             Oldham, John, 1653-1683.
             Ovid, 43 B.C.-17 or 18 A.D. Metamorphoses.
          
           4 pts. ([8], 148; [8], 134; [6], 215; [24], 130 p.)
           
             Printed for Jo. Hindmarsh ...,
             London :
             1684.
          
           
             First collected edition.
             Each of the titles in this volume has a special t.p.
             Reproduction of original in Cambridge University Library.
             Satyrs upon the Jesuits -- Some new pieces never before published -- Poems and translations -- Remains of Mr. John Oldham in verse and prose.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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           Morwent, Charles, 1654 or 5-ca. 1674.
           Jesuits -- Humor.
        
      
    
     
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               THE
               WORKS
               OF
               Mr.
               
                 JOHN
                 OLDHAM
              
               ,
               Together
               with
               his
               REMAINS
               .
            
             
               LONDON
               :
               Printed
               for
               
                 Jo.
                 Hindmarsh
              
               ,
               Bookseller
               to
               his
               Royal
               Highness
               ,
               at
               the
               Black
               Bull
               in
               Cornhil
               ,
               1684
            
          
           
             
             
             
               CONTENTS
               .
            
             
               
                 Book
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 PRologue
                 to
                 the
                 Satyr
                 upon
                 the
                 Jesuits
                 .
                 Page
                 1
              
               
                 The
                 first
                 Satyr
                 .
                 
                 Garnet's
                 Ghost
                 addressing
                 to
                 the
                 Jesuits
                 met
                 in
                 private
                 Cabal
                 after
                 the
                 Murder
                 of
                 Godfrey
                 .
                 5
              
               
                 The
                 Second
                 Satyr
                 .
                 24
              
               
                 The
                 Third
                 Satyr
                 .
                 
                 Loyola's
                 Will.
                 39
              
               
                 The
                 Fourth
                 Satyr
                 .
                 S.
                 
                 Ignatius's
                 Image
                 brought
                 in
                 ,
                 discovering
                 the
                 Rogueries
                 of
                 the
                 Jesuits
                 ,
                 and
                 ridiculous
                 Superstition
                 of
                 the
                 Church
                 of
                 Rome
                 .
                 74
              
               
                 The
                 Satyr
                 against
                 Vertue
                 .
                 Pindarique
                 Ode
                 93
              
               
                 An
                 Apology
                 for
                 the
                 foregoing
                 Ode
                 by
                 way
                 of
                 Epilog
                 .
                 111
              
               
                 The
                 Passion
                 of
                 Byblis
                 out
                 of
                 
                 Ovid's
                 Metamorphosis
                 imitated
                 in
                 English.
                 119
              
               
                 Upon
                 a
                 Woman
                 who
                 by
                 her
                 Falshood
                 and
                 Scorn
                 was
                 the
                 Death
                 of
                 his
                 Friend
                 .
                 A
                 Satyr
                 .
                 139
              
            
             
               
                 Book
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 Horace
                 his
                 Art
                 of
                 Poetry
                 imitated
                 in
                 English.
                 1
              
               
                 An
                 Imitation
                 of
                 Horace
                 .
                 Book
                 I.
                 Satyr
                 9.
                 43
              
               
                 Paraphrase
                 upon
                 Horace
                 .
                 Boook
                 I.
                 Ode
                 13.
                 54
              
               
                 Paraphrase
                 upon
                 Horace
                 .
                 Book
                 II.
                 Ode
                 14.
                 58
              
               
                 The
                 Praise
                 of
                 Homer
                 .
                 Pindarique
                 Ode
                 .
                 62
              
               
                 The
                 Lamentation
                 for
                 Adonis
                 imitated
                 out
                 of
                 the
                 Greek
                 of
                 Bion
                 of
                 Smyrna
                 ,
                 Pastoral
                 .
                 Bion
                 ,
                 A
                 Pastoral
                 in
                 imitation
                 of
                 the
                 Greek
                 of
                 Moschus
                 ,
                 bewailing
                 the
                 Death
                 of
                 the
                 Earl
                 of
                 Rochester
                 .
                 73
              
               
                 Paraphrase
                 upon
                 the
                 137
                 Psalm
                 .
                 Pindarique
                 Ode
                 .
                 99
              
               
                 Paraphrase
                 upon
                 the
                 Hymn
                 of
                 S.
                 Amb.
                 Pindariq
                 .
                 Ode
                 107
              
               
                 A
                 Letter
                 out
                 of
                 the
                 Country
                 to
                 a
                 Friend
                 in
                 Town
                 ,
                 giving
                 an
                 account
                 of
                 the
                 Author's
                 inclination
                 to
                 Poetry
                 .
                 118
              
               
                 Upon
                 a
                 Printer
                 ,
                 that
                 expos'd
                 him
                 by
                 printing
                 a
                 Piece
                 of
                 his
                 grosly
                 mangled
                 and
                 faulty
                 .
                 A
                 Satyr
                 131
              
            
             
               
                 Book
                 III.
                 
              
               
                 Monsieur
                 
                 Boileau's
                 Satyr
                 upon
                 Man
                 ,
                 imitated
                 1
              
               
                 
                 Juvenal's
                 thirteenth
                 Satyr
                 ,
                 imitated
                 25
              
               
                 
                 David's
                 Lamentation
                 for
                 the
                 Death
                 of
                 Saul
                 and
                 Jonathan
                 ,
                 paraphras'd
                 .
                 Ode
                 49
              
               
                 The
                 Ode
                 of
                 Aristotle
                 in
                 Athenaeus
                 ,
                 paraphrased
                 66
              
               
                 
                 Upon
                 the
                 Works
                 of
                 
                   Ben.
                   Johnson
                
                 .
                 Ode
                 69
              
               
                 The
                 Ninth
                 Ode
                 of
                 the
                 third
                 Book
                 of
                 Horace
                 ,
                 imitated
                 87
              
               
                 Upon
                 a
                 Lady
                 ,
                 who
                 by
                 overturning
                 of
                 a
                 Coach
                 had
                 her
                 Coats
                 behind
                 flung
                 up
                 ,
                 and
                 what
                 was
                 under
                 shewn
                 to
                 the
                 view
                 of
                 the
                 Company
                 90
              
               
                 Catullus
                 ,
                 Epigram
                 7.
                 imitated
                 97
              
               
                 The
                 fourth
                 Elegy
                 of
                 the
                 second
                 Book
                 of
                 
                 Ovid's
                 Amours
                 ,
                 imitated
                 99
              
               
                 The
                 Fifth
                 Elegy
                 of
                 the
                 same
                 Book
                 ,
                 imitated
                 104
              
               
                 The
                 Tenth
                 Elegy
                 of
                 the
                 same
                 Book
                 ,
                 imitated
                 110
              
               
                 A
                 Fragment
                 of
                 Petronius
                 ,
                 paraphrased
                 114
              
               
                 An
                 Ode
                 of
                 Anacreon
                 ,
                 paraphrased
                 116
              
               
                 An
                 Allusion
                 to
                 Martial
                 ,
                 Book
                 I.
                 Epigr.
                 118.
                 120
              
               
                 The
                 Dream
                 ,
                 an
                 Elegy
                 122
              
               
                 A
                 Satyr
                 ,
                 touching
                 Nobility
                 .
                 Out
                 of
                 French
                 127
              
               
                 A
                 Satyr
                 ,
                 addressed
                 to
                 a
                 Friend
                 that
                 is
                 about
                 to
                 leave
                 the
                 University
                 and
                 come
                 abroad
                 in
                 the
                 World
                 137
              
               
                 Presenting
                 a
                 Book
                 to
                 Cosmelia
                 .
                 Elegy
                 149
              
               
                 The
                 Parting
                 .
                 Elegy
                 153
              
               
                 Complaining
                 of
                 Absence
                 .
                 Elegy
                 156
              
               
                 Promising
                 a
                 Visit.
                 Elegy
                 158
              
               
                 The
                 careless
                 Good
                 Fellow
                 .
                 Song
                 160
              
               
                 A
                 Satyr
                 concerning
                 Poetry
                 164
              
               
                 The
                 Third
                 Satyr
                 of
                 Juvenal
                 ,
                 imitated
                 180
              
               
                 A
                 Dithyrambick
                 .
                 The
                 Drunkards
                 Speech
                 in
                 a
                 Mask
                 260
              
            
             
               
                 REMAINS
                 .
              
               
                 Counterpart
                 to
                 the
                 Satvr
                 against
                 Vertue
                 ,
                 1
              
               
                 Virg.
                 Eclogue
                 VIII
                 .
                 The
                 Enchantment
                 13
              
               
                 To
                 Madam
                 
                   L.
                   E.
                
                 upon
                 her
                 Recovery
                 from
                 a
                 fit
                 of
                 Sickness
                 22
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 Death
                 of
                 Mrs.
                 
                   Katharine
                   Kingscourt
                
                 ,
                 a
                 Child
                 of
                 excellent
                 Parts
                 and
                 Piety
                 31
              
               
                 A
                 Sunday-Thought
                 in
                 Sickness
                 34
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 Memory
                 of
                 Mr.
                 
                   Charles
                   Morwent
                
                 49
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 Memory
                 of
                 that
                 worthy
                 Gentleman
                 M.
                 
                   Harman
                   Atwood
                
                 95
              
            
          
           
             
             
               SATYRS
               UPON
               THE
               JESUITS
               :
               Written
               in
               the
               YEAR
               1679.
               
            
             
               And
               some
               other
               PIECES
               By
               the
               same
               HAND
               .
            
             
               
                 The
                 Third
                 Edition
                 Corrected
              
               .
            
             
               LONDON
               :
               Printed
               for
               
                 Joseph
                 Hindmarsh
              
               ,
               at
               the
               
                 Black
                 Bull
              
               in
               Cornhill
               .
               1685.
               
            
          
           
             
             
             
               Advertisement
               .
            
             
               
                 THE
                 Author
                 might
                 here
                 (
                 according
                 to
                 the
                 laudible
                 custom
                 of
                 Prefaces
                 )
                 entertain
                 the
                 Reader
                 with
                 a
                 Discourse
                 of
                 the
                 Original
                 ,
                 Progress
                 ,
                 and
                 Rules
                 of
              
               Satyr
               ,
               
                 and
                 let
                 him
                 understand
                 ,
                 that
                 he
                 has
                 lately
                 Read
              
               Casaubon
               ,
               
                 and
                 several
                 other
                 Criticks
                 upon
                 the
                 Point
                 ;
                 but
                 at
                 present
                 he
                 is
                 minded
                 to
                 wave
                 it
                 ,
                 as
                 a
                 vanity
                 he
                 is
                 in
                 no
                 wise
                 fond
                 of
                 .
                 His
                 only
                 intent
                 now
                 is
                 to
                 give
                 a
                 brief
                 account
                 of
                 what
                 he
                 Publishes
                 ,
                 in
                 order
                 to
                 prevent
                 what
                 Censures
                 he
                 foresees
                 may
                 coulourably
                 be
                 past
                 thereupon
                 :
                 And
                 that
                 is
                 ,
                 as
                 followeth
                 :
              
            
             
               
                 What
                 he
                 calls
                 the
              
               Prologue
               ,
               
                 is
                 in
                 imitation
                 of
              
               Persius
               ,
               
                 who
                 has
                 prefix'd
                 somewhat
                 by
                 that
                 Name
                 before
                 his
                 Book
                 of
                 Satyrs
                 ,
                 and
                 may
                 serve
                 for
                 a
                 pretty
                 good
                 Authority
                 .
                 The
                 first
                 Satyr
                 he
                 drew
                 by
              
               Sylla's
               Ghost
               
                 in
                 the
                 great
              
               Johnson
               ,
               
                 which
                 may
                 be
                 perceived
                 by
                 some
                 strokes
                 and
                 touches
                 therein
                 ,
                 however
                 short
                 they
                 come
                 of
                 the
                 Original
                 .
                 In
                 the
                 second
                 ,
                 he
                 only
                 followed
                 the
                 swinge
                 of
                 his
                 own
                 〈◊〉
                 .
                 The
                 Design
                 ,
                 and
                 some
                 Passages
                 of
                 the
              
               Franciscan
               of
               Buchanan
               .
               
                 Which
                 ingenious
                 confession
                 he
                 thinks
                 fit
                 to
                 make
                 ,
                 to
                 shew
                 he
                 has
                 more
                 modesty
                 than
                 the
                 common
                 Padders
                 in
                 Wit
                 of
                 these
                 times
                 .
                 He
                 doubts
                 ,
                 there
                 may
                 be
                 some
                 few
                 mistakes
                 in
                 Chronology
                 therein
                 ,
                 which
                 for
                 want
                 of
                 Books
                 he
                 could
                 ●…ot
                 inform
                 himself
                 in
                 .
                 If
                 the
                 skilful
                 Reader
                 meet
                 with
                 any
                 such
                 ,
                 he
                 may
                 the
                 more
                 easily
                 pardon
                 them
                 upon
                 that
                 score
                 .
                 Whence
                 he
                 had
                 the
                 hint
                 of
                 the
                 fourth
                 ,
                 is
                 obvious
                 to
                 all
                 ,
                 that
                 are
                 any
                 thing
                 acquainted
                 with
              
               Horace
               .
               
                 And
                 without
                 the
                 Authority
                 of
                 so
                 great
                 a
                 President
                 ,
                 the
                 making
                 of
                 an
                 Image
                 speak
                 ,
                 is
                 but
                 an
                 ordinary
                 Miracle
                 in
                 Poetry
                 .
                 He
                 expects
                 ,
                 that
                 some
                 will
                 tax
                 him
                 of
                 Buffoonery
                 ,
                 and
                 turning
                 holy
                 things
                 into
                 ridicule
                 .
                 But
                 le●…
                 them
                 Read
                 ,
                 how
                 severely
              
               Arnobius
               ,
               Lactantius
               ,
               Minutius
               Felix
               ,
               
                 and
                 the
                 gravest
              
               Fathers
               ;
               
                 have
                 railly'd
                 the
                 fopperies
                 and
                 superstitions
                 of
                 the
                 Heathen
                 ,
                 and
                 then
                 consider
                 whether
                 those
                 ,
                 
                 which
                 he
                 has
                 chosen
                 for
                 his
                 Argument
                 ,
                 are
                 not
                 as
                 worthy
                 of
                 laughter
                 .
                 The
                 only
                 difference
                 is
                 that
                 they
                 did
                 it
                 in
                 Prose
                 ,
                 as
                 he
                 does
                 in
                 Verse
                 ,
                 where
                 perhaps
                 't
                 is
                 the
                 more
                 allowable
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 As
                 for
                 the
                 next
                 Poem
                 (
                 which
                 is
                 the
                 most
                 liable
                 to
                 censure
                 )
                 tho
                 the
                 world
                 has
                 given
                 it
                 the
                 Name
                 of
                 the
              
               Satyr
               against
               Vertue
               ,
               
                 he
                 declares
                 't
                 was
                 never
                 design'd
                 to
                 that
                 intent
                 ,
                 how
                 apt
                 soever
                 some
                 may
                 be
                 to
                 wrest
                 it
                 .
                 And
                 this
                 appears
                 by
                 what
                 is
                 said
                 after
                 it
                 ,
                 and
                 is
                 discernable
                 enough
                 to
                 all
                 ,
                 that
                 have
                 the
                 sense
                 to
                 understand
                 it
                 ,
                 'T
                 was
                 meant
                 to
                 abuse
                 those
                 ,
                 who
                 valued
                 themselves
                 upon
                 their
                 Wit
                 and
                 Parts
                 ,
                 in
                 praising
                 Vice
                 ,
                 and
                 to
                 shew
                 ,
                 that
                 others
                 of
                 sober
                 Principles
                 ,
                 if
                 they
                 would
                 take
                 the
                 same
                 liberty
                 in
                 Poetry
                 ,
                 could
                 strain
                 as
                 high
                 rants
                 in
                 Profaneness
                 as
                 they
                 .
                 At
                 first
                 he
                 intended
                 it
                 not
                 for
                 the
                 publick
                 ,
                 nor
                 to
                 pass
                 beyond
                 the
                 privacy
                 of
                 two
                 or
                 three
                 Friends
                 ,
                 but
                 seeing
                 it
                 had
                 the
                 Fate
                 to
                 steal
                 abroad
                 in
                 Manuscript
                 ,
                 and
                 afterwards
                 in
                 Print
                 ,
                 without
                 his
                 knowledg
                 ,
                 he
                 now
                 thinks
                 it
                 a
                 Justice
                 due
                 to
                 his
                 own
                 Reputation
                 ,
                 to
                 have
                 it
                 come
                 forth
                 without
                 those
                 faults
                 ,
                 which
                 it
                 has
                 suffered
                 from
                 Transcribers
                 and
                 the
                 Press
                 hitherto
                 ,
                 and
                 which
                 make
                 it
                 a
                 worse
                 Satyr
                 upon
                 himself
                 ,
                 than
                 upon
                 what
                 it
                 was
                 design'd
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Something
                 should
                 be
                 said
                 too
                 of
                 the
                 last
                 Trifle
                 ,
                 if
                 it
                 were
                 worth
                 it
                 .
                 'T
                 was
                 occasioned
                 upon
                 reading
                 the
                 late
                 Translations
                 of
              
               Ovid
               's
               Epistles
               ,
               
                 which
                 gave
                 him
                 a
                 mind
                 to
                 try
                 what
                 he
                 could
                 do
                 upon
                 a
                 like
                 Subject
                 .
                 Those
                 being
                 already
                 forestall'd
                 ,
                 he
                 thought
                 fit
                 to
                 make
                 choice
                 of
                 the
                 same
                 Poet
                 ,
                 whereon
                 perhaps
                 he
                 has
                 taken
                 too
                 much
                 liberty
                 .
                 Had
                 he
                 seen
                 Mr.
              
               Sandys
               
                 his
                 Translation
                 before
                 he
                 began
                 ,
                 he
                 never
                 durst
                 have
                 ventured
                 :
                 Since
                 he
                 has
                 ,
                 and
                 finds
                 reason
                 enough
                 to
                 despair
                 of
                 his
                 undertaking
                 .
                 But
                 now
                 't
                 is
                 done
                 ,
                 he
                 is
                 loth
                 to
                 burn
                 it
                 ,
                 and
                 chuses
                 rather
                 to
                 give
                 somebody
                 else
                 the
                 trouble
                 .
                 The
                 Reader
                 may
                 do
                 as
                 he
                 pleases
                 ,
                 either
                 like
                 it
                 ,
                 or
                 put
                 it
                 to
                 the
                 use
                 of
                 Mr.
              
               Jordan
               
                 's
                 Works
                 .
                 'T
                 is
                 the
                 first
                 attempt
                 ,
                 he
                 ever
                 made
                 in
                 this
                 kind
                 ,
                 and
                 likely
                 enough
                 to
                 be
                 the
                 last
                 ,
                 his
                 vein
                 (
                 if
                 he
                 may
                 be
                 thought
                 to
                 have
                 any
                 )
                 lying
                 another
                 way
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
               SATYRS
               UPON
               THE
               JESUITS
               .
            
             
               
                 PROLOGUE
              
               
                 
                   FOR
                   who
                   can
                   longer
                   hold
                   ?
                   when
                   every
                   Press
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Bar
                   and
                   Pulpit
                   too
                   has
                   broke
                   the
                   Peace
                   ?
                
                 
                   When
                   every
                   scribling
                   Fool
                   at
                   the
                   alarms
                
                 
                   Has
                   drawn
                   his
                   Pen
                   ,
                   and
                   rises
                   up
                   in
                   Arms
                   ?
                
                 
                   And
                   not
                   a
                   dull
                   Pretender
                   of
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   vents
                   his
                   gall
                   in
                   Pamphlet
                   up
                   and
                   down
                   ?
                
                 
                   When
                   all
                   with
                   licence
                   rail
                   ,
                   and
                   who
                   will
                   not
                   ,
                
                 
                   Must
                   be
                   almost
                   suspected
                   of
                   the
                   PLOT
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bring
                   his
                   Zeal
                   ,
                   or
                   else
                   his
                   Parts
                   in
                   doubt
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   our
                   
                     Preaching
                     Tribe
                  
                   attack
                   the
                   Foes
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   their
                   weak
                   Artillery
                   oppose
                   :
                
                 
                   Mistaken
                   honest
                   men
                   ,
                   who
                   gravely
                   blame
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   hope
                   that
                   
                     gentle
                     Doctrine
                  
                   should
                   reclaim
                   .
                
                 
                   Are
                   Texts
                   ,
                   and
                   such
                   exploded
                   trifles
                   fit
                
                 
                   T'
                   impose
                   ,
                   and
                   sham
                   upon
                   a
                   Jesuit
                   ?
                
                 
                   Would
                   they
                   the
                   dull
                   Old
                   
                     Fisher
                     men
                  
                   compare
                
                 
                   With
                   mighty
                   Suarez
                   ,
                   and
                   great
                   Escobar
                   ?
                
                 
                   Such
                   thred-bare
                   proofs
                   ,
                   and
                   stale
                   Authorities
                
                 
                   May
                   Us
                   poor
                   simple
                   Hereticks
                   suffice
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   to
                   a
                   sear'd
                   
                   Ignatian's
                   Conscience
                   ,
                
                 
                   Harden'd
                   ,
                   as
                   his
                   own
                   Face
                   ,
                   with
                   Impudence
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Faith
                   in
                   contradiction
                   bore
                   ,
                   whom
                   Lies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   non-sense
                   ,
                   nor
                   Impossibilities
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   shame
                   ,
                   nor
                   death
                   ,
                   nor
                   damning
                   can
                   assail
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   these
                   mild
                   fruitless
                   methods
                   will
                   avail
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   pointed
                   Satyr
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   sharps
                   of
                   Wit
                
                 
                   For
                   such
                   a
                   prize
                   are
                   th'
                   only
                   Weapons
                   fit
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   needs
                   there
                   Art
                   ,
                   or
                   Genius
                   here
                   to
                   use
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   Indignation
                   can
                   create
                   a
                   m●…e
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Should
                   Parts
                   ,
                   and
                   Nature
                   fail
                   ,
                   yet
                   very
                   spite
                
                 
                   Would
                   make
                   the
                   arrant'st
                   Wild
                   ,
                   or
                   Withers
                   write
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   It
                   is
                   resolv'd
                   :
                   hence
                   forth
                   an
                   endless
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   and
                   my
                   Muse
                   with
                   them
                   ,
                   and
                   theirs
                   declare
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whom
                   neither
                   open
                   M●…lice
                   of
                   the
                   Foes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   private
                   Daggers
                   ,
                   nor
                   St.
                   
                     Omer's
                     Dose
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   all
                   ,
                   that
                   Godfrey
                   felt
                   ,
                   or
                   Monarchs
                   fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   from
                   my
                   vow'd
                   ,
                   and
                   sworn
                   revenge
                   deter
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Sooner
                   shall
                   false
                   
                     Court
                     Favourites
                  
                   prove
                   just
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   faithful
                   to
                   their
                   Kings
                   ,
                   and
                   Countrys
                   trust
                   :
                
                 
                   Sooner
                   shall
                   they
                   detect
                   the
                   tricks
                   of
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   knav'ry
                   ,
                   suits
                   ,
                   and
                   bribes
                   ,
                   and
                   flatt'ry
                   hate
                   :
                
                 
                   Bawds
                   shall
                   turn
                   
                     Nuns
                     ,
                     Salt
                  
                   D
                   —
                   s
                   grow
                   chast
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Paint
                   ,
                   and
                   Pride
                   ,
                   and
                   Lechery
                   detest
                   :
                
                 
                   Popes
                   shall
                   for
                   
                     Kings
                     Supremacy
                  
                   decide
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Cardinals
                   for
                   Huguenots
                   be
                   try'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Sooner
                   (
                   which
                   is
                   the
                   great'st
                   impossible
                   )
                
                 
                   Shall
                   the
                   vile
                   Brood
                   of
                   Loyola
                   ,
                   and
                   Hell
                
                 
                   Give
                   o're
                   to
                   Plot
                   ,
                   be
                   Villains
                   ,
                   and
                   Rebel
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Than
                   I
                   with
                   utmost
                   spite
                   ,
                   and
                   vengeance
                   cease
                
                 
                   To
                   prosecute
                   ,
                   and
                   plague
                   their
                   cursed
                   race
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   rage
                   of
                   Poets
                   damn'd
                   ,
                   of
                   
                     Womens
                     Pride
                  
                
                 
                   Contemn'd
                   ,
                   and
                   scorn'd
                   ,
                   or
                   
                     proffer'd
                     lust
                  
                   denied
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   malice
                   of
                   Religious
                   angry
                   Zeal
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   ,
                   
                     cashier'd
                     resenting
                     Statesmen
                  
                   feel
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   prompts
                   dire
                   Hags
                   in
                   their
                   own
                   blood
                   to
                   write
                
                 
                   And
                   sell
                   their
                   very
                   souls
                   to
                   Hell
                   for
                   spite
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   this
                   urge
                   on
                   my
                   rank
                   envenom'd
                   spleen
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   keen
                   Satyr
                   edg
                   my
                   stabbing
                   Pen
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   its
                   each
                   home-set
                   thrust
                   their
                   blood
                   may
                   draw
                   ,
                
                 
                   Each
                   drop
                   of
                   Ink
                   like
                   Aquafortis
                   gnaw
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Red
                   hot
                   with
                   vengeance
                   thus
                   ,
                   I
                   'll
                   brand
                   disgrace
                
                 
                   So
                   deep
                   ,
                   no
                   time
                   shall
                   e're
                   the
                   marks
                   deface
                   :
                
                 
                   Till
                   my
                   severe
                   ,
                   and
                   exemplary
                   doom
                
                 
                   Spread
                   wider
                   than
                   their
                   guilt
                   ,
                   till
                   it
                   become
                
              
               
                 
                   More
                   dreaded
                   than
                   the
                   Bor
                   ,
                   and
                   frighten
                   worse
                
                 
                   Than
                   damning
                   Pope's
                   Anathema's
                   ,
                   and
                   curse
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 
                   SATYR
                   I.
                
                 Garnet's
                 Ghost
                 addressing
                 to
                 the
                 Jesuits
                 ,
                 met
                 in
                 private
                 Cabal
                 just
                 after
                 the
                 Murder
                 of
                 Godfrey
                 .
              
               
                 
                   BY
                   Hell
                   't
                   was
                   bravely
                   done
                   !
                   what
                   less
                   than
                   this
                   ?
                
                 
                   What
                   Sacrifice
                   of
                   meaner
                   worth
                   ,
                   and
                   price
                
                 
                   Could
                   we
                   have
                   offer'd
                   up
                   for
                   our
                   success
                   ?
                
                 
                   So
                   fare
                   all
                   they
                   ,
                   who
                   e're
                   provoke
                   our
                   hate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   by
                   like
                   ways
                   presume
                   to
                   tempt
                   their
                   fate
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fare
                   each
                   like
                   this
                   bold
                   medling
                   Fool
                   ,
                   and
                   be
                
                 
                   As
                   well
                   secur'd
                   ,
                   as
                   well
                   dispatch'd
                   as
                   he
                   :
                
                 
                   Would
                   he
                   were
                   here
                   ,
                   yet
                   warm
                   ,
                   that
                   we
                   might
                   drain
                
                 
                   His
                   reaking
                   gore
                   ,
                   and
                   drink
                   up
                   ev'ry
                   vein
                   !
                
                 
                   That
                   were
                   a
                   glorious
                   sanction
                   ,
                   much
                   like
                   thine
                   .
                
                 
                   Great
                   Roman
                   !
                   made
                   upon
                   a
                   like
                   design
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Like
                   thine
                   ;
                   we
                   scorn
                   so
                   mean
                   a
                   Sacrament
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   seal
                   ,
                   and
                   consecrate
                   our
                   high
                   intent
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   scorn
                   base
                   Blood
                   should
                   our
                   great
                   League
                   cement
                   :
                
                 
                   Thou
                   didst
                   it
                   with
                   a
                   slave
                   ,
                   but
                   we
                   think
                   good
                
                 
                   To
                   bind
                   our
                   Treason
                   with
                   a
                   bleeding
                   God.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Would
                   it
                   were
                   His
                   (
                   why
                   should
                   I
                   fear
                   to
                   name
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   you
                   to
                   hear
                   't
                   ?
                   )
                   at
                   which
                   we
                   nobly
                   aim
                
                 
                   Lives
                   yet
                   that
                   hated
                   en'my
                   of
                   our
                   Cause
                   ?
                
                 
                   Lives
                   He
                   our
                   mighty
                   projects
                   to
                   oppose
                   ?
                
                 
                   Can
                   His
                   weak
                   innocence
                   ,
                   and
                   Heaven's
                   care
                
                 
                   Be
                   thought
                   security
                   from
                   what
                   we
                   dare
                   ?
                
                 
                   Are
                   you
                   then
                   Jesuits
                   ?
                   are
                   you
                   so
                   for
                   nought
                   ?
                
                 
                   In
                   all
                   the
                   Catholick
                   depths
                   of
                   Treason
                   taught
                   ?
                
                 
                   In
                   orthodox
                   ,
                   and
                   solid
                   pois'ning
                   read
                   ?
                
                 
                   In
                   each
                   profounder
                   art
                   of
                   killing
                   bred
                   ?
                
                 
                   And
                   can
                   you
                   fail
                   ,
                   or
                   bungle
                   in
                   your
                   trade
                   ?
                
                 
                   Shall
                   one
                   poor
                   life
                   your
                   cowardize
                   upbraid
                   ?
                
                 
                   Tame
                   dastard
                   slaves
                   !
                   who
                   your
                   profession
                   shame
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fix
                   disgrace
                   on
                   our
                   great
                   
                   Founder's
                   name
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Think
                   what
                   late
                   Sect'ries
                   (
                   an
                   ignoble
                   crew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   worthy
                   to
                   be
                   rank'd
                   in
                   sin
                   with
                   you
                   )
                
                 
                   Inspir'd
                   with
                   lofty
                   wickedness
                   ,
                   durst
                   do
                   :
                
                 
                   How
                   from
                   his
                   Throne
                   they
                   hurl'd
                   a
                   Monarch
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   Aud
                   doubly
                   eas'd
                   him
                   of
                   both
                   Life
                   ,
                   and
                   Crown
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   scorn'd
                   in
                   covert
                   their
                   bold
                   act
                   to
                   hide
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   open
                   face
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   the
                   work
                   they
                   did
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   brav'd
                   its
                   vengeance
                   ,
                   and
                   its
                   pow'rs
                   defi'd
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   his
                   Son
                   ,
                   and
                   mortal
                   too
                   like
                   him
                   ,
                
                 
                   Durst
                   you
                   usurp
                   the
                   glory
                   of
                   the
                   crime
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   dare
                   ye
                   not
                   ?
                   I
                   know
                   ,
                   you
                   scorn
                   to
                   be
                
                 
                   By
                   such
                   as
                   they
                   ,
                   out-done
                   in
                   villany
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   proper
                   province
                   ;
                   true
                   ,
                   you
                   urg'd
                   them
                   on
                   ,
                
                 
                   Were
                   engins
                   in
                   the
                   fact
                   ,
                   but
                   they
                   alone
                
                 
                   Share
                   all
                   the
                   open
                   credit
                   ,
                   and
                   renown
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   hold
                   !
                   I
                   wrong
                   our
                   Church
                   ,
                   and
                   Cause
                   ,
                   which
                   need
                
                 
                   No
                   forein
                   instance
                   ,
                   nor
                   what
                   others
                   did
                   :
                
                 
                   Think
                   on
                   that
                   matchless
                   Assassin
                   ,
                   whose
                   name
                
                 
                   We
                   with
                   just
                   pride
                   can
                   make
                   our
                   happy
                   claim
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   He
                   ,
                   who
                   at
                   killing
                   of
                   an
                   Emperor
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   give
                   his
                   poison
                   stronger
                   force
                   ,
                   and
                   pow'r
                
                 
                   Mixt
                   a
                   God
                   with
                   't
                   ,
                   and
                   made
                   it
                   work
                   more
                   sure
                   :
                
                 
                   Blest
                   memory
                   !
                   which
                   shall
                   through
                   Age
                   to
                   come
                
                 
                   Stand
                   sacred
                   in
                   the
                   Lists
                   of
                   Hell
                   ,
                   and
                   Rome
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Let
                   our
                   great
                   Clement
                   ,
                   and
                   
                   Ravillac's
                   name
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Spirits
                   to
                   like
                   heights
                   of
                   sin
                   inflame
                   ;
                
                 
                   Those
                   mighty
                   Souls
                   ,
                   who
                   bravely
                   chose
                   to
                   die
                
                 
                   T'
                   have
                   each
                   a
                   
                     Royal
                     Ghost
                  
                   their
                   company
                   .
                
                 
                   Heroick
                   Act
                   !
                   and
                   worth
                   their
                   tortures
                   well
                   ,
                
                 
                   Well
                   worth
                   the
                   suff'ring
                   of
                   a
                   double
                   Hell
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   ,
                   they
                   felt
                   here
                   ,
                   and
                   that
                   below
                   ,
                   they
                   feel
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   if
                   these
                   cannot
                   move
                   you
                   ,
                   as
                   they
                   shou'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   me
                   ,
                   and
                   
                     my
                     example
                  
                   fire
                   your
                   blood
                   :
                
                 
                   Think
                   on
                   my
                   vast
                   attempt
                   ,
                   a
                   glorious
                   deed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   durst
                   the
                   Fates
                   have
                   suffer'd
                   to
                   succeed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   rival'd
                   Hells
                   most
                   proud
                   exploit
                   ,
                   and
                   boast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   that
                   ,
                   which
                   wou'd
                   the
                   
                     King
                     of
                     Fates
                  
                   depos'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Curst
                   be
                   the
                   day
                   ,
                   and
                   ne're
                   in
                   time
                   inrol'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   curst
                   the
                   Star
                   ,
                   whose
                   spiteful
                   influence
                   rul'd
                
                 
                   The
                   luckless
                   Minute
                   ,
                   which
                   my
                   project
                   spoil'd
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Curse
                   on
                   that
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                   who
                   ,
                   of
                   himself
                   afraid
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   glory
                   with
                   my
                   brave
                   design
                   betray'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Justly
                   he
                   fear'd
                   ,
                   lest
                   I
                   ,
                   who
                   strook
                   so
                   high
                
                 
                   In
                   guilt
                   ,
                   should
                   next
                   blow
                   up
                   his
                   Realm
                   ,
                   and
                   Sky
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   so
                   I
                   had
                   ;
                   at
                   least
                   I
                   would
                   have
                   durst
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   failing
                   ,
                   had
                   got
                   off
                   with
                   Fame
                   at
                   worst
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Had
                   you
                   but
                   half
                   my
                   bravery
                   in
                   Sin
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   work
                   had
                   never
                   thus
                   unfinish'd
                   bin
                   :
                
                 
                   Had
                   I
                   bin
                   Man
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   great
                   Act
                   to
                   do
                   ;
                
                 
                   H
                   'ad
                   dy'd
                   by
                   this
                   ,
                   and
                   bin
                   what
                   I
                   am
                   now
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   what
                   
                     His
                     Father
                  
                   is
                   :
                   I
                   would
                   leap
                   Hell
                
                 
                   To
                   reach
                   His
                   Life
                   ,
                   tho
                   in
                   the
                   midst
                   I
                   fell
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   deeper
                   than
                   before
                   .
                   —
                
                 
                   Let
                   rabble
                   Souls
                   ,
                   of
                   narrow
                   aim
                   ,
                   and
                   reach
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stoop
                   their
                   vile
                   Necks
                   ,
                   and
                   dull
                   Obedience
                   preach
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   them
                   with
                   slavish
                   aw
                   (
                   disdain'd
                   by
                   me
                   )
                
                 
                   Adore
                   the
                   purple
                   Rag
                   of
                   Majesty
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   think
                   't
                   a
                   sacred
                   Relick
                   of
                   the
                   Sky
                   :
                
                 
                   Well
                   may
                   such
                   Fools
                   a
                   base
                   Subjection
                   own
                   ,
                
                 
                   Vassals
                   to
                   every
                   Ass
                   ,
                   that
                   loads
                   a
                   Throne
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Unlike
                   the
                   soul
                   ,
                   with
                   which
                   proud
                   I
                   was
                   born
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   could
                   that
                   sneaking
                   thing
                   a
                   Monarch
                   scorn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Spurn
                   off
                   a
                   Crown
                   ,
                   and
                   set
                   my
                   foot
                   in
                   sport
                
                 
                   Upon
                   the
                   head
                   ,
                   that
                   wore
                   it
                   ,
                   trod
                   in
                   dirt
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   say
                   ,
                   what
                   is
                   't
                   that
                   binds
                   your
                   hands
                   ?
                   do's
                   fear
                
                 
                   From
                   such
                   a
                   glorious
                   action
                   you
                   deter
                   ?
                
                 
                   Or
                   is
                   't
                   Religion
                   ?
                   but
                   you
                   sure
                   disclaim
                
                 
                   That
                   frivolous
                   pretence
                   ,
                   that
                   empty
                   name
                   :
                
                 
                   Meer
                   bugbear
                   word
                   ,
                   devis'd
                   by
                   Us
                   to
                   scare
                
                 
                   The
                   sensless
                   rout
                   to
                   slavishness
                   ,
                   and
                   fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ne're
                   know
                   to
                   aw
                   the
                   brave
                   ,
                   and
                   those
                   ,
                   that
                   dare
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   weak
                   ,
                   and
                   feeble
                   things
                   may
                   serve
                   for
                   checks
                
                 
                   To
                   rein
                   ,
                   and
                   curb
                   base-mettled
                   Hereticks
                   ;
                
                 
                   Dull
                   creatures
                   ,
                   whose
                   nice
                   bogling
                   consciences
                
                 
                   Startle
                   ,
                   or
                   strain
                   at
                   such
                   slight
                   crimes
                   as
                   these
                   ;
                
                 
                   Such
                   ,
                   whom
                   fond
                   inbred
                   honesty
                   befools
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   that
                   old
                   musty
                   piece
                   the
                   Bible
                   gulls
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   hated
                   Book
                   ,
                   the
                   bulwark
                   of
                   our
                   foes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whereby
                   they
                   still
                   uphold
                   their
                   tott'ring
                   cause
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Let
                   no
                   such
                   toys
                   mislead
                   you
                   from
                   the
                   road
                
                 
                   Of
                   glory
                   ,
                   nor
                   infect
                   your
                   Souls
                   with
                   good
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   never
                   bold
                   incroaching
                   Virtue
                   dare
                
                 
                   With
                   her
                   grim
                   holy
                   face
                   to
                   enter
                   there
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   ,
                   not
                   in
                   very
                   Dream
                   :
                   have
                   only
                   will
                
                 
                   Like
                   Fiends
                   ,
                   and
                   Me
                   to
                   covet
                   ,
                   and
                   act
                   ill
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   true
                   substantial
                   wickedness
                   take
                   place
                   ;
                
                 
                   Usurp
                   ,
                   and
                   Reign
                   ;
                   let
                   it
                   the
                   very
                   trace
                
                 
                   (
                   If
                   any
                   yet
                   be
                   left
                   )
                   of
                   good
                   deface
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   ever
                   qualms
                   of
                   inward
                   cowardice
                
                 
                   (
                   The
                   things
                   ,
                   which
                   some
                   dull
                   sots
                   call
                   conscience
                   )
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   them
                   in
                   streams
                   of
                   Blood
                   ,
                   and
                   slaughter
                   drown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   with
                   new
                   weights
                   of
                   guilt
                   still
                   press
                   'em
                   down
                   .
                
                 
                   Shame
                   ,
                   Faith
                   ,
                   Religion
                   ,
                   Honor
                   ,
                   Loyalty
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nature
                   it self
                   ,
                   whatever
                   checks
                   there
                   be
                
                 
                   To
                   loose
                   ,
                   and
                   uncontrol'd
                   impiety
                   ,
                
                 
                   Be
                   all
                   extinct
                   in
                   you
                   ;
                   own
                   no
                   remorse
                
                 
                   But
                   that
                   you
                   've
                   balk'd
                   a
                   sin
                   ,
                   have
                   been
                   no
                   worse
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   too
                   much
                   pity
                   shewn
                   .
                   —
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Be
                   diligent
                   in
                   Mischiefs
                   Trade
                   ,
                   be
                   each
                
                 
                   Performing
                   as
                   a
                   Dev'l
                   ;
                   nor
                   stick
                   to
                   reach
                
                 
                   At
                   Crimes
                   most
                   dangerous
                   ;
                   where
                   bold
                   despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mad
                   lust
                   ,
                   and
                   heedless
                   blind
                   revenge
                   would
                   ne're
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   look
                   ,
                   march
                   you
                   without
                   a
                   blush
                   ,
                   or
                   fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Inflam'd
                   by
                   all
                   the
                   hazards
                   ,
                   ,
                   that
                   oppose
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   firm
                   ,
                   as
                   burning
                   Martyrs
                   ,
                   to
                   your
                   Cause
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   you
                   're
                   true
                   Jesuits
                   ,
                   then
                   you
                   're
                   fit
                   to
                   be
                
                 
                   Disciples
                   of
                   great
                   Loyola
                   ,
                   and
                   Me
                   :
                
                 
                   Worthy
                   to
                   undertake
                   ,
                   worthy
                   a
                   Plot
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   this
                   ,
                   and
                   fit
                   to
                   scourge
                   an
                   Huguenot
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Plagues
                   on
                   that
                   Name
                   !
                   may
                   swift
                   confusion
                   seize
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   utterly
                   blot
                   out
                   the
                   cursed
                   Race
                   :
                
                 
                   Thrice
                   damn'd
                   be
                   that
                   
                     Apostate
                     Monk
                  
                   ,
                   from
                   whom
                
                 
                   Sprung
                   first
                   these
                   Enemies
                   of
                   Us
                   ,
                   and
                   Rome
                   :
                
                 
                   Whose
                   pois'nous
                   Filth
                   ,
                   dropt
                   from
                   ingend'ring
                   Brain
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   monstrous
                   Birth
                   did
                   the
                   vile
                   Insects
                   spawn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   now
                   infest
                   each
                   Country
                   ,
                   and
                   defile
                
                 
                   With
                   their
                   o'respreading
                   swarms
                   this
                   goodly
                   I
                   le
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Once
                   it
                   was
                   ours
                   ,
                   and
                   subject
                   to
                   our
                   Yoke
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   a
                   late
                   
                     reigning
                     Witch
                  
                   th'
                   Enchantment
                   broke
                   :
                
                 
                   It
                   shall
                   again
                   :
                   Hell
                   and
                   I
                   say
                   't
                   :
                   have
                   ye
                
                 
                   But
                   courage
                   to
                   make
                   good
                   the
                   Prophesie
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   Fate
                   it self
                   shall
                   hinder
                   .
                   —
                
              
               
                 
                   Too
                   sparing
                   was
                   the
                   time
                   ,
                   too
                   mild
                   the
                   day
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   our
                   great
                   Mary
                   bore
                   the
                   English
                   sway
                   ?
                
                 
                   Unqueen-like
                   pity
                   marr'd
                   her
                   Royal
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   was
                   her
                   Purple
                   dy'd
                   enough
                   in
                   Gore
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Four
                   ,
                   or
                   five
                   hundred
                   ,
                   such
                   like
                   petty
                   sum
                
                 
                   Might
                   fall
                   perhaps
                   a
                   Sacrifice
                   to
                   Rome
                   ,
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   worth
                   the
                   naming
                   :
                   had
                   I
                   had
                   the
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   been
                   thought
                   fit
                   t'
                   have
                   been
                   her
                   Counsellor
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   shou'd
                   have
                   rais'd
                   it
                   to
                   a
                   nobler
                   score
                   .
                
                 
                   Big
                   Bonfires
                   should
                   have
                   blaz'd
                   ,
                   and
                   shone
                   each
                   day
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   tell
                   our
                   Triumphs
                   ,
                   and
                   make
                   bright
                   our
                   way
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   't
                   was
                   dark
                   ,
                   in
                   every
                   Lane
                   ,
                   and
                   Street
                
                 
                   Thick
                   flaming
                   Hereticks
                   should
                   serve
                   to
                   light
                
                 
                   And
                   save
                   the
                   needless
                   Charge
                   of
                   Links
                   by
                   night
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Smithfield
                   should
                   still
                   have
                   kept
                   a
                   constant
                   fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   never
                   should
                   be
                   quench'd
                   ,
                   never
                   expire
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   with
                   the
                   lives
                   of
                   all
                   the
                   
                     miscreant
                     rout
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   the
                   last
                   gasping
                   breath
                   had
                   blown
                   it
                   out
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   So
                   Nero
                   did
                   ,
                   such
                   was
                   the
                   prudent
                   course
                
                 
                   Taken
                   by
                   all
                   his
                   mighty
                   Successors
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   tame
                   
                     like
                     Hereticks
                  
                   of
                   old
                   by
                   force
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   scorn'd
                   dull
                   reason
                   ,
                   and
                   pedantick
                   rules
                
                 
                   To
                   conquer
                   ,
                   and
                   reduce
                   the
                   harden'd
                   Fools
                   :
                
                 
                   
                     Racks
                     ,
                     Gibbets
                     ,
                     Halters
                  
                   were
                   their
                   arguments
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   did
                   most
                   undeniably
                   convince
                   :
                
                 
                   Grave
                   bearded
                   Lions
                   manag'd
                   the
                   dispute
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   reverend
                   Bears
                   their
                   Doctrines
                   did
                   consute
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   ,
                   who
                   would
                   stand
                   out
                   in
                   stiff
                   defence
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   gently
                   claw'd
                   ,
                   and
                   worried
                   into
                   sense
                   :
                
                 
                   Better
                   than
                   all
                   our
                   
                     Sorbon
                     dotards
                  
                   now
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   would
                   by
                   dint
                   of
                   words
                   our
                   Foes
                   subdue
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   was
                   the
                   rigid
                   Discipline
                   of
                   old
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   modern
                   sots
                   for
                   Persecution
                   hold
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Of
                   which
                   dull
                   Annalists
                   in
                   story
                   tell
                
                 
                   Strange
                   Legends
                   ,
                   and
                   huge
                   bulky
                   Volumes
                   swell
                
                 
                   With
                   
                     Martyr'd
                     Fools
                  
                   ,
                   that
                   lost
                   their
                   way
                   to
                   Hell.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   From
                   these
                   ,
                   our
                   
                   Church's
                   glorious
                   Ancestors
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   've
                   learnt
                   our
                   arts
                   ,
                   and
                   made
                   their
                   Methods
                   ours
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   have
                   we
                   come
                   behind
                   ,
                   the
                   least
                   degree
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   acts
                   of
                   rough
                   and
                   manly
                   cruelty
                   :
                
                 
                   Converting
                   Faggots
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   pow'rful
                   stake
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Sword
                   resistless
                   our
                   Apostles
                   make
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   This
                   heretofore
                   Bohemia
                   felt
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                
                 
                   Were
                   all
                   the
                   num'rous
                   Proselytes
                   of
                   Huss
                
                 
                   Crush'd
                   with
                   their
                   head
                   :
                   So
                   
                   Waldo's
                   cursed
                   rout
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   those
                   of
                   Wickliff
                   here
                   were
                   rooted
                   out
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   names
                   scarce
                   left
                   .
                   —
                   Sure
                   were
                   the
                   means
                   ,
                   we
                   chose
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wrought
                   prevailingly
                   :
                   Fire
                   purg'd
                   the
                   dross
                
                 
                   Of
                   those
                   foul
                   Heresies
                   ,
                   and
                   sovereign
                   Steel
                
                 
                   Lopt
                   off
                   th'
                   infected
                   Limbs
                   the
                   Church
                   to
                   heal
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Renown'd
                   was
                   that
                   
                     French
                     Brave
                  
                   ,
                   renown'd
                   his
                   deed
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   deed
                   ,
                   for
                   which
                   the
                   day
                   deserves
                   its
                   red
                
                 
                   Far
                   more
                   than
                   for
                   a
                   paltry
                   Saint
                   ,
                   that
                   died
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   How
                   goodly
                   was
                   the
                   Sight
                   !
                   how
                   fine
                   the
                   Show
                
                 
                   When
                   Paris
                   saw
                   through
                   all
                   its
                   Channels
                   flow
                
                 
                   The
                   blood
                   of
                   Huguenots
                   ;
                   when
                   the
                   full
                   Sein
                   ,
                
                 
                   Swell'd
                   with
                   the
                   flood
                   ,
                   its
                   Banks
                   with
                   joy
                   o're-ran
                   !
                
                 
                   He
                   scorn'd
                   like
                   common
                   Murderers
                   to
                   deal
                
                 
                   By
                   parcels
                   ,
                   and
                   piecemeal
                   ;
                   he
                   scorn'd
                   Retail
                
                 
                   I'
                   th'
                   Tra●…e
                   of
                   Death
                   :
                   whole
                   Myriads
                   died
                   by
                   th'
                   great
                   ,
                
                 
                   Soon
                   as
                   one
                   single
                   life
                   ;
                   so
                   quick
                   their
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   very
                   Pray'rs
                   ,
                   and
                   Wishes
                   came
                   too
                   late
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   This
                   a
                   King
                   did
                   :
                   and
                   great
                   ,
                   and
                   mighty
                   '
                   t
                   was
                   .
                
                 
                   Worthy
                   his
                   high
                   Degree
                   ,
                   and
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                   and
                   Place
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   worthy
                   our
                   Religion
                   ,
                   and
                   our
                   Cause
                   :
                
                 
                   Unmatch'd
                   '
                   thad
                   been
                   ,
                   had
                   not
                   Mac-quire
                   arose
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   bold
                   Mac-quire
                   (
                   who
                   ,
                   read
                   in
                   modern
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Can
                   be
                   a
                   Stranger
                   to
                   his
                   Worth
                   ,
                   and
                   Name
                   ?
                   )
                
                 
                   Born
                   to
                   out-sin
                   a
                   Monarch
                   ,
                   born
                   to
                   Reign
                
                 
                   In
                   Guilt
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   Competitors
                   disdain
                   :
                
                 
                   Dread
                   memory
                   !
                   whose
                   each
                   mention
                   still
                   can
                   make
                
                 
                   Pale
                   Hereticks
                   with
                   trembling
                   Horror
                   quake
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   T'
                   undo
                   a
                   Kingdom
                   ,
                   to
                   atchieve
                   a
                   crime
                
                 
                   Like
                   his
                   ;
                   who
                   would
                   not
                   fall
                   and
                   die
                   like
                   him
                   ?
                
                 
                   Never
                   had
                   Rome
                   a
                   nobler
                   service
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   Never
                   had
                   Hell
                   ;
                   each
                   day
                   came
                   thronging
                   down
                
                 
                   Vast
                   shoals
                   of
                   Ghosts
                   ,
                   and
                   mine
                   was
                   pleas'd
                   ,
                   &
                   glad
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   smil'd
                   ,
                   when
                   it
                   the
                   brave
                   revenge
                   survey'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   do
                   I
                   mention
                   these
                   great
                   Instances
                
                 
                   For
                   bounds
                   ,
                   and
                   limits
                   to
                   your
                   wickedness
                   :
                
                 
                   Dare
                   you
                   beyond
                   ,
                   something
                   out
                   of
                   the
                   road
                
                 
                   Of
                   all
                   example
                   ,
                   where
                   none
                   yet
                   have
                   trod
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   shall
                   hereafter
                   :
                   what
                   mad
                   Catiline
                
                 
                   Durst
                   never
                   think
                   ,
                   nor
                   's
                   madder
                   Poet
                   feign
                   .
                
                 
                   Make
                   the
                   poor
                   baffled
                   
                     Pagan
                     Fool
                  
                   confess
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   much
                   a
                   Christian
                   Crime
                   can
                   conquer
                   his
                   :
                
                 
                   How
                   far
                   in
                   gallant
                   mischief
                   overcome
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   old
                   must
                   yield
                   to
                   
                     new
                     ,
                     and
                     modern
                     Rome
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   Mix
                   Ills
                   past
                   ,
                   present
                   ,
                   future
                   ,
                   in
                   one
                   act
                   ;
                
                 
                   One
                   high
                   ,
                   one
                   brave
                   ,
                   one
                   great
                   ,
                   one
                   glorious
                   Fact
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   Hell
                   ,
                   and
                   
                     very
                     I
                  
                   may
                   envy
                   —
                
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   a
                   God
                   himself
                   might
                   wish
                   to
                   be
                
                 
                 
                   A
                   Complice
                   in
                   the
                   mighty
                   villany
                
                 
                   And
                   barter's
                   Heaven
                   ,
                   and
                   vouchsafe
                   to
                   die
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   let
                   Delay
                   (
                   the
                   bane
                   of
                   Enterprize
                   )
                
                 
                   Marr
                   yours
                   ,
                   or
                   make
                   the
                   great
                   importance
                   miss
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   fact
                   has
                   wak'd
                   your
                   Enemies
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   fear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Let
                   it
                   your
                   vigour
                   too
                   ,
                   your
                   haste
                   ,
                   and
                   care
                   .
                
                 
                   Be
                   swift
                   ,
                   and
                   let
                   your
                   deeds
                   forestall
                   intent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forestall
                   ev'n
                   wishes
                   ,
                   e're
                   they
                   can
                   take
                   vent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   give
                   the
                   Fates
                   the
                   leisure
                   to
                   prevent
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   the
                   full
                   Clouds
                   ,
                   which
                   a
                   long
                   time
                   did
                   wrap
                
                 
                   Your
                   gath'ring
                   thunder
                   ,
                   now
                   with
                   sudden
                   clap
                   .
                
                 
                   Break
                   out
                   upon
                   your
                   Foes
                   ;
                   dash
                   ,
                   and
                   confound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   spread
                   avoidless
                   ruin
                   all
                   around
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Let
                   the
                   fir'd
                   City
                   to
                   your
                   Plot
                   give
                   light
                   ;
                
                 
                   You
                   raz'd
                   it
                   half
                   before
                   ,
                   now
                   raze
                   it
                   quite
                   .
                
                 
                   Do
                   't
                   more
                   effectually
                   ;
                   I
                   'd
                   see
                   it
                   glow
                
                 
                   In
                   flames
                   unquenchable
                   as
                   those
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   'd
                   see
                   the
                   Miscreants
                   with
                   their
                   houses
                   burn
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   together
                   into
                   ashes
                   turn
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Bend
                   next
                   your
                   fury
                   to
                   the
                   curst
                   Divan
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   damn'd
                   Committee
                   ,
                   whom
                   the
                   Fates
                   ordain
                
                 
                   Of
                   all
                   our
                   well-laid
                   Plots
                   to
                   be
                   the
                   bane
                   .
                
                 
                   Unkennel
                   those
                   
                     State
                     Foxes
                  
                   ,
                   where
                   they
                   lie
                
                 
                   Working
                   your
                   speedy
                   fate
                   ,
                   and
                   destiny
                   .
                
                 
                   Lug
                   by
                   the
                   ears
                   the
                   doting
                   Prelates
                   thence
                   ;
                
                 
                   Dash
                   Heresie
                   together
                   with
                   their
                   Brains
                
                 
                   Out
                   of
                   their
                   shatter'd
                   heads
                   .
                   Lop
                   off
                   the
                   Lords
                
                 
                   And
                   Commons
                   at
                   one
                   stroke
                   ,
                   and
                   let
                   your
                   Swords
                
                 
                   Adjourn
                   'em
                   all
                   to
                   th'
                   other
                   World
                   —
                
              
               
                 
                   Would
                   I
                   were
                   blest
                   with
                   flesh
                   and
                   blood
                   again
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   to
                   be
                   Actor
                   in
                   that
                   happy
                   Scene
                   !
                
                 
                   Yet
                   thus
                   I
                   will
                   be
                   by
                   ,
                   and
                   glut
                   my
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   Revenge
                   shall
                   take
                   its
                   fill
                   ,
                   in
                   state
                   I
                   'll
                   go
                
                 
                   With
                   captive
                   Ghosts
                   t'
                   attend
                   me
                   down
                   below
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Let
                   these
                   the
                   Handsells
                   of
                   your
                   vengeance
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   stop
                   not
                   here
                   ,
                   nor
                   flag
                   in
                   cruelty
                   .
                
                 
                   Kill
                   like
                   a
                   Plague
                   ,
                   or
                   Inquisition
                   ;
                   spare
                
                 
                   No
                   Age
                   ,
                   Degree
                   ,
                   or
                   Sex
                   ;
                   only
                   to
                   wear
                
                 
                   A
                   Soul
                   ,
                   only
                   to
                   own
                   a
                   Life
                   ,
                   be
                   here
                
                 
                 
                   Thought
                   crime
                   enough
                   to
                   lose
                   't
                   :
                   no
                   time
                   ,
                   nor
                   place
                
                 
                   Be
                   Sanctuary
                   from
                   your
                   outrages
                   .
                
                 
                   Spare
                   not
                   in
                   Churches
                   kneeling
                   Priests
                   at
                   pray'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho
                   interceding
                   for
                   you
                   ,
                   slay
                   ev'n
                   there
                   .
                
                 
                   Spare
                   not
                   young
                   Infants
                   smiling
                   at
                   the
                   breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   from
                   relenting
                   Fools
                   their
                   mercy
                   wrest
                   :
                
                 
                   Rip
                   teeming
                   Wombs
                   ,
                   tear
                   out
                   the
                   hated
                   Brood
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   thence
                   ,
                   &
                   drown
                   'em
                   in
                   their
                   Mothers
                   blood
                   .
                
                 
                   Pity
                   not
                   Virgins
                   ,
                   nor
                   their
                   tender
                   cries
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho
                   prostrate
                   at
                   your
                   feet
                   with
                   melting
                   eyes
                
                 
                   All
                   drown'd
                   in
                   tears
                   ;
                   strike
                   home
                   ,
                   as
                   't
                   were
                   in
                   lust
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   force
                   their
                   begging
                   hands
                   to
                   guide
                   the
                   thrust
                   .
                
                 
                   Ravish
                   at
                   th'
                   Altar
                   ,
                   kill
                   when
                   you
                   have
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   Make
                   them
                   your
                   Rapes
                   ,
                   and
                   Victims
                   too
                   in
                   one
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   l●…t
                   gray
                   hoary
                   hairs
                   protection
                   give
                
                 
                   To
                   Age
                   ,
                   just
                   crawling
                   on
                   the
                   verge
                   of
                   Life
                   :
                
                 
                   Snatch
                   from
                   its
                   leaning
                   hands
                   the
                   weak
                   support
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   it
                   knock't
                   into
                   the
                   grave
                   with
                   sport
                   ;
                
                 
                   Brain
                   the
                   poor
                   Cripple
                   with
                   his
                   Crutch
                   ,
                   then
                   cry
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   've
                   kindly
                   rid
                   him
                   of
                   his
                   misery
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Seal
                   up
                   your
                   ears
                   to
                   Mercy
                   ,
                   lest
                   their
                   words
                
                 
                   Should
                   tempt
                   a
                   pity
                   ,
                   ram
                   'em
                   with
                   your
                   Swords
                
                 
                   (
                   Their
                   tongues
                   too
                   )
                   down
                   their
                   throats
                   ;
                   let
                   'em
                   not
                   dare
                
                 
                   To
                   mutter
                   for
                   their
                   Souls
                   a
                   gasping
                   Pray'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   in
                   the
                   utt'rance
                   choak't
                   ,
                   and
                   stab
                   it
                   there
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   were
                   witty
                   handsom
                   Malice
                   (
                   could
                   you
                   do
                   't
                   )
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   'em
                   die
                   ,
                   and
                   make
                   'em
                   damn'd
                   to
                   boot
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Make
                   Children
                   by
                   one
                   Fate
                   with
                   Parents
                   die
                   ,
                
                 
                   Kill
                   ev'n
                   revenge
                   in
                   next
                   Posterity
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   you
                   'll
                   be
                   pester'd
                   with
                   no
                   Orphans
                   cries
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Childless
                   Mothers
                   curse
                   your
                   Memories
                   .
                
                 
                   Make
                   Death
                   ,
                   and
                   Desolation
                   swim
                   in
                   blood
                
                 
                   Throughout
                   the
                   Land
                   ,
                   with
                   nought
                   to
                   stop
                   the
                   flood
                
                 
                   But
                   slaughter'd
                   Carcasses
                   ;
                   till
                   the
                   whole
                   Isle
                
                 
                   Become
                   one
                   tomb
                   ,
                   become
                   one
                   
                     fun'ral
                     pile
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   Till
                   such
                   vast
                   numbers
                   swell
                   the
                   countless
                   summ
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   the
                   wide
                   Grave
                   ,
                   and
                   wider
                   Hell
                   want
                   room
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Great
                   was
                   that
                   Tyrants
                   wish
                   ,
                   which
                   should
                   be
                   mine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Did
                   I
                   not
                   scorn
                   the
                   leavings
                   of
                   a
                   sin
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Freely
                   I
                   would
                   bestow
                   't
                   on
                   England
                   now
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   the
                   whole
                   Nation
                   with
                   one
                   neck
                   might
                   grow
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   be
                   slie'd
                   off
                   ,
                   and
                   you
                   to
                   give
                   the
                   blow
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   neither
                   Saxon
                   rage
                   could
                   here
                   inflict
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Danes
                   more
                   savage
                   ,
                   nor
                   the
                   barb'rous
                   Pict
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   Spain
                   ,
                   nor
                   
                     Eighty
                     Eight
                  
                   could
                   ere
                   devise
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   all
                   its
                   Fleet
                   ,
                   and
                   freight
                   os
                   cruelties
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   ne'er
                   Medina
                   wish'd
                   ,
                   much
                   less
                   could
                   dare
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bloodier
                   Alva
                   would
                   with
                   trembling
                   hear
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   may
                   strike
                   out
                   dire
                   Prodigies
                   of
                   old
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   their
                   mild
                   ,
                   and
                   gentler
                   acts
                   untold
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   Heav'ns
                   Judgments
                   ,
                   nor
                   the
                   angry
                   Stars
                   ,
                
                 
                   Foreign
                   Invasions
                   ,
                   nor
                   Domestick
                   Wars
                   ,
                
                 
                   Plague
                   ,
                   Fire
                   ,
                   nor
                   Famine
                   could
                   effect
                   or
                   do
                   ;
                
                 
                   All
                   this
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   be
                   dar'd
                   ,
                   and
                   done
                   by
                   you
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   why
                   do
                   I
                   with
                   idle
                   talk
                   delay
                
                 
                   Your
                   hands
                   ,
                   and
                   while
                   they
                   should
                   be
                   acting
                   ,
                   stay
                   ?
                
                 
                   Farewell
                
                 
                   If
                   I
                   may
                   wast
                   a
                   Pray'r
                   for
                   your
                   success
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hell
                   be
                   your
                   aid
                   ,
                   and
                   your
                   high
                   projects
                   bless
                   !
                
                 
                 
                   May
                   that
                   vile
                   Wretch
                   ,
                   if
                   any
                   here
                   there
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   meanly
                   shrinks
                   from
                   brave
                   Iniquity
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   any
                   here
                   feel
                   pity
                   ,
                   or
                   remorse
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   he
                   feel
                   all
                   ▪
                   I've
                   bid
                   you
                   act
                   ,
                   and
                   worse
                   !
                
                 
                   May
                   he
                   by
                   rage
                   of
                   Foes
                   unpitied
                   fall
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   they
                   tread
                   out
                   his
                   hated
                   Soul
                   to
                   Hell.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   May's
                   Name
                   ,
                   and
                   Carcase
                   rot
                   ,
                   expos'd
                   alike
                   to
                   be
                
                 
                   The
                   everlasting
                   mark
                   of
                   grinning
                   Infamy
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 SATYR
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 
                   NAy
                   ,
                   if
                   our
                   sins
                   are
                   grown
                   so
                   high
                   of
                   late
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Heav'n
                   no
                   longer
                   can
                   adjourn
                   ourfate
                   ;
                
                 
                   May
                   't
                   please
                   some
                   milder
                   Vengeance
                   to
                   devise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Plague
                   ,
                   Fire
                   ,
                   Sword
                   ,
                   Dearth
                   ,
                   or
                   any
                   thing
                   but
                   this
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   it
                   rain
                   scalding
                   Showers
                   of
                   Brimstone
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   burn
                   us
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   old
                   the
                   
                     lustful
                     Town
                  
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   a
                   new
                   deluge
                   overwhelm
                   agen
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   drown
                   at
                   once
                   our
                   Land
                   ,
                   our
                   Lives
                   ,
                   our
                   Sin.
                
                 
                   Thus
                   gladly
                   we
                   'll
                   compound
                   ,
                   all
                   this
                   we
                   'll
                   pay
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   have
                   this
                   worst
                   of
                   Ills
                   remov'd
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   Judgments
                   of
                   other
                   kinds
                   are
                   often
                   sent
                
                 
                   In
                   mercy
                   only
                   ,
                   not
                   for
                   punishment
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   where
                   these
                   light
                   ,
                   they
                   shew
                   a
                   Nation
                   's
                   fate
                
                 
                   Is
                   given
                   up
                   ,
                   and
                   past
                   for
                   reprobate
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   When
                   God
                   his
                   stock
                   of
                   wrath
                   on
                   Egypt
                   spent
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   a
                   stubborn
                   Land
                   ,
                   and
                   King
                   repent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sparing
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                   had
                   he
                   this
                   one
                   Plague
                   sent
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   For
                   this
                   alone
                   his
                   People
                   had
                   been
                   quit
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Pharaoh
                   circumcis'd
                   a
                   Proselyte
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Wonder
                   no
                   longer
                   why
                   no
                   Curse
                   ,
                   like
                   these
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   known
                   ,
                   or
                   suffer'd
                   in
                   the
                   Primitive
                   days
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   never
                   sinn'd
                   enough
                   to
                   merit
                   it
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   therefore
                   what
                   Heav'ns
                   just
                   pow'r
                   thought
                   fit
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   scourge
                   this
                   latter
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   sinful
                   age
                
                 
                   With
                   all
                   the
                   dregs
                   ,
                   and
                   squeesings
                   of
                   his
                   rage
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Too
                   dearly
                   is
                   proud
                   Spain
                   with
                   England
                   quit
                
                 
                   For
                   all
                   her
                   loss
                   sustein'd
                   in
                   
                     Eighty
                     Eight
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   all
                   the
                   Ills
                   ,
                   our
                   Warlike
                   Virgin
                   wrought
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Drake
                   ,
                   and
                   Rawleigh
                   her
                   great
                   Scourges
                   brought
                   .
                
                 
                   Amply
                   was
                   she
                   reveng'd
                   in
                   that
                   one
                   birth
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Hell
                   for
                   her
                   the
                   Biscain
                   Plague
                   brought
                   forth
                   ;
                
                 
                   Great
                   Counter-plague
                   !
                   in
                   which
                   unhappy
                   we
                
                 
                   Pay
                   back
                   her
                   suff'rings
                   with
                   full
                   usury
                   :
                
                 
                   Than
                   whom
                   alone
                   none
                   ever
                   was
                   design'd
                
                 
                   T'
                   entail
                   a
                   wider
                   curse
                   on
                   Human
                   kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   he
                   ,
                   who
                   first
                   begot
                   us
                   ,
                   and
                   first
                   sin'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Happy
                   the
                   World
                   had
                   been
                   ,
                   and
                   happy
                   Thou
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Less
                   damn'd
                   at
                   least
                   ,
                   and
                   less
                   accurst
                   than
                   now
                   )
                
                 
                   If
                   early
                   with
                   less
                   guilt
                   in
                   War
                   th'hadst
                   dy'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   ensuing
                   mischiefs
                   Mankind
                   freed
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   when
                   thou
                   view'dst
                   the
                   
                     Holy
                     Land
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Tomb
                   ,
                
                 
                   Th'had'st
                   suffer'd
                   there
                   thy
                   brother
                   Traitor's
                   doom
                   .
                
                 
                   Curst
                   be
                   the
                   womb
                   ,
                   that
                   with
                   the
                   Firebrand
                   teem'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   ever
                   since
                   has
                   the
                   whole
                   Globe
                   inflam'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   More
                   curst
                   that
                   ill-aim'd
                   Shot
                   ,
                   which
                   basely
                   mist
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   maim'd
                   a
                   limb
                   ,
                   but
                   spar'd
                   thy
                   hated
                   breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   made
                   th'
                   at
                   once
                   a
                   Cripple
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Priest.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   why
                   this
                   wish
                   ?
                   The
                   Church
                   if
                   so
                   might
                   lack
                
                 
                   
                     Champions
                     ,
                     good
                     works
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Saints
                   for
                   th'
                   Almanack
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   are
                   the
                   Janizaries
                   of
                   the
                   Cause
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Life-Guard
                   of
                   the
                   
                     Roman
                     Sultan
                  
                   ,
                   chose
                
                 
                   To
                   break
                   the
                   force
                   of
                   Huguenots
                   ,
                   and
                   Foes
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Churches
                   
                     Hawkers
                     in
                     Divinity
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   Who
                   '
                   stead
                   of
                   Lace
                   ,
                   and
                   
                     Ribbons
                     ,
                     Doctrine
                  
                   cry
                   :
                
                 
                   
                     Rome's
                     Strowlers
                  
                   ,
                   who
                   survey
                   each
                   Continent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Its
                   trinkets
                   ,
                   and
                   commodities
                   to
                   vent
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Export
                   the
                   Gospel
                   ,
                   like
                   mere
                   ware
                   ,
                   for
                   sale
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   truck't
                   for
                   Indigo
                   ,
                   and
                   Cutch●…neal
                   .
                
                 
                   As
                   the
                   known
                   Factors
                   here
                   ,
                   the
                   Brethron
                   ,
                   once
                
                 
                   Swopt
                   Christ
                   about
                   for
                   
                     Bodkins
                     ,
                     Rings
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Spoons
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   shall
                   these
                   great
                   Apostles
                   be
                   contemn'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   by
                   scoffing
                   Hereticks
                   defam'd
                   ?
                
                 
                   They
                   ,
                   by
                   whose
                   means
                   both
                   Indies
                   now
                   enjoy
                
                 
                   The
                   two
                   choice
                   Blessings
                   ,
                   Pox
                   and
                   Popery
                   ?
                
                 
                   Which
                   buried
                   else
                   in
                   ignorance
                   had
                   been
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   known
                   the
                   worth
                   of
                   Beads
                   ,
                   and
                   Bellarmine
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   It
                   pitied
                   holy
                   
                     Mother
                     Church
                  
                   to
                   see
                
                 
                   A
                   World
                   so
                   drown'd
                   in
                   gross
                   Idolatry
                   :
                
                 
                   It
                   griev'd
                   to
                   see
                   such
                   goodly
                   Nations
                   hold
                
                 
                   Bad
                   Errors
                   and
                   unpardonable
                   Gold.
                
                 
                   Strange
                   !
                   what
                   a
                   zeal
                   can
                   powerful
                   Coin
                   infuse
                   !
                
                 
                   What
                   Charity
                   
                     Pieces
                     of
                     Eight
                  
                   produee
                   !
                
                 
                   So
                   you
                   were
                   chosen
                   th'
                   fittest
                   to
                   reclaim
                
                 
                   The
                   Pagan
                   World
                   ,
                   and
                   give
                   't
                   a
                   Christian
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   great
                   was
                   the
                   success
                   ;
                   whole
                   Myriads
                   stood
                
                 
                   At
                   Font
                   ,
                   and
                   were
                   baptis'd
                   in
                   their
                   own
                   blood
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Millions
                   of
                   Souls
                   were
                   hurl'd
                   from
                   hence
                   to
                   burn
                
                 
                   Before
                   their
                   time
                   ,
                   be
                   damn'd
                   before
                   their
                   turn
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Yet
                   these
                   were
                   in
                   compassion
                   sent
                   to
                   Hell
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   reserv'd
                   in
                   spite
                   ,
                   and
                   worse
                   to
                   feel
                   ,
                
                 
                   Compell'd
                   instead
                   of
                   Fiends
                   to
                   worship
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   more
                   inhumane
                   Devils
                   of
                   the
                   two
                   .
                
                 
                   Rare
                   way
                   ,
                   and
                   method
                   of
                   Conversion
                   this
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   your
                   Votaries
                   your
                   Sacrifice
                   !
                
                 
                   If
                   to
                   destroy
                   be
                   Reformation
                   thought
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   Plague
                   as
                   well
                   might
                   the
                   
                     good
                     work
                  
                   have
                   wrought
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   see
                   we
                   why
                   your
                   Founder
                   ,
                   weary
                   grown
                
                 
                   Would
                   lay
                   his
                   former
                   Trade
                   of
                   Killing
                   down
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   found
                   't
                   was
                   dull
                   ,
                   he
                   found
                   a
                   Crown
                   would
                   be
                
                 
                   A
                   fitter
                   case
                   ,
                   and
                   badge
                   of
                   cruelty
                   .
                
                 
                   Each
                   sniv'lling
                   Hero
                   Seas
                   of
                   Blood
                   can
                   spill
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   wrongs
                   provoke
                   ,
                   and
                   Honour
                   bids
                   him
                   kill
                   .
                
                 
                   Each
                   tiny
                   Bully
                   Lives
                   can
                   freely
                   bleed
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   press'd
                   by
                   Wine
                   ,
                   or
                   Punk
                   to
                   knock
                   o'
                   th'
                   head
                   :
                
                 
                   Give
                   me
                   your
                   through-pac'd
                   Rogue
                   ,
                   who
                   scorns
                   to
                   be
                
                 
                   Prompted
                   by
                   poor
                   Revenge
                   ,
                   or
                   Injury
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   does
                   it
                   of
                   true
                   inbred
                   cruelty
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Your
                   cool
                   ,
                   and
                   sober
                   Murderer
                   ,
                   who
                   prays
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   stabs
                   at
                   the
                   same
                   time
                   ,
                   who
                   one
                   hand
                   has
                
                 
                   Stretch'd
                   up
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   t'other
                   to
                   make
                   the
                   Pass
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   So
                   the
                   late
                   Saints
                   of
                   blessed
                   memory
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cut
                   throats
                   in
                   Godly
                   pure
                   sincerity
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   they
                   with
                   lifted
                   hands
                   ,
                   and
                   eyes
                   devout
                   ,
                
                 
                   Said
                   Grace
                   ,
                   and
                   carv'd
                   a
                   slaughter'd
                   Monarch
                   out
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   When
                   the
                   first
                   Traitor
                   Cain
                   (
                   too
                   good
                   to
                   be
                
                 
                   Thought
                   Patron
                   of
                   this
                   black
                   Fraternity
                   )
                
                 
                   His
                   bloody
                   Tragedy
                   of
                   old
                   design'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   One
                   death
                   alone
                   quench'd
                   his
                   revengeful
                   mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Content
                   with
                   but
                   a
                   quarter
                   of
                   Mankind
                   :
                
                 
                   Had
                   he
                   been
                   Jesuit
                   ,
                   had
                   he
                   but
                   put
                   on
                
                 
                   Their
                   savage
                   cruelty
                   ;
                   the
                   rest
                   had
                   gone
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   hand
                   had
                   sent
                   old
                   Adam
                   after
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   forc'd
                   the
                   Godhead
                   to
                   create
                   anew
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   't
                   were
                   well
                   ,
                   were
                   their
                   foul
                   guilt
                   but
                   thought
                
                 
                   Bare
                   sin
                   :
                   't
                   is
                   something
                   ev'n
                   to
                   own
                   a
                   fault
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   here
                   the
                   boldest
                   flights
                   of
                   wickedness
                
                 
                   Are
                   stampt
                   Religion
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   currant
                   pass
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   blackest
                   ,
                   ugliest
                   ,
                   horrid'st
                   ,
                   damned'st
                   deed
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   which
                   
                     Hell
                     flames
                  
                   ,
                   the
                   Schools
                   a
                   Title
                   need
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   done
                   for
                   
                     Holy
                     Church
                  
                   is
                   sanctified
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   consecrates
                   the
                   blessed
                   Work
                   ,
                   and
                   Tool
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   must
                   we
                   ever
                   after
                   think
                   'em
                   foul
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   undo
                   Realms
                   ,
                   kill
                   Parents
                   ,
                   murder
                   Kings
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   thus
                   but
                   petty
                   trifles
                   ,
                   venial
                   things
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   worth
                   a
                   Confessor
                   ;
                   nay
                   ,
                   Heav'n
                   shall
                   be
                
                 
                   It self
                   invok'd
                   t'abet
                   th'
                   impiety
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Grant
                   ,
                   gracious
                   Lord
                   ,
                   
                     (
                     Some
                     Reverend
                     Villain
                     prays
                  
                   )
                
                 
                   '
                   That
                   this
                   the
                   bold
                   Assertor
                   of
                   our
                   Cause
                
                 
                   '
                   May
                   with
                   success
                   accomplish
                   that
                   great
                   end
                   ,
                
                 
                   '
                   For
                   which
                   he
                   was
                   by
                   thee
                   ,
                   and
                   us
                   design'd
                   .
                
                 
                   '
                   Do
                   thou
                   t'
                   his
                   Arm
                   ,
                   and
                   Sword
                   thy
                   strength
                   impart
                   ,
                
                 
                   '
                   And
                   guide
                   'em
                   steddy
                   to
                   the
                   Tyrants
                   heart
                   .
                
                 
                   '
                   Grant
                   him
                   for
                   every
                   meritorious
                   thrust
                
                 
                   '
                   Degrees
                   of
                   bliss
                   above
                   among
                   the
                   Just
                   ;
                
                 
                   '
                   Where
                   holy
                   Garnet
                   ,
                   and
                   S.
                   Guy
                   are
                   plac'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   '
                   Whom
                   works
                   ,
                   like
                   this
                   ,
                   before
                   have
                   thither
                   rais'd
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   '
                   Where
                   they
                   are
                   interceding
                   for
                   us
                   now
                   ;
                
                 
                   '
                   For
                   sure
                   they
                   're
                   there
                   .
                   Yes
                   questionless
                   ,
                   and
                   so
                
                 
                   Good
                   Nero
                   is
                   ,
                   and
                   Dioclesian
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   great
                   ancient
                   Saint
                   Herostratus
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   late
                   godly
                   Martyr
                   at
                   Thoulouse
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Dare
                   something
                   worthy
                   Newgate
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Tow'r
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   you
                   'l
                   be
                   canoniz'd
                   ,
                   and
                   Heav'n
                   ensure
                   .
                
                 
                   Dull
                   
                     prim'tive
                     Fools
                  
                   of
                   old
                   !
                   who
                   would
                   be
                   good
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   would
                   by
                   virtue
                   reach
                   the
                   blest
                   abode
                   :
                
                 
                   Far
                   other
                   are
                   the
                   ways
                   found
                   out
                   of
                   late
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   Mortals
                   to
                   that
                   happy
                   place
                   translate
                   :
                
                 
                   Rebellion
                   ,
                   Treason
                   ,
                   Murder
                   ,
                   Massacre
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   chief
                   Ingredients
                   now
                   of
                   Saint-ship
                   are
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Tyburn
                   only
                   stocks
                   the
                   Calendar
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Unhappy
                   Judas
                   ,
                   whose
                   ill
                   fate
                   ,
                   or
                   chance
                
                 
                   Threw
                   him
                   upon
                   gross
                   times
                   of
                   ignorance
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   knew
                   not
                   how
                   to
                   value
                   ,
                   or
                   esteem
                
                 
                   The
                   worth
                   ,
                   and
                   merit
                   of
                   a
                   glorious
                   crime
                   !
                
                 
                   Should
                   his
                   kind
                   Stars
                   have
                   let
                   him
                   acted
                   now
                   ;
                
                 
                   H
                   'ad
                   dy'd
                   absolv'd
                   ,
                   and
                   dy'd
                   a
                   Martyr
                   too
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Hear'st
                   thou
                   ,
                   Great
                   God
                   ,
                   such
                   daring
                   blasphemy
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   let'st
                   thy
                   patient
                   Thunder
                   still
                   lie
                   by
                   ?
                
                 
                   Strike
                   ,
                   and
                   avenge
                   ,
                   lest
                   impious
                   Atheists
                   say
                   ,
                
                 
                   Chance
                   guides
                   the
                   world
                   ,
                   and
                   has
                   usurp'd
                   thy
                   sway
                   ;
                
                 
                   Lest
                   these
                   proud
                   prosp'rous
                   Villains
                   too
                   confess
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tou'rt
                   sensless
                   ,
                   as
                   they
                   make
                   thy
                   Images
                   .
                
                 
                   Thou
                   just
                   ,
                   and
                   sacred
                   Pow'r
                   !
                   wilt
                   thou
                   admit
                
                 
                   Such
                   Guests
                   should
                   in
                   thy
                   glorious
                   presence
                   sit
                   ?
                
                 
                   If
                   Heav'n
                   can
                   with
                   such
                   company
                   dispence
                   ;
                
                 
                   Well
                   did
                   the
                   Indian
                   pray
                   ,
                   
                     Might
                     he
                     keep
                     thence
                  
                   !
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   this
                   we
                   only
                   feign
                   ,
                   all
                   vain
                   ,
                   and
                   false
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   their
                   own
                   
                     Legends
                     ,
                     Miracles
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Tales
                   ;
                
                 
                   Either
                   the
                   groundless
                   calumnies
                   of
                   spite
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   idle
                   rants
                   of
                   Poetry
                   ,
                   and
                   Wit.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   We
                   wish
                   they
                   were
                   :
                   but
                   you
                   hear
                   Garnet
                   cry
                   ,
                
                 
                   '
                   I
                   did
                   it
                   ,
                   and
                   would
                   do
                   't
                   again
                   ;
                   had
                   I
                
                 
                   '
                   As
                   much
                   of
                   Blood
                   ,
                   as
                   many
                   Lives
                   as
                   Rome
                
                 
                   '
                   Has
                   spilt
                   in
                   what
                   the
                   Fools
                   call
                   Martyrdom
                   ;
                
                 
                   '
                   As
                   many
                   Souls
                   as
                   Sins
                   ;
                   I
                   'd
                   freely
                   stake
                
                 
                   '
                   All
                   them
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   for
                   Mother
                   Church's
                   sake
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   For
                   that
                   I
                   'll
                   stride
                   o're
                   Crowns
                   ,
                   swim
                   through
                   a
                   Flood
                   ,
                
                 
                   '
                   Made
                   up
                   of
                   slaughter'd
                   Monarch's
                   Brains
                   ,
                   and
                   '
                   Blood.
                
                 
                   '
                   For
                   that
                   no
                   lives
                   of
                   Hereticks
                   I
                   'll
                   spare
                   ,
                
                 
                   '
                   But
                   reap
                   'em
                   down
                   with
                   less
                   remorse
                   ,
                   and
                   care
                
                 
                   '
                   Than
                   Tarquin
                   did
                   the
                   Poppy-heads
                   of
                   old
                   ,
                
                 
                   '
                   Or
                   we
                   drop
                   Beads
                   ,
                   by
                   which
                   our
                   Pray'rs
                   are
                   told
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Bravely
                   resolv'd
                   !
                   and
                   't
                   was
                   as
                   bravely
                   dar'd
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   (
                   lo
                   !
                   )
                   the
                   Recompence
                   ,
                   and
                   great
                   Reward
                
                 
                   The
                   wight
                   is
                   to
                   the
                   Almanack
                   preferr'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Rare
                   motives
                   to
                   be
                   damn'd
                   for
                   holy
                   Cause
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   few
                   
                     red
                     Letters
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   some
                   
                     painted
                     straws
                  
                   !
                
                 
                   Fools
                   !
                   who
                   thus
                   truck
                   with
                   Hell
                   by
                   Mohatra
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   play
                   their
                   Souls
                   against
                   no
                   stakes
                   away
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   strange
                   with
                   what
                   an
                   holy
                   Impudence
                
                 
                   The
                   Villain
                   caught
                   ,
                   his
                   innocence
                   maintains
                   :
                
                 
                   Denies
                   with
                   Oaths
                   the
                   Fact
                   ,
                   untill
                   it
                   be
                
                 
                   Less
                   guilt
                   to
                   own
                   it
                   than
                   the
                   perjury
                   :
                
                 
                   By
                   th'
                   Mass
                   ,
                   and
                   blessed
                   Sacraments
                   he
                   swears
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   
                   Mary's
                   Milk
                   ,
                   and
                   t'other
                   
                     Mary's
                     Tears
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   whole
                   muster-roll
                   in
                   Calendars
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Not
                   yet
                   swallow
                   the
                   Falshood
                   ?
                   if
                   all
                   this
                
                 
                   Won't
                   gain
                   a
                   resty
                   Faith
                   ;
                   he
                   will
                   on
                   's
                   knees
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Evangelists
                   ,
                   and
                   
                     Lady's
                     Psalter
                  
                   kiss
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   vouch
                   the
                   Lye
                   :
                   nay
                   ,
                   more
                   ,
                   to
                   make
                   it
                   good
                
                 
                   Mortgage
                   his
                   Soul
                   upon
                   't
                   ,
                   his
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   God.
                
                 
                   Damn'd
                   faithless
                   Hereticks
                   !
                   hard
                   to
                   convince
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   trust
                   no
                   Verdict
                   but
                   dull
                   obvious
                   Sense
                   .
                
                 
                   Unconscionable
                   Courts
                   !
                   who
                   Priests
                   deny
                
                 
                   Their
                   
                     Benefit
                     o'
                     th'
                     Clergy
                  
                   ,
                   Perjury
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Room
                   for
                   the
                   
                     Martyr'd
                     Saints
                  
                   !
                   behold
                   they
                   come
                   !
                
                 
                   With
                   what
                   a
                   noble
                   Scorn
                   they
                   meet
                   their
                   Doom
                   ?
                
                 
                   Not
                   
                     Knights
                     o'
                     th'
                     Post
                  
                   ,
                   nor
                   often
                   Carted
                   Whores
                
                 
                   Shew
                   more
                   of
                   Impudence
                   ,
                   or
                   less
                   Remorse
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   O
                   glorious
                   ,
                   and
                   heroick
                   Constancy
                   !
                
                 
                   That
                   can
                   forswear
                   upon
                   the
                   Cart
                   ,
                   and
                   die
                
                 
                   With
                   gasping
                   Souls
                   expiring
                   in
                   a
                   Lye.
                
                 
                   None
                   but
                   tame
                   Sheepish
                   Criminals
                   repent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   fear
                   the
                   idle
                   Bugbear
                   ,
                   Punishment
                   :
                
                 
                   Your
                   Gallant
                   Sinner
                   scorns
                   that
                   Cowardice
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   poor
                   regret
                   of
                   having
                   done
                   amiss
                   :
                
                 
                   Brave
                   he
                   ,
                   to
                   his
                   first
                   Principles
                   still
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Can
                   face
                   Damnation
                   ,
                   Sin
                   with
                   Hell
                   in
                   view
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   bid
                   it
                   take
                   the
                   Soul
                   ,
                   he
                   does
                   bequeath
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   blow
                   it
                   thither
                   with
                   his
                   dying
                   breath
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Dare
                   such
                   ,
                   as
                   these
                   ,
                   profess
                   
                   Religion's
                   Name
                   ?
                
                 
                   Who
                   ,
                   should
                   they
                   own't
                   ,
                   and
                   be
                   believ'd
                   ,
                   would
                   shame
                
                 
                   It's
                   Practice
                   out
                   o'
                   th'
                   World
                   ,
                   would
                   Atheists
                   make
                
                 
                   Firm
                   in
                   their
                   Creed
                   ,
                   and
                   vouch
                   it
                   at
                   the
                   Stake
                   ?
                
                 
                   Is
                   Heav'n
                   for
                   such
                   ,
                   whose
                   Deeds
                   make
                   Hell
                   too
                   good
                   ,
                
                 
                   Too
                   mild
                   a
                   Penance
                   for
                   their
                   cursed
                   Brood
                   ?
                
                 
                   For
                   whose
                   unheard-of
                   Crimes
                   ,
                   and
                   damned
                   Sake
                
                 
                   Fate
                   must
                   below
                   new
                   sorts
                   of
                   Torture
                   make
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   ,
                   when
                   of
                   old
                   it
                   fram'd
                   that
                   place
                   of
                   Doom
                   ,
                
                 
                   T
                   was
                   thought
                   no
                   guilt
                   ,
                   like
                   this
                   ,
                   could
                   thither
                   come
                
              
               
                 
                   Base
                   recreant
                   Souls
                   !
                   would
                   you
                   have
                   Kings
                   trust
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   never
                   yet
                   kept
                   your
                   Allegiance
                   true
                
                 
                   To
                   any
                   but
                   
                     Hell's
                     Prince
                  
                   ?
                   who
                   with
                   more
                   ease
                
                 
                   Can
                   swallow
                   down
                   most
                   solemn
                   Perjuries
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   a
                   
                     Town
                     Bullie
                  
                   common
                   Oaths
                   ,
                   and
                   Lies
                   ?
                
                 
                   Are
                   the
                   French
                   Harry's
                   Fates
                   so
                   soon
                   forgot
                   ?
                
                 
                 
                   Our
                   last
                   blest
                   Tudor
                   ?
                   or
                   the
                   Powder-Plot
                   ?
                
                 
                   And
                   those
                   fine
                   Streamers
                   ,
                   that
                   adorn'd
                   so
                   long
                
                 
                   The
                   Bridge
                   ,
                   and
                   Westminster
                   ,
                   and
                   yet
                   had
                   hung
                   ,
                
                 
                   Were
                   they
                   not
                   stoln
                   ,
                   and
                   now
                   for
                   Relicks
                   gone
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   Think
                   Tories
                   Loyal
                   ,
                   or
                   
                     Scotch
                     Covenanters
                  
                   :
                
                 
                   Robb'd
                   Tygers
                   gentle
                   ;
                   courteous
                   ,
                   fasting
                   Bears
                   :
                
                 
                   Atheists
                   devout
                   ,
                   and
                   thrice-wrack'd
                   Mariners
                   :
                
                 
                   Take
                   Goats
                   for
                   Chast
                   ,
                   and
                   cloister'd
                   Marmosites
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   plain
                   ,
                   and
                   open
                   two-edg'd
                   Parasites
                   :
                
                 
                   Believe
                   Bawds
                   modest
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   shameless
                   Stews
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   binding
                   
                     Drunkard
                     Oaths
                     ,
                     and
                     Strumpet's
                     Vows
                     :
                  
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   in
                   time
                   these
                   Contradiction
                   meet
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   hope
                   to
                   find
                   'em
                   in
                   a
                   Loyolite
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   ,
                   tho
                   gasping
                   ,
                   should
                   I
                   credit
                   give
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   'd
                   think
                   't
                   were
                   Sin
                   ,
                   and
                   damn'd
                   like
                   unbelief
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Oh
                   for
                   the
                   Swedish
                   Law
                   enacted
                   here
                   !
                
                 
                   No
                   Scare-crow
                   frightens
                   like
                   a
                   Priest-Gelder
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hunt
                   them
                   ,
                   as
                   Beavers
                   are
                   ,
                   force
                   them
                   to
                   buy
                
                 
                   Their
                   Lives
                   with
                   Ransom
                   of
                   their
                   Lechery
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   let
                   that
                   wholsome
                   Statute
                   be
                   reviv'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   England
                   heretofore
                   from
                   Wolves
                   reliev'd
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Tax
                   every
                   Shire
                   instead
                   of
                   them
                   to
                   bring
                
                 
                   Each
                   Year
                   a
                   certain
                   tale
                   of
                   Jesuits
                   in
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   their
                   mangled
                   Quarters
                   hang
                   the
                   I
                   le
                
                 
                   To
                   scare
                   all
                   future
                   Vermin
                   from
                   the
                   Soil
                   .
                
                 
                   Monsters
                   avaunt
                   !
                   may
                   some
                   kind
                   whirlwind
                   sweep
                
                 
                   Our
                   Land
                   ,
                   and
                   drown
                   these
                   Locusts
                   in
                   the
                   deep
                   :
                
                 
                   Hence
                   ye
                   loath'd
                   Objects
                   of
                   our
                   Scorn
                   ,
                   and
                   Hate
                
                 
                   With
                   all
                   the
                   Curses
                   of
                   an
                   injur'd
                   State
                   :
                
                 
                   Go
                   ,
                   foul
                   Impostors
                   ,
                   to
                   some
                   duller
                   Soil
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   easier
                   Nation
                   with
                   your
                   Cheats
                   beguile
                   :
                   ]
                
                 
                   Where
                   your
                   gross
                   common
                   Gulleries
                   may
                   pass
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   slur
                   ,
                   and
                   top
                   on
                   
                     bubled
                     Consciences
                  
                   :
                
                 
                   Where
                   Ignorance
                   ,
                   and
                   th'
                   Inquisition
                   Rules
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   the
                   vile
                   Herd
                   of
                   poor
                   
                     Implicit
                     Fools
                  
                
                 
                   Are
                   damn'd
                   contentedly
                   ,
                   where
                   they
                   are
                   led
                
                 
                   Blindfold
                   to
                   Hell
                   ,
                   and
                   thank
                   ,
                   and
                   pay
                   their
                   Guide
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Go
                   ,
                   where
                   all
                   your
                   black
                   Tribe
                   before
                   are
                   gone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Follow
                   
                     Chastel
                     ,
                     Ravillac
                     ,
                     Clement
                  
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   
                     Catesby
                     ,
                     Faux
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Garnet
                   ,
                   thousands
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   those
                   ,
                   who
                   hence
                   have
                   lately
                   rais'd
                   the
                   Score
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Where
                   the
                   
                     Grand
                     Traitor
                  
                   now
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   Crew
                
                 
                   Of
                   his
                   Disciples
                   must
                   receive
                   their
                   Due
                   :
                
                 
                   Where
                   Flames
                   ,
                   and
                   Tortures
                   of
                   Eternal
                   Date
                
                 
                   Must
                   punish
                   you
                   ,
                   yet
                   ne're
                   can
                   expiate
                   :
                
                 
                   Learn
                   duller
                   Feinds
                   your
                   unknown
                   Cruelties
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   no
                   Wit
                   ,
                   but
                   yours
                   ,
                   could
                   e're
                   devise
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   No
                   Guilt
                   ,
                   but
                   yours
                   ,
                   deserve
                   ;
                   make
                   Hell
                   confess
                
                 
                   It self
                   out-done
                   ,
                   its
                   Devils
                   damn'd
                   for
                   less
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 SATYR
                 III.
                 Loyala's
                 Will.
                 
              
               
                 
                   LOng
                   had
                   the
                   fam'd
                   Impostor
                   found
                   Success
                   ,
                
                 
                   Long
                   seen
                   his
                   damn'd
                   Fraternit●…s
                   increase
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Wealth
                   ,
                   and
                   Power
                   ,
                   Mischief
                   ,
                   and
                   Guile
                   improv'd
                   .
                
                 
                   By
                   Pope●…
                   ▪
                   and
                   Pope-rid
                   Kings
                   upheld
                   ,
                   and
                   lov'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Laden
                   with
                   Years
                   ,
                   and
                   Sins
                   ,
                   and
                   num'rous
                   Scars
                   ,
                
                 
                   Got
                   some
                   i'
                   th'
                   Field
                   ,
                   but
                   most
                   in
                   other
                   Wars
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   finding
                   Life
                   decay
                   ,
                   and
                   Fate
                   draw
                   near
                   ,
                
                 
                   Grown
                   ripe
                   for
                   Hell
                   ,
                   and
                   Roman
                   Calendar
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   thinks
                   it
                   worth
                   his
                   Holy
                   Thoughts
                   ,
                   and
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   hidden
                   Rules
                   ,
                   and
                   Secrets
                   to
                   Impart
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Proofs
                   of
                   long●…
                   Experience●…
                   and
                   deep
                   Art
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   to
                   his
                   Successors
                   may
                   useful
                   be
                
                 
                   In
                   conduct
                   of
                   their
                   future
                   Villany
                   .
                
                 
                   Summon'd
                   together
                   ,
                   all
                   th'
                   Officious
                   Band
                
                 
                   The
                   Orders
                   of
                   their
                   Bedrid-Chief
                   attend
                   ;
                
                 
                   Doubtful
                   ,
                   what
                   Legacy
                   he
                   will
                   bequeath
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wait
                   with
                   greedy
                   Ears
                   his
                   dying
                   Breath
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   such
                   quick
                   Duty
                   Vassal
                   Fiends
                   below
                
                 
                   To
                   meet
                   commands
                   of
                   their
                   Dread
                   Monarch
                   go
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   On
                   Pillow
                   rais'd
                   ,
                   he
                   do's
                   their
                   entrance
                   greet
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   joys
                   to
                   see
                   the
                   wish'd
                   Assembly
                   meet
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   in
                   glad
                   Murmurs
                   tell
                   their
                   Joy
                   aloud
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   a
                   deep
                   silence
                   stills
                   th'
                   expecting
                   Croud
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   Delphick
                   Hag
                   of
                   old
                   ,
                   by
                   Fiend
                   possest
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   swells
                   ,
                   wild
                   Frenzy
                   ,
                   heaves
                   his
                   panting
                   Brest
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   bristling
                   Hairs
                   stick
                   up
                   ,
                   his
                   Eye-Balls
                   glow
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   his
                   Mouth
                   long
                   strakes
                   of
                   Drivel
                   flow
                   :
                
                 
                   Thrice
                   with
                   due
                   Rev'rence
                   he
                   himself
                   doth
                   cross
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   his
                   Hellish
                   Oracles
                   disclose
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Ye
                   firm
                   Associates
                   of
                   my
                   great
                   Design
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   the
                   same
                   Vows
                   ,
                   and
                   Oaths
                   ,
                   and
                   Order
                   joyn
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   faithful
                   Band
                   ,
                   whom
                   I
                   ,
                   and
                   Rome
                   have
                   chofe
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   last
                   Support
                   of
                   our
                   declining
                   Caufe
                   :
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Conqu'ring
                   Troops
                   I
                   with
                   Success
                   have
                   led
                
                 
                   Gainst
                   all
                   Opposers
                   of
                   our
                   Church
                   ,
                   and
                   Head
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   e're
                   to
                   the
                   mad
                   German
                   owe
                   their
                   Rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                   Geneva's
                   Rebels
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   hot-brain'd
                   Swiss
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Revolted
                   Hereticks
                   ,
                   who
                   late
                   have
                   broke
                
                 
                   And
                   durst
                   throw
                   off
                   the
                   long-worn
                   Sacred
                   Yoke
                   :
                
                 
                   You
                   ,
                   by
                   whose
                   happy
                   Influence
                   
                     Rome
                     can
                  
                   boast
                
                 
                   A
                   greater
                   Empire
                   ,
                   than
                   by
                   Luther
                   lost
                   :
                
                 
                   By
                   whom
                   wide
                   Nature's
                   far-stretch'd
                   Limits
                   now
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   utmost
                   Indies
                   to
                   its
                   Crosier
                   Bow
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   Go
                   on
                   ,
                   ye
                   mighty
                   Champions
                   of
                   our
                   Cause
                   ,
                
                 
                   Maintain
                   our
                   Party
                   ,
                   and
                   subdue
                   our
                   Foes
                   :
                
                 
                   Kill
                   Heresie
                   ,
                   that
                   rank
                   ,
                   and
                   pois'nous
                   Weed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   threatens
                   now
                   the
                   Church
                   to
                   overspread
                   :
                
                 
                   Fire
                   Calvin
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Nest
                   of
                   Upstarts
                   out
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   tread
                   our
                   Sacred
                   Mitre
                   under
                   Foot
                   ;
                
                 
                   Stray'd
                   Germany
                   reduce
                   ;
                   let
                   it
                   no
                   more
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Incestuous
                   Monk
                   of
                   Wittemberg
                   adore
                   :
                
                 
                   Make
                   stubborn
                   Engl.
                   once
                   more
                   stoop
                   its
                   Crown
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Fealty
                   to
                   our
                   Priestly
                   Sovereign
                   own
                   :
                
                 
                   Regain
                   our
                   Church's
                   Rights
                   ,
                   the
                   Island
                   clear
                
                 
                   From
                   all
                   remaining
                   Dregs
                   of
                   Wickliff
                   there
                   .
                
                 
                   Plot
                   ,
                   Enterprize
                   ,
                   contrive
                   ,
                   endeavour
                   :
                   spare
                
                 
                   No
                   toil
                   ,
                   nor
                   Pains
                   :
                   no
                   Death
                   ,
                   nor
                   Danger
                   fear
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Restless
                   your
                   Aims
                   pursue
                   :
                   let
                   no
                   defeat
                
                 
                   Your
                   sprightly
                   Courage
                   ,
                   and
                   Attempts
                   rebate
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   urge
                   to
                   fresh
                   ,
                   and
                   bolder
                   ,
                   ne're
                   to
                   end
                
                 
                   Till
                   the
                   whole
                   World
                   to
                   our
                   great
                   Caliph
                   bend
                   :
                
                 
                   Till
                   he
                   thro'
                   every
                   Nation
                   every
                   where
                
                 
                   Bear
                   Sway
                   ,
                   and
                   Reign
                   as
                   absolute
                   ,
                   as
                   here
                   :
                
                 
                   Till
                   Rome
                   without
                   controul
                   ,
                   and
                   Contest
                   be
                
                 
                   The
                   Universal
                   Ghostly
                   Monarchy
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Oh!
                   that
                   kind
                   Heaven
                   a
                   longer
                   Thread
                   would
                   give
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   me
                   to
                   that
                   happy
                   Juncture
                   live
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   't
                   is
                   decreed
                   !
                   —
                   
                     at
                     this
                     he
                     paus'd
                     ,
                     and
                     wept
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     The
                     rest
                     alike
                     time
                     with
                     his
                     Sorrow
                     kept
                     :
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Then
                     thus
                     continued
                     he
                  
                   —
                   Since
                   unjust
                   Fate
                
                 
                   Envies
                   my
                   Race
                   of
                   Glory
                   longer
                   date
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   ,
                   as
                   a
                   wounded
                   General
                   ,
                   e're
                   he
                   dies
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   his
                   sad
                   Troops
                   ,
                   sighs
                   out
                   his
                   last
                   Advice
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Who
                   ,
                   tho
                   they
                   must
                   his
                   fatal
                   Absence
                   moan
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   those
                   great
                   Lessons
                   conquer
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   's
                   gone
                   )
                
                 
                   So
                   I
                   to
                   you
                   my
                   last
                   Instructions
                   give
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   breath
                   out
                   Counsel
                   with
                   my
                   parting
                   Life
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Let
                   each
                   to
                   my
                   important
                   words
                   give
                   Ear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Worth
                   your
                   attention
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   dying
                   Care.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   First
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   chiefest
                   thing
                   by
                   me
                   enjoyn'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Solemn'st
                   tie
                   ,
                   that
                   must
                   your
                   Order
                   bind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   each
                   without
                   demur
                   ,
                   or
                   scruple
                   pay
                
                 
                   A
                   strict
                   Obedience
                   to
                   the
                   Roman
                   Sway
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   unerring
                   Chair
                   all
                   Homage
                   Swear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Altho
                   a
                   Punk
                   ,
                   a
                   Witch
                   ,
                   a
                   Fiend
                   sit
                   there
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   e're
                   is
                   to
                   the
                   Sacred
                   Mitre
                   rear'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Believe
                   all
                   Vertues
                   with
                   the
                   place
                   conferr'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Think
                   him
                   establish'd
                   there
                   by
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   tho
                   he
                
                 
                   Has
                   Altars
                   rob'd
                   for
                   bribes
                   the
                   choice
                   to
                   buy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   pawn'd
                   his
                   Soul
                   to
                   Hell
                   for
                   Simony
                   :
                
                 
                   Tho
                   he
                   be
                   Atheist
                   ,
                   Heathen
                   ,
                   Turk
                   ,
                   or
                   Jew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Blasphemer
                   ,
                   Sacrilegious
                   ,
                   Perjur'd
                   too
                   :
                
                 
                   Tho
                   Pander
                   ,
                   Bawd
                   ,
                   Pimp
                   ,
                   Pathick
                   ,
                   Buggerer
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   e're
                   old
                   
                   Sodom's
                   Nest
                   of
                   Lechers
                   were
                   :
                
                 
                   Tho
                   Tyrant
                   ,
                   Traitor
                   ,
                   Pois'oner
                   ,
                   Parricide
                   ,
                
                 
                   Magician
                   ,
                   Monster
                   ,
                   all
                   ,
                   that
                   's
                   bad
                   beside
                   :
                
                 
                   Fouler
                   than
                   Infamy
                   ;
                   the
                   very
                   Lees
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Sink
                   ,
                   the
                   Jakes
                   ,
                   the
                   Common-shore
                   of
                   Vice
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Strait
                   count
                   him
                   Holy
                   ,
                   Vertuous
                   ,
                   Good
                   ,
                   Devout
                   ,
                
                 
                   Chast
                   ,
                   Gentle
                   ,
                   Meek
                   ,
                   a
                   Saint
                   ,
                   a
                   God
                   ,
                   who
                   not
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   Make
                   Fate
                   hang
                   on
                   his
                   Lips
                   ,
                   nor
                   Heaven
                   have
                
                 
                   Pow'r
                   to
                   Predestinate
                   without
                   his
                   leave
                   :
                
                 
                   None
                   be
                   admitted
                   there
                   ,
                   but
                   who
                   he
                   please
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   buys
                   from
                   him
                   the
                   Patent
                   for
                   the
                   Place
                   .
                
                 
                   Hold
                   those
                   amongst
                   the
                   highest
                   rank
                   of
                   Saints
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   e're
                   he
                   to
                   that
                   Honour
                   shall
                   advance
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho
                   here
                   the
                   Refuse
                   of
                   the
                   Jail
                   ,
                   and
                   Stews
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   Hell
                   it self
                   would
                   scarce
                   for
                   lumber
                   chuse
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   count
                   all
                   Reprobate
                   ,
                   and
                   Damn'd
                   ,
                   and
                   worse
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   he
                   ,
                   when
                   Gout
                   ,
                   or
                   Tissick
                   Rage
                   ,
                   shall
                   curse
                   :
                
                 
                   Whom
                   he
                   in
                   Anger
                   Excommunicates
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Friday
                   Meals
                   ,
                   and
                   abrogating
                   Sprats
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   in
                   just
                   Indignation
                   spurns
                   to
                   Hell
                
                 
                   For
                   jearing
                   Holy
                   Toe
                   ,
                   and
                   Pantofle
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   What
                   e're
                   he
                   says
                   ,
                   esteem
                   for
                   Holy
                   Writ
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   text
                   Apocryphal
                   ,
                   if
                   he
                   think
                   fit
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   arrant
                   Legends
                   ,
                   worst
                   of
                   Tales
                   ,
                   and
                   Lies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Falser
                   than
                   Capgraves
                   ,
                   and
                   Voragines
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Than
                   
                     Quixot
                     ,
                     Rablais
                     ,
                     Amadis
                     de
                     Gaul
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   Is
                   sign'd
                   with
                   Sacred
                   Lead
                   ,
                   and
                   Fisher's
                   Seal
                
                 
                   Be
                   thought
                   Authentick
                   and
                   Canonical
                   .
                
                 
                   Again
                   ,
                   if
                   he
                   Ordain't
                   in
                   his
                   Decrees
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   very
                   Gospel
                   for
                   meer
                   Fable
                   pass
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   Right
                   be
                   wrong
                   ,
                   Black
                   White
                   ,
                   and
                   Vertue
                   Vice
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Sun
                   ,
                   no
                   Moon
                   ,
                   nor
                   no
                   Antipodes
                   :
                
                 
                   Forswear
                   your
                   Reason
                   ,
                   Conscience
                   ,
                   &
                   your
                   Creed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   very
                   Sense
                   ,
                   and
                   Euclid
                   ,
                   if
                   he
                   bid
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Let
                   it
                   be
                   held
                   less
                   heinous
                   ,
                   less
                   amiss
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   break
                   all
                   Gods
                   Commands
                   ,
                   than
                   one
                   of
                   his
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   his
                   great
                   Mifsions
                   call
                   ,
                   without
                   delay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Without
                   Reluctance
                   readily
                   Obey
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   let
                   your
                   Inmost
                   Wishes
                   dare
                   gainsay
                   :
                
                 
                   Should
                   he
                   to
                   Bantam
                   ,
                   or
                   Japan
                   command
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   farthest
                   Bounds
                   of
                   Southern
                   unknown
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   Farther
                   than
                   Avarice
                   its
                   Vassals
                   drives
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thro'
                   Rocks
                   ,
                   and
                   Dangers
                   ,
                   loss
                   of
                   Blood
                   ,
                   and
                   Lives
                   ;
                
                 
                   Like
                   great
                   
                   Xavier's
                   be
                   your
                   Obedience
                   shown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Outstrip
                   his
                   Courage
                   ,
                   Glory
                   ,
                   and
                   Renown
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Whom
                   neither
                   yawning
                   Gulphs
                   of
                   deep
                   Despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   scorching
                   Heats
                   of
                   burning
                   Line
                   could
                   scare
                   :
                
                 
                   Whom
                   Seas
                   ,
                   nor
                   Storms
                   ,
                   nor
                   Wracks
                   could
                   make
                   refrain
                
                 
                   From
                   propagating
                   Holy
                   Faith
                   ,
                   and
                   Gain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   If
                   he
                   but
                   nod
                   Commissions
                   out
                   to
                   kill
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   becken
                   Lives
                   of
                   Hereticks
                   to
                   spill
                   ;
                
                 
                   Let
                   th'
                   Inquisition
                   rage
                   ,
                   fresh
                   Cruelties
                
                 
                   Make
                   the
                   dire
                   Engines
                   groan
                   with
                   tortur'd
                   Cries
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   
                     Campo
                     Flori
                  
                   every
                   day
                   be
                   strow'd
                
                 
                   With
                   the
                   warm
                   Ashes
                   of
                   the
                   Luth'ran
                   Brood
                   :
                
                 
                   Repeat
                   again
                   Bohemian
                   Slaughters
                   ore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Piedmont
                   Vallies
                   drown
                   with
                   floating
                   Gore
                   :
                
                 
                   Swifter
                   than
                   Murdering
                   Angels
                   ,
                   when
                   they
                   fly
                
                 
                   On
                   Errands
                   of
                   avenging
                   Destiny
                   .
                
                 
                   Fiercer
                   than
                   Storms
                   let
                   loose
                   ,
                   with
                   eager
                   haste
                
                 
                   Lay
                   Cities
                   ,
                   Countries
                   ,
                   Realms
                   ,
                   whole
                   Nature
                   waste
                   .
                
                 
                   Sack
                   ,
                   ●…avish
                   ,
                   burn
                   ,
                   destroy
                   ,
                   slay
                   ,
                   massacre
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   the
                   same
                   Grave
                   their
                   Lives
                   ,
                   and
                   Names
                   interr
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   These
                   are
                   the
                   Rights
                   to
                   our
                   great
                   Mufty
                   due
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   sworn
                   Allegiance
                   of
                   your
                   Sacred
                   Vow
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   What
                   else
                   we
                   in
                   our
                   Votaries
                   require
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   other
                   Gift
                   ,
                   next
                   follows
                   to
                   enquire
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   first
                   it
                   will
                   our
                   great
                   Advice
                   befit
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   Soldiers
                   to
                   your
                   Lists
                   you
                   ought
                   admit
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Natives
                   of
                   the
                   Church
                   ,
                   and
                   Faith
                   ,
                   like
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   foremost
                   rank
                   of
                   Choice
                   is
                   justly
                   due
                   :
                
                 
                   'Mongst
                   whom
                   the
                   chiefest
                   place
                   assign
                   to
                   those
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Zeal
                   has
                   mostly
                   Signaliz'd
                   the
                   Cause
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   let
                   not
                   Entrance
                   be
                   to
                   them
                   deny'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   ever
                   shall
                   desert
                   the
                   adverse
                   Side
                   :
                
                 
                   Omit
                   no
                   Promises
                   of
                   Wealth
                   ,
                   or
                   Power
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   may
                   inveigled
                   Hereticks
                   allure
                   :
                
                 
                   Those
                   ,
                   whom
                   great
                   learning
                   ,
                   parts
                   ,
                   or
                   wit
                   renowns
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cajole
                   with
                   hopes
                   of
                   Honours
                   ,
                   Scarlet
                   Gowns
                   ,
                
                 
                   Provincial
                   ships
                   ,
                   and
                   Palls
                   ,
                   and
                   Triple
                   Crowns
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   must
                   a
                   Rector
                   ,
                   that
                   a
                   Provost
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   third
                   succed
                   to
                   the
                   next
                   Abbacy
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   Princes
                   Tutors
                   ,
                   others
                   Confessors
                
                 
                   To
                   Dukes
                   ,
                   and
                   Kings
                   ,
                   and
                   Queens
                   ,
                   and
                   Emperors
                   :
                
                 
                   These
                   are
                   strong
                   Arguments
                   ,
                   which
                   seldom
                   fail
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   more
                   than
                   all
                   yo●…r
                   weak
                   disputes
                   prevail
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Exclude
                   not
                   those
                   of
                   less
                   desert
                   ,
                   decree
                
                 
                   To
                   all
                   Revolters
                   your
                   Foundation
                   free
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   all
                   ,
                   whom
                   Gaming
                   ,
                   Drunkenness
                   ,
                   or
                   Lust
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Need
                   ,
                   and
                   Popery
                   shall
                   have
                   reduc'd
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   all
                   ,
                   whom
                   slighted
                   Love
                   ,
                   Ambition
                   crost
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hopes
                   often
                   bilk't
                   ,
                   and
                   Sought
                   Preferment
                   lost
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   Pride
                   ,
                   or
                   Discontent
                   ,
                   Revenge
                   ,
                   or
                   Spite
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fear
                   ,
                   Frenzy
                   ,
                   or
                   Despair
                   shall
                   Proselyte
                   :
                
                 
                   Those
                   Pow'rful
                   Motives
                   ,
                   which
                   the
                   most
                   bring
                   in
                   ,
                
                 
                   Most
                   Converts
                   to
                   our
                   Church
                   ,
                   and
                   Order
                   win
                   .
                
                 
                   Reject
                   not
                   those
                   ,
                   whom
                   Guilt
                   ,
                   and
                   Crimes
                   at
                   home
                
                 
                   Have
                   made
                   to
                   us
                   for
                   Sanctuary
                   come
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   Sinners
                   of
                   each
                   Hue
                   ,
                   and
                   Size
                   ,
                   and
                   Kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Here
                   quick
                   admittance
                   ,
                   and
                   safe
                   Refuge
                   find
                   :
                
                 
                   Be
                   they
                   from
                   Justice
                   of
                   their
                   Country
                   fled
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Blood
                   of
                   Murders
                   ,
                   Rapes
                   ,
                   and
                   Treasons
                   died
                   :
                
                 
                   No
                   Varlet
                   ,
                   Rogue
                   ,
                   or
                   Miscreant
                   refuse
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   Gallies
                   ,
                   Jails
                   ,
                   or
                   Hell
                   it self
                   broke
                   loose
                   .
                
                 
                   By
                   this
                   you
                   shall
                   in
                   Strength
                   ,
                   and
                   Numbers
                   grow
                
                 
                   And
                   shoals
                   each
                   day
                   to
                   your
                   throng'd
                   Cloisters
                   flow
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   So
                   
                   Rome's
                   and
                   
                   Mecca's
                   first
                   great
                   Founders
                   did
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   such
                   wise
                   Methods
                   made
                   their
                   Churches
                   spread
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   When
                   shaven
                   Crown
                   ,
                   and
                   hallow'd
                   Girdle's
                   Power
                
                 
                   Has
                   dub'd
                   him
                   Saint
                   ,
                   that
                   Villain
                   was
                   before
                   ;
                
                 
                   Enter'd
                   ,
                   let
                   it
                   his
                   first
                   Endeavour
                   be
                
                 
                   To
                   shake
                   off
                   all
                   remains
                   of
                   Modesty
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dull
                   sneaking
                   Modesty
                   ,
                   not
                   more
                   unfit
                
                 
                   For
                   needy
                   flatt'ring
                   Poets
                   ,
                   when
                   they
                   write
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   trading
                   Punks
                   ,
                   than
                   for
                   a
                   Jesuit
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   any
                   Novice
                   feel
                   at
                   first
                   a
                   blush
                   ;
                
                 
                   Let
                   Wine
                   ,
                   and
                   frequent
                   converse
                   with
                   the
                   Stews
                
                 
                   Reform
                   the
                   Fop
                   ,
                   and
                   shame
                   it
                   out
                   of
                   Use
                   ;
                
                 
                   Unteach
                   the
                   puling
                   Folly
                   by
                   degrees
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   train
                   him
                   to
                   a
                   well-bred
                   Shamelesness
                   .
                
                 
                   Get
                   that
                   great
                   Gift
                   ,
                   and
                   Talent
                   ,
                   Impudence
                
                 
                   Accomplish't
                   Mankind's
                   highest
                   Excellence
                   :
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   that
                   alone
                   prefers
                   ,
                   alone
                   makes
                   great
                   ,
                
                 
                   Confers
                   alone
                   Wealth
                   ,
                   Titles
                   ,
                   and
                   Estate
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Gains
                   Place
                   at
                   Court
                   ,
                   can
                   make
                   a
                   Fool
                   a
                   Peer
                   ,
                
                 
                   An
                   Ass
                   a
                   Bishop
                   ,
                   can
                   vil'st
                   Blockheads
                   rear
                
                 
                   To
                   wear
                   Red
                   Hats
                   ,
                   and
                   sit
                   in
                   Porph'ry
                   Chair
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   Learning
                   ,
                   Parts
                   ,
                   and
                   Skill
                   ,
                   and
                   Wit
                   ,
                   and
                   Sense
                   ,
                
                 
                   Worth
                   ,
                   Merit
                   ,
                   Honour
                   ,
                   Vertue
                   ,
                   Innocence
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Next
                   for
                   Religion
                   ,
                   learn
                   what
                   's
                   fit
                   to
                   take
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   small
                   a
                   Dram
                   do's
                   the
                   just
                   Compond
                   make
                   .
                
                 
                   As
                   much
                   as
                   is
                   by
                   the
                   Crafty
                   States-men
                   worn
                
                 
                   For
                   Fashion
                   only
                   ,
                   or
                   to
                   serve
                   a
                   turn
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   bigot
                   Fools
                   its
                   idle
                   Practice
                   leave
                   ,
                
                 
                   Think
                   it
                   enough
                   the
                   empty
                   Form
                   to
                   have
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   outward
                   Show
                   is
                   seemly
                   ,
                   cheap
                   ,
                   and
                   light
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Substance
                   Cumbersome
                   ,
                   of
                   Cost
                   ,
                   and
                   Weight
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Rabble
                   judge
                   by
                   what
                   appears
                   to
                   th'
                   Eye
                   ,
                
                 
                   None
                   ,
                   or
                   but
                   few
                   ,
                   the
                   Thoughts
                   within
                   Descry
                   .
                
                 
                   Make
                   't
                   you
                   an
                   Engine
                   to
                   ambitions
                   Pow'r
                
                 
                   To
                   stalk
                   behind
                   ,
                   and
                   hit
                   your
                   Mark
                   more
                   sure
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Cloak
                   to
                   cover
                   well-hid
                   Knavery
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   it
                   ,
                   when
                   us'd
                   ,
                   to
                   be
                   with
                   ease
                   thrown
                   by
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   shifting
                   Card
                   ,
                   by
                   which
                   your
                   Course
                   to
                   steer
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   taught
                   with
                   every
                   changing
                   Wind
                   to
                   veer
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Let
                   no
                   Nice
                   ,
                   Holy
                   ,
                   Conscientious
                   Ass
                
                 
                   Amongst
                   your
                   better
                   Company
                   find
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   Me
                   ,
                   and
                   your
                   .
                   Foundation
                   to
                   disgrace
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   Truth
                   be
                   banisht
                   ,
                   ragged
                   Vertue
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   poor
                   unprofitable
                   Honesty
                   ;
                
                 
                   Weak
                   Idols
                   ,
                   who
                   their
                   wretched
                   Slaves
                   betray
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   every
                   Rook
                   ,
                   and
                   every
                   Knave
                   a
                   Prey
                   :
                
                 
                   These
                   lie
                   remote
                   ,
                   and
                   wide
                   from
                   Interest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Farther
                   than
                   Heaven
                   from
                   Hell
                   ,
                   or
                   East
                   from
                   West
                   ,
                
                 
                   Far
                   ,
                   as
                   they
                   e're
                   were
                   distant
                   from
                   the
                   breast
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Think
                   not
                   your selves
                   t'
                   Austerities
                   confin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   those
                   strict
                   Rules
                   ,
                   which
                   other
                   Orders
                   bind
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   
                     Capuchins
                     ,
                     Carthusians
                     ,
                     Cord●…liers
                  
                
                 
                   Leave
                   Penance
                   ,
                   meager
                   abstinence
                   ,
                   and
                   Prayers
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   lousie
                   Rags
                   let
                   
                     Begging
                     Fryars
                  
                   lye
                   ,
                
                 
                   Content
                   on
                   Straw
                   ,
                   or
                   Boards
                   to
                   mortifie
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   them
                   with
                   Sackcloath
                   discipline
                   their
                   Skins
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   scourge
                   them
                   for
                   their
                   madness
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Sins
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   pining
                   Anchorets
                   in
                   Grotto's
                   starve
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   from
                   the
                   Liberties
                   of
                   Nature
                   swerve
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Who
                   make
                   't
                   their
                   chief
                   Religion
                   not
                   to
                   eat
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   place't
                   in
                   nastiness
                   ,
                   and
                   want
                   of
                   Meat
                   :
                
                 
                   Live
                   you
                   in
                   Luxury
                   ,
                   and
                   pamper'd
                   Ease
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   if
                   whole
                   Nature
                   were
                   your
                   Cateress
                   .
                
                 
                   Soft
                   be
                   your
                   Beds
                   ,
                   as
                   those
                   ,
                   which
                   Monarch's
                   Whores
                
                 
                   Lye
                   on
                   ,
                   or
                   Gouts
                   of
                   
                     Bed-rid
                     Emperors
                  
                   :
                
                 
                   Your
                   Wardrobes
                   stor'd
                   with
                   choice
                   of
                   Suits
                   ,
                   more
                   dear
                
                 
                   Than
                   Cardinals
                   on
                   high
                   Processions
                   wear
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Dainties
                   load
                   your
                   Boards
                   ,
                   whose
                   every
                   Dish
                
                 
                   May
                   tempt
                   cloy'd
                   Gluttons
                   ,
                   or
                   
                     Vitellius
                     Wish
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   Each
                   fit
                   a
                   longing
                   Queen
                   :
                   let
                   richest
                   Wines
                
                 
                   With
                   Mirth
                   your
                   Heads
                   inflame
                   ,
                   with
                   Lust
                   your
                   Veins
                   :
                
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   the
                   Friends
                   of
                   dying
                   Popes
                   would
                   give
                
                 
                   For
                   
                     Cordials
                     to
                     prolong
                  
                   their
                   
                     gasping
                     Life
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Ne're
                   let
                   the
                   Nazarene
                   ,
                   whose
                   Badg
                   ,
                   and
                   Name
                
                 
                   You
                   wear
                   ,
                   upbraid
                   you
                   with
                   a
                   Conscious
                   Shame
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Leave
                   him
                   his
                   slighted
                   Homilies
                   ,
                   and
                   Rules
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   stuff
                   the
                   Squabbles
                   of
                   the
                   wrangling
                   Schools
                   ;
                
                 
                   Disdain
                   ,
                   that
                   he
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   poor
                   angling
                   Tribe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Should
                   Laws
                   ,
                   and
                   Government
                   to
                   you
                   prescribe
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   none
                   of
                   those
                   good
                   Fools
                   your
                   
                     Patterns
                     make
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   Instead
                   of
                   them
                   ,
                   the
                   mighty
                   Judas
                   take
                   .
                
                 
                   Renown'd
                   Iscaniot
                   ,
                   fit
                   alone
                   to
                   be
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Example
                   of
                   our
                   great
                   Society
                   :
                
                 
                   Whose
                   daring
                   Guilt
                   despis'd
                   the
                   common
                   Road
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   scorn'd
                   to
                   stoop
                   at
                   Sin
                   beneath
                   a
                   God.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   now
                   't
                   is
                   time
                   I
                   should
                   Instructions
                   give
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Wiles
                   ,
                   and
                   Cheats
                   the
                   Rabble
                   best
                   deceive
                   :
                
                 
                   Each
                   Age
                   ,
                   and
                   Sex
                   ,
                   their
                   diff'rent
                   Passions
                   wear
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   suit
                   with
                   which
                   requires
                   a
                   prudent
                   Care
                   :
                
                 
                   Youth
                   is
                   
                     Capricious
                     ,
                     Headstrong
                     ,
                     Fickle
                     ,
                     Vain
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   Given
                   to
                   
                     Lawless
                     Pleasure
                  
                   ,
                   Age
                   to
                   gain
                   :
                
                 
                   Old
                   Wives
                   ,
                   in
                   
                     Superstition
                     over-grown
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   
                     Chimny
                     Tales
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Stories
                   best
                   are
                   won
                   :
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   no
                   mean
                   Talent
                   rightly
                   to
                   descry
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   several
                   Baits
                   to
                   each
                   you
                   ought
                   apply
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Credulous
                   ,
                   and
                   easie
                   of
                   Belief
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Miracles
                   ,
                   and
                   well
                   fram'd
                   Lies
                   deceive
                   ,
                
                 
                   Empty
                   whole
                   Surius
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Talmud
                   :
                   drain
                
                 
                   Saint
                   Francis
                   ,
                   and
                   Saint
                   
                   Mahomet's
                   Alcoran
                   :
                
                 
                   Sooner
                   shall
                   Popes
                   ,
                   and
                   Cardinals
                   want
                   Pride
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   you
                   a
                   Stock
                   of
                   Lies
                   ,
                   and
                   Legends
                   need
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Tell
                   how
                   blest
                   Virgin
                   to
                   come
                   down
                   was
                   seen
                   .
                
                 
                   Like
                   
                     Play-House
                     Punk
                  
                   descending
                   in
                   Machine
                   :
                
                 
                   How
                   she
                   writ
                   
                     B●…llets
                     Doux
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Love-Discourse
                   ,
                
                 
                   Made
                   
                     Assignations
                     ,
                     Visits
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Amours
                   :
                
                 
                   How
                   Hosts
                   distrest
                   ,
                   her
                   Smock
                   for
                   Banner
                   bore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   vanquish'd
                   Foes
                   ,
                   and
                   murder'd
                   at
                   twelve
                   Score
                   .
                
                 
                   Relate
                   how
                   Fish
                   in
                   
                     Conventicles
                     met
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Mackrel
                   were
                   with
                   Bait
                   of
                   Doctine
                   caught
                   :
                
                 
                   How
                   Cattel
                   have
                   
                     Judicious
                     Hearers
                  
                   been
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Stones
                   pathetically
                   cry'd
                   Amen
                   :
                
                 
                   How
                   cons●…crated
                   Hive●…
                   with
                   Bells
                   was
                   hung
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Bees
                   kept
                   Mass
                   ,
                   and
                   Holy
                   
                     Anthems
                     Sung
                  
                   :
                
                 
                   How
                   Pigs
                   to
                   th'
                   Ros'ry
                   kneel'd
                   ,
                   and
                   sheep
                   were
                   taught
                
                 
                   To
                   bleat
                   
                     Te
                     Deum
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Magnificat
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   How
                   Fly-Flap
                   of
                   Church-Censure
                   Houses
                   rid
                
                 
                   Of
                   Insects
                   ,
                   which
                   at
                   Curse
                   of
                   Fryer
                   dy'd
                   :
                
                 
                   How
                   travelling
                   Saints
                   ,
                   well
                   mounted
                   on
                   a
                   Switch
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ride
                   Journeys
                   thro'
                   the
                   Air
                   ,
                   like
                   
                     Lapland
                     Witch
                  
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   ferrying
                   Cowls
                   
                     Religious
                     Pilgrims
                  
                   bore
                
                 
                   O're
                   waves
                   with
                   the
                   help
                   of
                   Sail
                   ,
                   or
                   Oar.
                
                 
                   Nor
                   let
                   
                   Xavier's
                   great
                   Wonders
                   pass
                   conceal'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   Storms
                   were
                   by
                   th'
                   Almighty
                   Wafer
                   quell'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   How
                   
                     zealous
                     Crab
                  
                   the
                   sacred
                   Image
                   bore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   swam
                   a
                   Cath'lick
                   to
                   the
                   distant
                   Shore
                
                 
                   With
                   Shams
                   ,
                   like
                   these
                   ,
                   the
                   giddy
                   Rout
                   mislead
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Folly
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Superstition
                   feed
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   found
                   a
                   good
                   ,
                   and
                   gainful
                   Art
                   of
                   Old
                
                 
                   (
                   And
                   much
                   it
                   did
                   our
                   Church's
                   Pow'r
                   uphold
                   )
                
                 
                   To
                   feign
                   
                     Hobgoblins
                     ,
                     Elves
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   walking
                   Sprites
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Fairies
                   dancing
                   Salenger
                   a
                   Nights
                   :
                
                 
                   White
                   Sheets
                   for
                   Ghosts
                   ,
                   and
                   Will-a-wisps
                   have
                   past
                
                 
                   For
                   Souls
                   in
                   Purgatory
                   unreleast
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   Crabs
                   in
                   Church-Yard
                   crawl'd
                   in
                   Masquerade
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   cheat
                   the
                   Parish
                   ,
                   and
                   have
                   Masses
                   said
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   By
                   this
                   our
                   Ancestors
                   in
                   happier
                   Days
                   ,
                
                 
                   Did
                   store
                   of
                   Credit
                   and
                   Advantage
                   raise
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   the
                   Trade
                   is
                   fall'n
                   ,
                   decay'd
                   ,
                   and
                   dead
                   ,
                
                 
                   E're
                   since
                   
                     Contagious
                     Knowledg
                  
                   has
                   o're-spread
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Scorn
                   the
                   grinning
                   Rabble
                   now
                   hear
                   tell
                
                 
                   Of
                   
                     Hecla
                     ,
                     Patrick's
                     hole
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Mongibel
                   ;
                
                 
                   Believ'd
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                   than
                   Tales
                   of
                   Troy
                   ,
                   unless
                
                 
                   In
                   Countries
                   drown'd
                   in
                   Ignorance
                   like
                   this
                   .
                
                 
                   Henceforth
                   be
                   wary
                   how
                   such
                   things
                   you
                   feign
                   ,
                
                 
                   Except
                   it
                   be
                   beyond
                   the
                   Cape
                   ,
                   or
                   Line
                   ;
                
                 
                   Except
                   at
                   
                     Mexico
                     ,
                     Brazile
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   the
                   
                     Molucco's
                     ,
                     Goa
                  
                   ,
                   or
                   Pegu
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   any
                   distant
                   ,
                   and
                   
                     Remoter
                     Place
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   they
                   may
                   currant
                   ,
                   and
                   unquestion'd
                   pass
                   :
                
                 
                   Where
                   never
                   
                     poching
                     Hereticks
                     resort
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   spring
                   the
                   Lye
                   ,
                   and
                   make
                   't
                   their
                   Game
                   ,
                   and
                   Sport.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   I
                   forget
                   (
                   what
                   should
                   be
                   mention'd
                   most
                   )
                
                 
                   Confession
                   ,
                   our
                   chief
                   Priviledg
                   and
                   Boast
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   Staple
                   ware
                   ,
                   which
                   ne're
                   returns
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ne're
                   balks
                   the
                   Trader
                   of
                   expected
                   Gain
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   this
                   ,
                   that
                   spies
                   through
                   Court-intrigues
                   ,
                   and
                   brings
                
                 
                   Admission
                   to
                   the
                   Cabinets
                   of
                   Kings
                   :
                
                 
                   By
                   this
                   we
                   keep
                   proud
                   Monarchs
                   at
                   our
                   Becks
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   our
                   Foot-stools
                   of
                   their
                   Thrones
                   &
                   Necks
                   :
                
                 
                   Give
                   'em
                   Commands
                   ,
                   and
                   if
                   they
                   Disobey
                   ;
                
                 
                   Betray
                   them
                   to
                   th'
                   Ambitious
                   Heir
                   a
                   Prey
                   :
                
                 
                   Hound
                   the
                   Officious
                   Curs
                   on
                   Hereticks
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Vermin
                   ,
                   which
                   the
                   Church
                   infest
                   ,
                   and
                   vex
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   our
                   turn
                   is
                   serv'd
                   ,
                   and
                   Business
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dispatch
                   'em
                   for
                   reward
                   ,
                   as
                   useless
                   grown
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   are
                   these
                   half
                   the
                   Benefits
                   ,
                   and
                   Gains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   by
                   wise
                   Manag'ry
                   accrue
                   from
                   thence
                   :
                
                 
                   By
                   this
                   w'unlock
                   the
                   Miser's
                   hoarded
                   Chests
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Treasure
                   ,
                   though
                   kept
                   close
                   ,
                   as
                   States-mens
                   Breasts
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   does
                   rich
                   Widows
                   to
                   our
                   Nets
                   decoy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   us
                   their
                   Jointures
                   ,
                   and
                   themselves
                   enjoy
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   us
                   the
                   Merchant
                   does
                   his
                   Customs
                   bring
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   pays
                   our
                   Duty
                   ,
                   tho
                   he
                   cheats
                   his
                   King
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   us
                   Court-Ministers
                   refund
                   ,
                   made
                   great
                
                 
                   By
                   Robbery
                   ,
                   and
                   Bankrupt
                   of
                   the
                   State
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Ours
                   is
                   the
                   Soldier
                   's
                   Plunder
                   ,
                   Padder's
                   Prize
                   ,
                
                 
                   Gabels
                   on
                   Letch'ry
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Stew's
                   Excise
                   :
                
                 
                   By
                   this
                   our
                   Colledges
                   in
                   Riches
                   shine
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   vy
                   with
                   Becket's
                   ,
                   and
                   
                   Loretto's
                   Shrine
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   here
                   I
                   must
                   not
                   grudge
                   a
                   word
                   or
                   two
                
                 
                   (
                   My
                   younger
                   Vot'ries
                   )
                   of
                   Advice
                   to
                   you
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   you
                   ,
                   whom
                   Beautie
                   's
                   Charms
                   ,
                   and
                   gen'rous
                   Fire
                
                 
                   Of
                   boiling
                   Youth
                   to
                   sports
                   of
                   Love
                   inspire
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   your
                   Harvest
                   ,
                   here
                   secure
                   ,
                   and
                   cheap
                
                 
                   You
                   may
                   the
                   Fruits
                   of
                   unbought
                   Pleasure
                   reap
                   :
                
                 
                   Riot
                   in
                   free
                   ,
                   and
                   uncontroll'd
                   delight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   no
                   dull
                   Marriage
                   clogs
                   the
                   Appetite
                   :
                
                 
                   Tast
                   every
                   dish
                   of
                   Lust's
                   variety
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   Popes
                   ,
                   and
                   Scarlet
                   Lechers
                   dearly
                   buy
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Bribes
                   ,
                   and
                   Bishopricks
                   ,
                   and
                   Simony
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   this
                   I
                   ever
                   to
                   your
                   care
                   commend
                   ,
                
                 
                   Be
                   wary
                   how
                   you
                   openly
                   offend
                   :
                
                 
                   Lest
                   scoffing
                   lewd
                   Buffoons
                   descry
                   our
                   Shame
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fix
                   disgrace
                   on
                   the
                   great
                   Order's
                   fame
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   When
                   the
                   unguarded
                   Maid
                   alone
                   repairs
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   ease
                   the
                   burthen
                   of
                   her
                   Sins
                   ,
                   and
                   Cares
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   When
                   youth
                   in
                   each
                   ,
                   and
                   privacy
                   conspire
                
                 
                   To
                   kindle
                   wishes
                   ,
                   and
                   befriend
                   desire
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   she
                   has
                   practis'd
                   in
                   the
                   Trade
                
                 
                   (
                   Few
                   else
                   of
                   Proselytes
                   to
                   us
                   brought
                   o're
                   )
                
                 
                   Little
                   of
                   Force
                   ,
                   or
                   Artifice
                   will
                   need
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   you
                   in
                   the
                   Victory
                   succeed
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   some
                   untaught
                   Innocence
                   she
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rude
                   ,
                   and
                   unknowing
                   in
                   the
                   mystery
                   ;
                
                 
                   She
                   'll
                   cost
                   more
                   labour
                   to
                   be
                   made
                   comply
                   .
                
                 
                   Make
                   her
                   by
                   Pumping
                   understand
                   the
                   sport
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   undermine
                   with
                   secret
                   trains
                   the
                   Fort
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sometimes
                   as
                   if
                   you
                   'd
                   blame
                   her
                   gaudy
                   dress
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Naked
                   Pride
                   ,
                   her
                   Jewels
                   ,
                   Point
                   ,
                   and
                   Lace
                   ;
                
                 
                   Find
                   opportunity
                   her
                   Breasts
                   to
                   press
                   :
                
                 
                   Oft
                   feel
                   her
                   hand
                   ,
                   and
                   whisper
                   in
                   her
                   ear
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   find
                   the
                   secret
                   marks
                   of
                   lewdness
                   there
                   :
                
                 
                   Sometimes
                   with
                   naughty
                   sence
                   her
                   blushes
                   raise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   'em
                   guilt
                   ,
                   she
                   never
                   knew
                   ,
                   confess
                   ;
                
                 
                   '
                   Thus
                   (
                   may
                   you
                   say
                   )
                   with
                   such
                   a
                   leering
                   smile
                   ,
                
                 
                   '
                   So
                   Languishing
                   a
                   look
                   you
                   hearts
                   beguile
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   '
                   Thus
                   with
                   your
                   foot
                   ,
                   hand
                   ,
                   eye
                   ,
                   you
                   tokens
                   speak
                   ,
                
                 
                   '
                   These
                   Signs
                   deny
                   ,
                   these
                   Assignations
                   make
                   :
                
                 
                   '
                   Thus
                   't
                   is
                   you
                   clip
                   ,
                   with
                   such
                   a
                   fierce
                   embrace
                
                 
                   '
                   You
                   clasp
                   your
                   Lover
                   to
                   your
                   Breast
                   ,
                   and
                   Face
                   :
                
                 
                   '
                   Thus
                   are
                   your
                   hungry
                   lips
                   with
                   Kisses
                   cloy'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   '
                   Thus
                   is
                   your
                   hand
                   ,
                   &
                   thus
                   your
                   tongue
                   employ'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Ply
                   her
                   with
                   talk
                   with
                   this
                   :
                   and
                   ,
                   if
                   sh'
                   encline
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   help
                   Devotion
                   ,
                   give
                   her
                   Aretine
                
                 
                   Instead
                   o'
                   th'
                   Rosary
                   :
                   never
                   despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   ,
                   that
                   to
                   such
                   discourse
                   will
                   lend
                   an
                   Ear
                   ▪
                
                 
                   Tho
                   chaster
                   than
                   cold
                   cloyster'd
                   Nuns
                   she
                   were
                   ,
                
                 
                   Will
                   soon
                   prove
                   soft
                   ,
                   and
                   pliant
                   to
                   your
                   use
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   Strumpets
                   on
                   the
                   Carnaval
                   let
                   loose
                   .
                
                 
                   Credit
                   experience
                   ;
                   I
                   have
                   tri'd
                   'em
                   all
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   never
                   found
                   th'
                   unerring
                   methods
                   fail
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   Ovid
                   ,
                   tho
                   't
                   were
                   his
                   chief
                   Mastery
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   greater
                   skill
                   in
                   these
                   Intrigues
                   ,
                   than
                   I
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   
                   Nero's
                   learned
                   Pimp
                   ,
                   to
                   whom
                   we
                   owe
                
                 
                   What
                   choice
                   Records
                   of
                   Lust
                   are
                   extant
                   now
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   heretofore
                   ,
                   when
                   youth
                   ,
                   and
                   sprightly
                   Blood
                
                 
                   
                     Ran
                     in
                     my
                     Veins
                  
                   ,
                   I
                   tasted
                   ,
                   and
                   enjoy'd
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Ah
                   those
                   blest
                   days
                   ,
                   !
                   —
                   
                     (
                     here
                     the
                     old
                     Lecher
                     smil'd
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     With
                     sweet
                     remembrance
                     of
                     past
                     pleasures
                     fill'd
                     )
                  
                
                 
                   But
                   they
                   are
                   gone
                   !
                   Wishes
                   alone
                   remain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Dreams
                   of
                   Joy
                   ,
                   ne're
                   to
                   be
                   felt
                   again
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   abler
                   Youth
                   I
                   now
                   the
                   Practice
                   leave
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   this
                   counsel
                   ,
                   and
                   advice
                   I
                   give
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   the
                   dear
                   mention
                   of
                   my
                   gayer
                   days
                
                 
                   Has
                   made
                   me
                   farther
                   ,
                   than
                   I
                   would
                   ,
                   digress
                   :
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   time
                   we
                   should
                   now
                   in
                   due
                   Place
                   expound
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   guilt
                   is
                   after
                   shrift
                   to
                   be
                   atton'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Enjoyn
                   no
                   
                     sow'r
                     Repentance
                     ,
                     Tear
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Grief
                   ;
                
                 
                   Eyes
                   weep
                   no
                   cash
                   ,
                   and
                   you
                   no
                   profit
                   give
                   :
                
                 
                   Sins
                   ,
                   tho
                   of
                   the
                   first
                   rate
                   ,
                   must
                   punish'd
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   by
                   their
                   own
                   ,
                   but
                   th'
                   Actor's
                   Quality
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Poor
                   ,
                   whose
                   Purse
                   cannot
                   the
                   Penance
                   bear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Let
                   whipping
                   serve
                   ,
                   bare
                   feet
                   ,
                   and
                   shirts
                   of
                   hair
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   richer
                   Fools
                   to
                   Compostella
                   send
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tome
                   
                     Rome
                     ,
                     Monferrat
                  
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   
                     Holy
                     Land
                  
                   :
                
                 
                   Pet
                   Pardons
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Indulgence-Office
                   drain
                
                 
                   Their
                   Coffers
                   ,
                   and
                   enrich
                   the
                   
                   Pope's
                   with
                   gain
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Make
                   'em
                   build
                   Churches
                   ,
                   Monasteries
                   found
                
                 
                   And
                   dear
                   bought
                   Masses
                   for
                   their
                   crimes
                   compound
                
              
               
                 
                   Let
                   Law
                   ,
                   and
                   Gospel
                   ,
                   rigid
                   precepts
                   set
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   the
                   paths
                   to
                   Bliss
                   rugged
                   ,
                   and
                   strait
                   :
                
                 
                   Teach
                   you
                   a
                   smooth
                   ,
                   an
                   easier
                   way
                   to
                   gain
                
                 
                   Heav'ns
                   joys
                   ,
                   yet
                   sweet
                   ,
                   and
                   useful
                   sin
                   retain
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   every
                   frailty
                   ,
                   every
                   lust
                   comply
                   ,
                
                 
                   T'
                   advance
                   your
                   Spiritual
                   Realm
                   ,
                   and
                   Monarchy
                   :
                
                 
                   Pull
                   up
                   weak
                   Vertue
                   's
                   fence
                   ,
                   give
                   scope
                   and
                   space
                
                 
                   And
                   Purliens
                   to
                   
                     out-lying
                     Consciences
                  
                   :
                
                 
                   Shew
                   that
                   the
                   Needle
                   's
                   eye
                   may
                   stretch
                   ,
                   and
                   how
                
                 
                   The
                   largest
                   Camel-vices
                   may
                   go
                   thro'
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Teach
                   how
                   the
                   
                     Priest
                     Pluralities
                  
                   may
                   buy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   fear
                   no
                   odious
                   Sin
                   of
                   Simony
                   .
                
                 
                   While
                   Thoughts
                   ,
                   and
                   Ducats
                   will
                   directed
                   be
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   Whores
                   adorn
                   his
                   exemplary
                   life
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   no
                   lewd
                   heinous
                   Wife
                   a
                   Scandal
                   give
                   .
                
                 
                   Sooth
                   up
                   the
                   
                     Gaudy
                     Atheist
                  
                   ,
                   who
                   maintains
                
                 
                   No
                   Law
                   ,
                   but
                   Sense
                   ,
                   and
                   
                     owns
                     no
                     God
                  
                   ,
                   but
                   Chance
                   .
                
                 
                   Bid
                   Thieves
                   rob
                   on
                   ,
                   the
                   
                     Boisterous
                     Ruffian
                     tell
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   may
                   for
                   Hire
                   ,
                   Revenge
                   ,
                   or
                   Honour
                   kill
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Bid
                   Strumpets
                   persevere
                   ,
                   absolve
                   'em
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   take
                   their
                   dues
                   
                     in
                     kind
                  
                   for
                   what
                   you
                   do
                   :
                
                 
                   Exhort
                   the
                   painful
                   ,
                   and
                   industrious
                   Bawd
                
                 
                   To
                   Diligence
                   ,
                   and
                   Labour
                   in
                   her
                   Trade
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   think
                   her
                   innocent
                   Vocation
                   ill
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   incomes
                   do's
                   the
                   sacred
                   Treasure
                   fill
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   Griping
                   Usurers
                   Extortion
                   use
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   
                     Rapine
                     ,
                     Falshood
                     ,
                     Perjury
                  
                   refuse
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stick
                   at
                   no
                   Crime
                   ,
                   
                     which
                     covetous
                     Popes
                     would
                     scarce
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Act
                     to
                     enrich
                     themselves
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Bastard-Heirs
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   small
                   Bequest
                   to
                   th'
                   Church
                   can
                   all
                   atttone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wipes
                   off
                   all
                   scores
                   ,
                   and
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   
                     all
                     's
                     their
                     own
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   Be
                   these
                   your
                   Doctrins
                   ,
                   these
                   the
                   
                     truths
                     ,
                     you
                     preach
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   no
                   forbidden
                   Bible
                   come
                   in
                   reach
                   :
                
                 
                   Your
                   Cheats
                   ,
                   and
                   Artifices
                   to
                   Impeach
                   .
                
                 
                   Lest
                   thence
                   Lay-Fools
                   
                     Pernitious
                     knowledge
                     get
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   Throw
                   off
                   Obedience
                   ,
                   and
                   your
                   Laws
                   forget
                   :
                
                 
                   Make
                   'em
                   believ
                   't
                   a
                   spell
                   ,
                   more
                   dreadful
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   
                     Bacon
                     ,
                     Haly
                  
                   ,
                   or
                   Albumazar
                   .
                
                 
                   Happy
                   the
                   time
                   ,
                   when
                   th'
                   unpretending
                   Crowd
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   ,
                   than
                   I
                   ,
                   its
                   Language
                   understood
                   !
                
                 
                 
                   When
                   the
                   worm-eaten
                   Book
                   ,
                   link'd
                   to
                   a
                   chain
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   dust
                   lay
                   mouldring
                   in
                   the
                   Vatican
                   ;
                
                 
                   Dispis'd
                   ,
                   neglected
                   ,
                   and
                   forgot
                   ,
                   to
                   none
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   poring
                   Rabbies
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   Sorbon
                   known
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   in
                   full
                   pow'r
                   our
                   
                     Soveraign
                     Prelate
                     sway'd
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     By
                     Kings
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   
                     Rabble
                     World
                  
                   Obey'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Here
                   humble
                   Monarch
                   at
                   his
                   feet
                   kneel'd
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   beg'd
                   the
                   Alms
                   ,
                   and
                   Charity
                   of
                   a
                   Crown
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   ,
                   when
                   in
                   
                     Solemn
                     State
                  
                   he
                   pleas'd
                   to
                   ride
                   ,
                
                 
                   Poor
                   Scepter'd
                   Slaves
                   ran
                   Henchboys
                   by
                   his
                   side
                   :
                
                 
                   None
                   ,
                   tho
                   in
                   thought
                   ,
                   his
                   grandeur
                   durst
                   Blaspheme
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   in
                   their
                   very
                   sleep
                   a
                   Treason
                   dream
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   since
                   the
                   broaching
                   that
                   mischievous
                   Piece
                   ,
                
                 
                   Each
                   Alderman
                   a
                   
                     Father
                     Lumbard
                  
                   is
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   every
                   Cit
                   dares
                   impudently
                   know
                
                 
                   More
                   than
                   a
                   Council
                   ,
                   Pope
                   ,
                   and
                   
                     Conclave
                     too
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   Hence
                   the
                   late
                   
                     Damned
                     Frier
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   crew
                
                 
                   Of
                   former
                   Crawling
                   Sects
                   their
                   poison
                   drew
                   :
                
                 
                   Hence
                   all
                   the
                   Troubles
                   ,
                   Plagues
                   ,
                   Rebellions
                   breed
                   ;
                
                 
                   We
                   've
                   felt
                   ,
                   or
                   feel
                   ,
                   or
                   may
                   hereafter
                   dread
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Wherefore
                   enjoyn
                   ,
                   that
                   no
                   Lay-coxcomb
                   dare
                
                 
                   About
                   him
                   that
                   unlawful
                   Weapon
                   wear
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   charge
                   him
                   chiefly
                   not
                   to
                   touch
                   at
                   all
                
                 
                   The
                   dang'rous
                   Works
                   of
                   that
                   old
                   
                     Lollard
                     ,
                     Paul
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   arrant
                   Wickliffist
                   ,
                   from
                   whom
                   our
                   Foes
                
                 
                   Take
                   all
                   their
                   Batt'ries
                   to
                   attack
                   our
                   Cause
                   ;
                
                 
                   Would
                   he
                   in
                   his
                   first
                   years
                   had
                   Martyr'd
                   been
                   ,
                
                 
                   Never
                   Damascus
                   ,
                   nor
                   the
                   Vision
                   seen
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   he
                   our
                   Party
                   was
                   ,
                   stout
                   ,
                   vigorous
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fierce
                   in
                   chace
                   of
                   Heretieks
                   ,
                   like
                   us
                   :
                
                 
                   Till
                   he
                   at
                   length
                   ,
                   by
                   th'
                   Enemies
                   seduc'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forsook
                   us
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   hostile
                   side
                   espous'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Had
                   not
                   the
                   mighty
                   Julian
                   mist
                   his
                   aims
                   ,
                
                 
                   These
                   holy
                   Shreds
                   had
                   all
                   consum'd
                   in
                   flames
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   since
                   th'
                   Immortal
                   Lumber
                   still
                   endures
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   spight
                   of
                   all
                   his
                   industry
                   ,
                   and
                   ours
                   ;
                
                 
                   Take
                   care
                   at
                   least
                   it
                   may
                   not
                   come
                   abroad
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   taint
                   with
                   catching
                   Heresie
                   the
                   Crowd
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   them
                   be
                   still
                   kept
                   low
                   in
                   sence
                   ,
                   they
                   'l
                   pay
                
                 
                   The
                   more
                   respect
                   ,
                   more
                   readily
                   obey
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Pray
                   that
                   kind
                   Heav'n
                   would
                   on
                   their
                   hearts
                   dispense
                
                 
                   A
                   bounteous
                   ,
                   and
                   abundant
                   Ignorance
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   they
                   may
                   never
                   swerve
                   ,
                   nor
                   turn
                   awry
                
                 
                   From
                   sound
                   ,
                   and
                   Orthodox
                   Stupidity
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   these
                   are
                   obvious
                   things
                   ,
                   easie
                   to
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   Common
                   to
                   every
                   Monk
                   ,
                   a●…
                   well
                   as
                   you
                   :
                
                 
                   Greater
                   Affairs
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   important
                   wait
                
                 
                   To
                   be
                   discuss'd
                   ,
                   and
                   call
                   for
                   our
                   debate
                   :
                
                 
                   Matters
                   ,
                   that
                   depth
                   require
                   ,
                   and
                   well
                   befit
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Address
                   ,
                   and
                   Conduct
                   of
                   a
                   Jesuit
                   .
                
                 
                   How
                   Kingdoms
                   are
                   embroil'd
                   ,
                   what
                   shakes
                   a
                   Throne
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   the
                   first
                   seeds
                   of
                   Discontent
                   are
                   sown
                
                 
                   To
                   spring
                   up
                   in
                   Rebellion
                   ;
                   how
                   are
                   set
                
                 
                   The
                   secret
                   snares
                   ,
                   that
                   circumvent
                   a
                   State
                   :
                
                 
                   How
                   bubled
                   Monarchs
                   are
                   at
                   first
                   beguil'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Trepann'd
                   ,
                   and
                   gull'd
                   ,
                   at
                   last
                   depos'd
                   ,
                   and
                   kill'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   When
                   some
                   proud
                   Prince
                   ,
                   a
                   Rebel
                   to
                   our
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   disbelieving
                   Holy
                   Church's
                   Creed
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Peter-pence
                   ,
                   is
                   Heretick
                   decreed
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   by
                   a
                   solemn
                   ,
                   and
                   unquestion'd
                   Pow'r
                
                 
                   To
                   Death
                   ,
                   and
                   Hell
                   ,
                   and
                   You
                   delivr'd
                   o're
                   :
                
                 
                   Chuse
                   first
                   some
                   dext'rous
                   Rogue
                   ,
                   well
                   tri'd
                   ,
                   and
                   known
                
                 
                   (
                   Such
                   by
                   Confession
                   your
                   Familiars
                   grown
                   )
                
                 
                   Let
                   him
                   by
                   Art
                   ,
                   and
                   Nature
                   fitted
                   be
                
                 
                   For
                   any
                   great
                   ,
                   and
                   gallant
                   Villany
                   ,
                
                 
                   Practis'd
                   in
                   every
                   Sin
                   ,
                   each
                   kind
                   of
                   Vice
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   deepest
                   Casuists
                   in
                   their
                   searches
                   miss
                   ,
                
                 
                   Watchful
                   as
                   Jealousie
                   ,
                   wary
                   as
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fiercer
                   than
                   Lust
                   ,
                   and
                   bolder
                   than
                   Despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   close
                   ,
                   as
                   plotting
                   Feinds
                   in
                   Council
                   are
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   him
                   ,
                   in
                   firmest
                   Oaths
                   of
                   Silence
                   bound
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   worth
                   ,
                   and
                   merit
                   of
                   the
                   Deed
                   propound
                   :
                
                 
                   Tell
                   of
                   whole
                   Reams
                   of
                   Pardon
                   ,
                   new
                   come
                   o're
                   ,
                
                 
                   Indies
                   of
                   Gold
                   ,
                   and
                   Blessings
                   ,
                   endless
                   store
                   :
                
                 
                   Choice
                   of
                   Preferments
                   ,
                   if
                   he
                   overcome
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   if
                   he
                   fail
                   ,
                   undoubted
                   Maryrdom
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Bills
                   for
                   Sums
                   in
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   to
                   be
                   drawn
                
                 
                   On
                   Factors
                   there
                   ,
                   and
                   at
                   first
                   sight
                   paid
                   down
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   Arts
                   ,
                   and
                   Promises
                   ,
                   like
                   these
                   ;
                   allure
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   him
                   to
                   your
                   great
                   design
                   secure
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   here
                   to
                   know
                   the
                   sundry
                   ways
                   to
                   kill
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   worth
                   the
                   Genius
                   of
                   a
                   Machiavel
                   :
                
                 
                   Cull
                   Northern
                   Brains
                   ,
                   in
                   these
                   deep
                   Arts
                   unbred
                   ,
                
                 
                   Know
                   nought
                   but
                   to
                   cut
                   Throats
                   ,
                   or
                   knock
                   o'
                   th'
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   slight
                   of
                   Murder
                   of
                   the
                   subt'lest
                   shape
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   busie
                   search
                   ,
                   and
                   observation
                   scape
                   :
                
                 
                   Legerdemain
                   of
                   Killing
                   ,
                   that
                   dives
                   in
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Juggling
                   steals
                   away
                   a
                   Life
                   unseen
                   :
                
                 
                   How
                   gawdy
                   Fate
                   may
                   be
                   in
                   Presents
                   sent
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   creep
                   insensibly
                   by
                   Touch
                   ,
                   or
                   Scent
                   :
                
                 
                   How
                   Ribbands
                   ,
                   Gloves
                   ,
                   or
                   Saddle-Pomel
                   may
                
                 
                   An
                   unperceiv'd
                   ,
                   but
                   certain
                   Death
                   convey
                   ;
                
                 
                   Above
                   the
                   reach
                   of
                   Antidotes
                   ,
                   above
                   the
                   Pow'r
                
                 
                   Of
                   the
                   fam'd
                   
                     Pontick
                     Mountebank
                  
                   to
                   cure
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   e're
                   is
                   known
                   to
                   quaint
                   Italian
                   spite
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   studied
                   Pois'ning
                   skill'd
                   ,
                   and
                   exquisite
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   e're
                   great
                   Borgia
                   ,
                   or
                   his
                   Sire
                   could
                   boast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   the
                   Expence
                   of
                   half
                   the
                   Conclave
                   cost
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Thus
                   may
                   the
                   business
                   be
                   in
                   secret
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Authors
                   ,
                   nor
                   the
                   Accessaries
                   known
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   slurr'd
                   guilt
                   with
                   ease
                   on
                   others
                   thrown
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   ill
                   Fortune
                   should
                   your
                   Plot
                   betray
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   leave
                   you
                   to
                   the
                   rage
                   of
                   Foes
                   a
                   prey
                   ;
                
                 
                   Let
                   none
                   his
                   Crime
                   by
                   weak
                   confession
                   own
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   shame
                   the
                   Church
                   ,
                   while
                   he
                   'd
                   himself
                   attone
                
                 
                   Let
                   varnish'd
                   Guile
                   ,
                   and
                   feign'd
                   Hypocrisies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pretended
                   Holiness
                   ,
                   and
                   useful
                   Lies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   well-dissembled
                   Villany
                   disguise
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   thousand
                   wily
                   Turns
                   ,
                   and
                   Doubles
                   try
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   foil
                   the
                   Scent
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   divert
                   the
                   Cry
                   :
                
                 
                   Cog
                   ,
                   sham
                   ,
                   out
                   face
                   ,
                   deny
                   ,
                   equivocate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Into
                   a
                   thousand
                   shapes
                   your selves
                   translate
                   :
                
                 
                   Remember
                   what
                   the
                   crafty
                   Spartan
                   taught
                   ,
                
                 
                   Children
                   with
                   Rattles
                   ,
                   Men
                   with
                   Oaths
                   are
                   caught
                   :
                
                 
                   Forswear
                   upon
                   the
                   Rack
                   ,
                   and
                   if
                   you
                   fall
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   this
                   great
                   comfort
                   make
                   amends
                   for
                   all
                   ,
                
                 
                   Those
                   ,
                   whom
                   they
                   damn
                   for
                   Rogues
                   ,
                   next
                   Age
                   shall
                   see
                
                 
                   Made
                   Advocates
                   i'
                   th
                   Church's
                   Litany
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Who
                   ever
                   with
                   bold
                   Tongue
                   ,
                   or
                   Pen
                   shall
                   dare
                
                 
                   Against
                   your
                   Arts
                   ,
                   and
                   Practices
                   declare
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   Fool
                   shall
                   e're
                   presumptuously
                   oppose
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Holy
                   Cheats
                   ,
                   and
                   godly
                   Frauds
                   disclose
                   ;
                
                 
                   Pronounce
                   him
                   Heretick
                   ,
                   Firebrand
                   of
                   Hell
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Turk
                     ,
                     Jew
                  
                   ,
                   Fiend
                   ,
                   Miscreant
                   ,
                   Pagan
                   ,
                   Infidel
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   thousand
                   blacker
                   Names
                   ,
                   worse
                   Calumnies
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   ,
                   Wit
                   can
                   think
                   ,
                   and
                   pregnant
                   Spite
                   devise
                   :
                
                 
                   Strike
                   home
                   ,
                   gash
                   deep
                   ,
                   no
                   Lies
                   ,
                   nor
                   Slanders
                   spare
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   Wound
                   ,
                   tho
                   cur'd
                   ,
                   yet
                   leaves
                   behind
                   a
                   Scar.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Those
                   ,
                   whom
                   your
                   Wit
                   ,
                   and
                   Reason
                   can't
                   decry
                   ,
                
                 
                   Make
                   scandalous
                   with
                   Loads
                   of
                   Infamy
                   :
                
                 
                   Make
                   Luther
                   Monster
                   ,
                   by
                   a
                   Fiend
                   begot
                   ,
                
                 
                   Brought
                   forth
                   with
                   Wings
                   ,
                   and
                   Tail
                   ,
                   and
                   Cloven
                   Foot
                   :
                
                 
                   Make
                   Whoredom
                   ,
                   Incest
                   ,
                   worst
                   of
                   vice
                   ,
                   and
                   shame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pollute
                   ,
                   and
                   foul
                   his
                   Manners
                   ,
                   Life
                   ,
                   and
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   Tell
                   how
                   strange
                   Storms
                   usher'd
                   his
                   fatal
                   end
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Hell
                   's
                   black
                   Troops
                   did
                   for
                   his
                   Soul
                   contend
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Much
                   more
                   I
                   had
                   to
                   say
                   ;
                   but
                   now
                   grown
                   faint
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   strength
                   ,
                   and
                   Spirits
                   for
                   the
                   Subject
                   want
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Be
                   these
                   great
                   Mysteries
                   ,
                   I
                   here
                   unfold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Amongst
                   your
                   Order's
                   Institutes
                   enroll'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Preserve
                   them
                   sacred
                   ,
                   close
                   and
                   unreveal'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   ancient
                   Rome
                   her
                   
                   Sybil's
                   Books
                   conceal'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   no
                   bold
                   Heretick
                   with
                   sawcy
                   eye
                
                 
                   Into
                   the
                   hidden
                   unseen
                   Archives
                   pry
                   ;
                
                 
                   Lest
                   the
                   malicious
                   flouting
                   Rascals
                   turn
                
                 
                   Our
                   Church
                   to
                   Laughter
                   ,
                   Raillery
                   ,
                   and
                   Scorn
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   never
                   Rack
                   ,
                   or
                   Torture
                   ,
                   Pain
                   ,
                   or
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   your
                   firm
                   Breasts
                   th'
                   important
                   Secrets
                   tear
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   any
                   treach'rous
                   Brother
                   of
                   your
                   own
                
                 
                   Shall
                   to
                   th'
                   World
                   divulg●…
                   ,
                   &
                   make
                   them
                   known
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   him
                   by
                   worst
                   of
                   Deaths
                   his
                   Guilt
                   attone
                   .
                
                 
                   Should
                   but
                   his
                   Thoughts
                   or
                   Dreams
                   suspected
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   him
                   for
                   safety
                   ,
                   and
                   prevention
                   die
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   learn
                   i'
                   th'
                   Grave
                   the
                   Art
                   of
                   Secresie
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   one
                   thing
                   more
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   with
                   joy
                   I
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   as
                   a
                   longer
                   stay
                   of
                   Fate
                   below
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Give
                   me
                   again
                   once
                   more
                   your
                   plighted
                   Faith
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   each
                   seal
                   it
                   with
                   his
                   dying
                   breath
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   the
                   great
                   Carthaginian
                   heretofore
                
                 
                   The
                   bloody
                   reeking
                   Altar
                   touch'd
                   ,
                   and
                   swore
                
                 
                   Eternal
                   Enmity
                   to
                   th'
                   Roman
                   Pow'r
                   :
                
                 
                   Swear
                   you
                   (
                   and
                   let
                   the
                   Fates
                   confirm
                   the
                   same
                   )
                
                 
                   An
                   endless
                   Hatred
                   to
                   the
                   Luth'ran
                   Name
                   :
                
                 
                   Vow
                   never
                   to
                   admit
                   ,
                   or
                   League
                   ,
                   or
                   Peace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Truce
                   ,
                   or
                   Commerse
                   with
                   the
                   cursed
                   Race
                   :
                
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   through
                   all
                   Age
                   ,
                   when
                   Time
                   ,
                   or
                   Place
                   so
                   e're
                
                 
                   Shall
                   give
                   you
                   pow'r
                   ,
                   wage
                   an
                   immortal
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   Like
                   Theban
                   Feuds
                   ,
                   let
                   yours
                   your selves
                   survive
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   your
                   very
                   Dust
                   ,
                   and
                   Ashes
                   live
                   .
                
                 
                   Like
                   mine
                   ,
                   be
                   your
                   last
                   Gasp
                   their
                   Curse
                   .
                   —
                   
                     At
                     this
                  
                
                 
                   
                     They
                     kneel
                     ,
                     and
                     all
                     the
                     Sacred
                     Volumn
                     kiss
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     Vowing
                     to
                     send
                     each
                     year
                     an
                     Hecatomb
                  
                
                 
                   Of
                   Huguenots
                   ,
                   
                     an
                     Off'ring
                     to
                     ●…is
                     Tomb.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   he
                   would
                   continue
                   ;
                   -
                   —
                   -
                   Abrupt
                   Death
                
                 
                   A
                   Period
                   puts
                   ,
                   and
                   stops
                   his
                   impious
                   Breath
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   In
                   broken
                   Accents
                   he
                   is
                   scarce
                   allow'd
                
                 
                   To
                   faulter
                   out
                   his
                   Blessing
                   on
                   the
                   Crowd
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Amen
                   is
                   eccho'd
                   by
                   Infernal
                   Howl
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   scrambling
                   Spirits
                   seize
                   his
                   parting
                   Soul.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 
                   SATYR
                   IV.
                
                 S.
                 Ignatius
                 his
                 Image
                 brought
                 in
                 ,
                 discovering
                 the
                 Rogueries
                 of
                 the
                 Jesuits
                 ,
                 and
                 ridiculous
                 Superstition
                 of
                 the
                 
                   Church
                   of
                
                 Rome
                 .
              
               
                 
                   ONce
                   I
                   was
                   common
                   Wood
                   ,
                   a
                   shapeless
                   Log
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thrown
                   out
                   a
                   Pissing-post
                   for
                   ev'ry
                   Dog
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Workman
                   yet
                   in
                   doubt
                   ,
                   what
                   course
                   to
                   take
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whether
                   I
                   'd
                   best
                   a
                   Saint
                   ,
                   ●…r
                   Hog-trough
                   make
                   ,
                
                 
                   After
                   debate
                   resolv'd
                   me
                   for
                   a
                   Saint
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   fam'd
                   Loyola
                   I
                   represent
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   well
                   I
                   may
                   resemble
                   him
                   ,
                   for
                   he
                
                 
                   As
                   stupid
                   was
                   ,
                   as
                   much
                   a
                   Block
                   as
                   I.
                
                 
                   My
                   right
                   Leg
                   maim'd
                   ,
                   at
                   halt
                   I
                   seem
                   to
                   stand
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   tell
                   the
                   Wounds
                   at
                   Pampelune
                   sustein'd
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   My
                   Sword
                   ,
                   and
                   Soldiers
                   Armour
                   here
                   had
                   been
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   they
                   may
                   in
                   Monserrats
                   Church
                   be
                   seen
                   :
                
                 
                   Those
                   there
                   to
                   
                     blessed
                     Virgin
                  
                   I
                   laid
                   down
                
                 
                   For
                   Cassock
                   ,
                   Surfingle
                   ,
                   and
                   shaven
                   Crown
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   spiritual
                   Garb
                   ,
                   in
                   which
                   I
                   now
                   am
                   shown
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   With
                   due
                   Accoutrements
                   ,
                   and
                   fit
                   disguise
                
                 
                   I
                   might
                   for
                   Centinel
                   of
                   Corn
                   suffice
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   once
                   the
                   well-hung
                   God
                   of
                   old
                   stood
                   guard
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   invading
                   Crows
                   from
                   Forrage
                   scar'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   on
                   my
                   head
                   the
                   Birds
                   their
                   Relicks
                   leave
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Spiders
                   in
                   my
                   mouth
                   their
                   Arras
                   weave
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   persecuted
                   Rats
                   oft
                   find
                   in
                   me
                
                 
                   A
                   Refuge
                   ,
                   and
                   religious
                   Sanctuary
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   you
                   profaner
                   Heret●…cks
                   ,
                   who
                   e're
                
                 
                   The
                   Inquisition
                   ,
                   and
                   its
                   vengeance
                   fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   charge
                   ,
                   stand
                   off
                   ,
                   at
                   peril
                   come
                   not
                   near
                   :
                
                 
                   None
                   at
                   twelve
                   score
                   untruss
                   ,
                   break
                   wind
                   ,
                   or
                   piss
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   enters
                   Fox
                   his
                   Lists
                   ,
                   that
                   dare
                   transgress
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   For
                   I
                   'm
                   by
                   Holy
                   Church
                   in
                   Rev'rence
                   had
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   good
                   Cath'lick
                   Folk
                   implore
                   my
                   aid
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   These
                   Pictures
                   ,
                   which
                   you
                   see
                   ,
                   my
                   Story
                   give
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Acts
                   ,
                   and
                   Monuments
                   of
                   me
                   alive
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   Frame
                   ,
                   wherein
                   with
                   Pilgrims
                   weeds
                   I
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Contains
                   my
                   Travels
                   to
                   the
                   
                     Holy
                     Land.
                  
                
                 
                   This
                   me
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Decemvirate
                   at
                   Rome
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   I
                   for
                   Grant
                   of
                   my
                   great
                   Order
                   come
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   with
                   Devotion
                   rapt
                   ,
                   I
                   hang
                   in
                   Air
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Dove
                   (
                   like
                   
                   Mah'met's
                   )
                   whisp'ring
                   in
                   my
                   ear
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   Virgin
                   in
                   Galesh
                   of
                   Clouds
                   descends
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   be
                   my
                   safeguard
                   from
                   assaulting
                   Fiends
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Those
                   Tables
                   by
                   ,
                   and
                   Crutches
                   of
                   the
                   lame
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   great
                   Atchievements
                   since
                   my
                   death
                   proclaim
                   :
                
                 
                   Pox
                   ,
                   Ague
                   ,
                   Dropsie
                   ,
                   Palsie
                   ,
                   Stone
                   ,
                   and
                   Gout
                   ,
                
                 
                   Legions
                   ,
                   of
                   Maladies
                   by
                   me
                   cast
                   out
                   ,
                
                 
                   More
                   than
                   the
                   College
                   know
                   ,
                   or
                   ever
                   fill
                
                 
                   Quacks
                   Wiping-paper
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Weekly
                   Bill
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   What
                   
                   Peter's
                   shadow
                   did
                   of
                   old
                   ,
                   the
                   same
                
                 
                   Is
                   fancied
                   done
                   by
                   my
                   all-powerful
                   Name
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   which
                   some
                   wear
                   't
                   about
                   their
                   Necks
                   ,
                   and
                   Arms
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   guard
                   from
                   Dangers
                   ,
                   Sicknesses
                   ,
                   and
                   Harms
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   some
                   on
                   Wombs
                   the
                   barren
                   to
                   relieve
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Miracle
                   ,
                   I
                   better
                   did
                   alive
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Oft
                   I
                   by
                   crafty
                   Jesuit
                   am
                   taught
                
                 
                   Wonders
                   to
                   do
                   ,
                   and
                   many
                   a
                   Juggling
                   Feat
                   .
                
                 
                   Sometimes
                   with
                   Chafing-dish
                   behind
                   me
                   put
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   sweat
                   like
                   Clapt
                   Debauch
                   in
                   Hot-House
                   shut
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   drip
                   like
                   any
                   Spitch-cock'd
                   Huguenot
                   :
                
                 
                   Sometimes
                   by
                   secret
                   Springs
                   I
                   learn
                   to
                   stir
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   Paste-board
                   Saints
                   dance
                   by
                   mirac'lous
                   Wire
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   I
                   
                   Tradescant's
                   Rarities
                   out-do
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sands
                   Waterworks
                   ,
                   and
                   German
                   Clockwork
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   any
                   choice
                   Device
                   at
                   Barthol'mew
                   .
                
                 
                   Sometimes
                   I
                   utter
                   Oracles
                   ,
                   by
                   Priest
                
                 
                   Instead
                   of
                   a
                   Familiar
                   possest
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Church
                   I
                   vindicate
                   ,
                   Luther
                   consute
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   cause
                   amazement
                   in
                   the
                   gaping
                   Rout.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Such
                   holy
                   Cheats
                   ,
                   such
                   Hocus
                   Tricks
                   ,
                   as
                   these
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Miracles
                   amongst
                   the
                   Rabble
                   pass
                   .
                
                 
                   By
                   this
                   in
                   their
                   esteem
                   I
                   daily
                   grow
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Wealth
                   inrich'd
                   ,
                   increas'd
                   in
                   Vot'ries
                   too
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   draws
                   each
                   year
                   vast
                   Numbers
                   to
                   my
                   Tomb
                   ,
                
                 
                   More
                   than
                   in
                   Pigrimage
                   to
                   Mecca
                   come
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   brings
                   each
                   week
                   new
                   Presents
                   to
                   my
                   Shrine
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   makes
                   it
                   those
                   of
                   India
                   Gods
                   out-shine
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   gives
                   a
                   Chalice
                   ,
                   that
                   a
                   Golden
                   Cross
                   ,
                
                 
                   Another
                   massie
                   Candlesticks
                   bestows
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   Alter-cloaths
                   of
                   costly
                   work
                   ,
                   and
                   price
                
                 
                   Plush
                   ,
                   Tissue
                   ,
                   Ermin
                   ,
                   Silks
                   of
                   noblest
                   Dies
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Birth
                   ,
                   and
                   Passion
                   in
                   Embroideries
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   Jewels
                   ,
                   rich
                   as
                   those
                   ,
                   th'
                   AEgyptian
                   Punk
                
                 
                   In
                   Jellies
                   to
                   her
                   Roman
                   Stallion
                   drunk
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Some
                   offer
                   gorgeous
                   Robes
                   ,
                   which
                   serve
                   to
                   wear
                
                 
                   When
                   I
                   on
                   Holy
                   days
                   in
                   state
                   appear
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   I
                   'm
                   in
                   pomp
                   on
                   high
                   Processions
                   shown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   Pageants
                   of
                   Lord
                   May'r
                   ,
                   or
                   Skimmington
                   .
                
                 
                   Lucullus
                   could
                   not
                   such
                   a
                   Wardrobe
                   boast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Less
                   those
                   of
                   Popes
                   at
                   their
                   Election
                   cost
                   ;
                
                 
                   Less
                   those
                   ,
                   which
                   
                   Sicily's
                   Tyrant
                   heretofore
                
                 
                   From
                   Plunder'd
                   Gods
                   ,
                   and
                   
                   Jove's
                   own
                   Shoulders
                   tore
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Hither
                   ,
                   as
                   to
                   some
                   Fair
                   ,
                   the
                   Rabble
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   barter
                   for
                   the
                   Merchandize
                   of
                   Rome
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   Priests
                   ,
                   like
                   Mountebanks
                   ,
                   on
                   Stage
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   T'
                   expose
                   the
                   Frip'ry
                   of
                   their
                   hallow'd
                   Ware
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   the
                   Lab'ratory
                   of
                   their
                   Trade
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Shop
                   ,
                   where
                   all
                   their
                   staple
                   Drugs
                   are
                   made
                   ;
                
                 
                   Prescriptions
                   ,
                   and
                   Receipts
                   to
                   bring
                   in
                   Gain
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   from
                   the
                   Church
                   Dispensatories
                   ta'en
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Pope's
                   Elixir
                   ,
                   Holy
                   Waters
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   they
                   with
                   Chymick
                   Art
                   distill'd
                   prepare
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Choice
                   above
                   
                   Goddard's
                   Drops
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   Trash
                
                 
                   Of
                   Modern
                   Quacks
                   ;
                   this
                   is
                   that
                   Soveraign
                   Wash
                
                 
                   For
                   fetching
                   Spots
                   ,
                   and
                   Morphew
                   from
                   the
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   scowring
                   dirty
                   Cloaths
                   ,
                   and
                   Consciences
                   .
                
                 
                   One
                   drop
                   of
                   this
                   ,
                   if
                   us'd
                   ,
                   had
                   pow'r
                   to
                   fray
                
                 
                   The
                   Legion
                   from
                   the
                   Hogs
                   of
                   Gadara
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   would
                   have
                   silenc'd
                   quite
                   the
                   
                     Wiltshire
                     Drum
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   made
                   the
                   prating
                   Fiend
                   of
                   Mascon
                   dumb
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   That
                   Vessel
                   consecrated
                   Oyl
                   contains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Kept
                   Sacred
                   ,
                   as
                   the
                   fam'd
                   
                     Ampoulle
                     of
                     France
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   some
                   profaner
                   Hereticks
                   would
                   use
                
                 
                   For
                   liquoring
                   Wheels
                   of
                   Jacks
                   ,
                   of
                   Boots
                   ,
                   and
                   Shooes
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   make
                   the
                   Chrism
                   ,
                   which
                   mix'd
                   with
                   Snot
                   of
                   Priests
                   ,
                
                 
                   Anoint
                   young
                   Cath'licks
                   for
                   the
                   Church's
                   lists
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   they
                   're
                   crost
                   ,
                   confest
                   ,
                   and
                   die
                   ;
                   by
                   this
                
                 
                   Their
                   lanching
                   Souls
                   slide
                   off
                   to
                   endless
                   Bliss
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   Lapland
                   Saints
                   ,
                   when
                   they
                   on
                   Broomsticks
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   help
                   of
                   Magick
                   Unctions
                   mount
                   the
                   Sky
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   You
                   Altar-Pix
                   of
                   Gold
                   is
                   the
                   Abode
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   safe
                   Repository
                   of
                   their
                   God.
                
                 
                   A
                   Cross
                   is
                   fix'd
                   upon
                   't
                   the
                   Feinds
                   to
                   fright
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Flies
                   which
                   would
                   the
                   Deity
                   beshite
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Mice
                   ,
                   which
                   oft
                   might
                   unprepar'd
                   receive
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   lewd
                   Scoffers
                   cause
                   of
                   Scandal
                   give
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Here
                   are
                   perform'd
                   the
                   Conjurings
                   and
                   Spells
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Christning
                   Saints
                   ,
                   and
                   Hawks
                   ,
                   and
                   Carriers
                   Bells
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   hall'wing
                   Shreds
                   ,
                   and
                   Grains
                   ,
                   and
                   Salts
                   ,
                   and
                   Bawms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shrines
                   ,
                   Crosses
                   ,
                   Medals
                   ,
                   Shells
                   ,
                   and
                   Waxen
                   Lambs
                   :
                
                 
                   Of
                   wondrous
                   Virtue
                   all
                   (
                   you
                   must
                   believe
                   )
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   all
                   sorts
                   of
                   Ill
                   preservative
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   Plague
                   ,
                   Infection
                   ,
                   Thunder
                   ,
                   Storm
                   ,
                   and
                   Hail
                   ,
                
                 
                   Love
                   ,
                   Grief
                   ,
                   Want
                   ,
                   Debt
                   ,
                   Sin
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Devil
                   and
                   all
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   Beads
                   are
                   blest
                   ,
                   and
                   
                     Pater
                     nosters
                  
                   fram'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   By
                   some
                   the
                   Tallies
                   of
                   Devotion
                   nam'd
                   )
                
                 
                   Which
                   of
                   their
                   Pray'rs
                   ,
                   and
                   Oraisons
                   keep
                   tale
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lest
                   they
                   ,
                   and
                   Heav'n
                   should
                   in
                   the
                   reck'ning
                   fail
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Here
                   Sacred
                   Lights
                   ,
                   the
                   Altars
                   graceful
                   Pride
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   by
                   Priests
                   breath
                   perfum'd
                   and
                   Sanctified
                   ;
                
                 
                   Made
                   some
                   of
                   Wax
                   ,
                   of
                   Her'ticks
                   Tallow
                   some
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Gift
                   ,
                   which
                   
                     Irish
                     Emma
                  
                   sent
                   to
                   Rome
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   which
                   great
                   Merit
                   worthily
                   (
                   we
                   're
                   told
                   )
                
                 
                   She
                   's
                   now
                   amongst
                   her
                   Country-Saints
                   inroll'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   holy
                   Banners
                   are
                   reserv'd
                   in
                   store
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Flags
                   ,
                   such
                   as
                   the
                   fam'd
                   Armado
                   bore
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   hallow'd
                   Swords
                   ,
                   and
                   Daggers
                   kept
                   for
                   use
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   resty
                   Kings
                   the
                   Papal
                   Yoke
                   resuse
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   consecrated
                   Rats-bane
                   ,
                   to
                   be
                   laid
                
                 
                   For
                   Her'tick
                   Vermin
                   ,
                   which
                   the
                   Church
                   invade
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   that
                   which
                   brings
                   in
                   most
                   of
                   Wealth
                   ,
                   and
                   Gain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Does
                   best
                   the
                   Priests
                   swoln
                   Tripes
                   ,
                   and
                   Purses
                   strain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Here
                   they
                   each
                   Week
                   their
                   constant
                   Auctions
                   hold
                
                 
                   Of
                   Reliques
                   ,
                   which
                   by
                   Candles
                   Inch
                   are
                   sold
                   :
                
                 
                   Saints
                   by
                   the
                   dozen
                   here
                   are
                   set
                   to
                   sale
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   Mortals
                   wrought
                   in
                   Gingerbread
                   on
                   Stall
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Hither
                   are
                   loads
                   from
                   emptied
                   Chanels
                   brought
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Voiders
                   of
                   the
                   Worms
                   from
                   Sextons
                   bought
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   serve
                   for
                   Retail
                   through
                   the
                   World
                   to
                   vent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   of
                   late
                   were
                   to
                   the
                   Savoy
                   sent
                   :
                
                 
                   Hair
                   from
                   the
                   Skulls
                   of
                   dying
                   Strumpets
                   shorn
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Felons
                   Bones
                   from
                   rifled
                   Gibbets
                   torn
                   ;
                
                 
                   Like
                   those
                   ,
                   which
                   some
                   old
                   Hag
                   at
                   midnight
                   steals
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   Witchcrafts
                   ,
                   Amulets
                   ,
                   and
                   Charms
                   ,
                   and
                   Spells
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   past
                   for
                   Sacred
                   to
                   the
                   Cheap'ning
                   Rout
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   worn
                   on
                   Fingers
                   ,
                   Breasts
                   ,
                   and
                   Ears
                   about
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   boasts
                   a
                   Scrap
                   of
                   me
                   ,
                   and
                   that
                   a
                   Bit
                
                 
                   Of
                   good
                   St.
                   George
                   ,
                   St.
                   Patrick
                   ,
                   or
                   St.
                   Kit.
                
                 
                   These
                   Locks
                   S.
                   
                   Bridget's
                   were
                   ,
                   and
                   those
                   S.
                   
                   Clare's
                   ;
                
                 
                   Some
                   for
                   S.
                   
                   Catharine's
                   go
                   ,
                   and
                   some
                   for
                   
                   her's
                
                 
                   That
                   wip'd
                   her
                   
                   Saviour's
                   feet
                   ,
                   wash'd
                   with
                   her
                   tears
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Here
                   you
                   may
                   see
                   my
                   wounded
                   Leg
                   ,
                   and
                   here
                
                 
                   Those
                   ,
                   which
                   to
                   China
                   bore
                   the
                   great
                   Xavier
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Here
                   may
                   you
                   the
                   grand
                   
                   Traitor's
                   Halter
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   call
                   't
                   the
                   Arms
                   of
                   the
                   Society
                   :
                
                 
                   Here
                   is
                   his
                   Lanthorn
                   too
                   ,
                   but
                   Faux
                   his
                   ,
                   not
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   was
                   embezl'd
                   by
                   the
                   Huguenot
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   
                   Garnet's
                   Straws
                   ,
                   and
                   
                   Becket's
                   Bones
                   ,
                   and
                   Hair
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   murd'ring
                   whom
                   ,
                   some
                   Tails
                   are
                   said
                   to
                   wear
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   learned
                   Capgrave
                   does
                   record
                   their
                   fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   faithful
                   British
                   Histories
                   relate
                   .
                
                 
                   Those
                   are
                   S.
                   Laurence
                   Coals
                   expos'd
                   to
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   Strangely
                   preserv'd
                   ,
                   and
                   kept
                   alive
                   till
                   now
                   .
                
                 
                   That
                   's
                   the
                   fam'd
                   Wildefortis
                   wondrous
                   Beard
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   which
                   her
                   Maidenhead
                   the
                   Tyrant
                   spar'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Yon
                   is
                   the
                   
                   Baptist's
                   Coat
                   ,
                   and
                   one
                   of
                   's
                   Heads
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   are
                   shewn
                   in
                   many
                   a
                   place
                   besides
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   of
                   his
                   Teeth
                   as
                   many
                   Sets
                   there
                   are
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   on
                   their
                   Belts
                   six
                   Operators
                   wear
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   Blessed
                   
                   Mary's
                   Milk
                   ,
                   not
                   yet
                   turn'd
                   sour
                   ,
                
                 
                   Renown'd
                   (
                   like
                   Ass'es
                   )
                   for
                   its
                   healing
                   pow'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ten
                   Holland
                   Kine
                   scarce
                   in
                   a
                   year
                   give
                   more
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Here
                   is
                   her
                   Manteau
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Smock
                   of
                   hers
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fellow
                   to
                   that
                   ,
                   which
                   once
                   reliev'd
                   Poictiers
                   :
                
                 
                   Besides
                   her
                   Husbands
                   Utensils
                   of
                   Trade
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wherewith
                   some
                   prove
                   ,
                   that
                   Images
                   were
                   made
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   is
                   the
                   Soldiers
                   Spear
                   ,
                   and
                   Passion-Nails
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   quantity
                   would
                   serve
                   for
                   building
                   Pauls
                   :
                
                 
                   Chips
                   ,
                   some
                   from
                   Holy
                   Cross
                   ,
                   from
                   Tyburn
                   some
                   ,
                
                 
                   Honour'd
                   by
                   many
                   a
                   
                   Jesuit's
                   Martyrdom
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   held
                   of
                   special
                   ,
                   and
                   Mirac'lous
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   Tabor
                   more
                   approv'd
                   for
                   Agu's
                   cure
                   :
                
                 
                   Here
                   Shooes
                   ,
                   which
                   ,
                   once
                   perhaps
                   at
                   Newgate
                   hung
                   ,
                
                 
                   Angled
                   their
                   Charity
                   ,
                   that
                   pass'd
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   for
                   S.
                   
                   Peter's
                   go
                   ,
                   and
                   th'
                   Office
                   bear
                
                 
                   For
                   Priests
                   ,
                   they
                   did
                   for
                   lesser
                   Villains
                   there
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   These
                   are
                   the
                   Fathers
                   Implements
                   ,
                   and
                   Tools
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   gawdy
                   Trangums
                   for
                   inveigling
                   Fools
                   :
                
                 
                   These
                   serve
                   for
                   Baits
                   the
                   simple
                   to
                   ensnare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   Children
                   spirited
                   with
                   Toys
                   at
                   Fair.
                
                 
                 
                   Nor
                   are
                   they
                   half
                   the
                   Artifices
                   yet
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   which
                   the
                   Vulgar
                   they
                   delude
                   ,
                   and
                   cheat
                   :
                
                 
                   Which
                   should
                   I
                   undertake
                   ,
                   much
                   easier
                   I
                   ,
                
                 
                   Much
                   sooner
                   might
                   compute
                   what
                   Sins
                   there
                   be
                
                 
                   Wip'd
                   off
                   ,
                   and
                   pardon'd
                   at
                   a
                   Jubilee
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   Bribes
                   enrich
                   the
                   Datary
                   each
                   year
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Vices
                   treated
                   on
                   by
                   Escobar
                   :
                
                 
                   How
                   many
                   Whores
                   in
                   Rome
                   profess
                   the
                   Trade
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   greater
                   numbers
                   by
                   Confession
                   made
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   One
                   undertakes
                   by
                   Scale
                   of
                   Miles
                   to
                   tell
                
                 
                   The
                   Bounds
                   ,
                   Dimensions
                   ,
                   and
                   Extent
                   of
                   Hell
                   ;
                
                 
                   How
                   far
                   ,
                   and
                   wide
                   th'
                   Infernal
                   Monarch
                   Reigns
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   many
                   German
                   Leagues
                   his
                   Realm
                   contains
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   are
                   his
                   Ministers
                   ,
                   pretends
                   to
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   their
                   several
                   Offices
                   below
                   :
                
                 
                   How
                   many
                   Chaudrons
                   he
                   each
                   year
                   expends
                
                 
                   In
                   Coals
                   for
                   roasting
                   Huguenots
                   ,
                   and
                   Feinds
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   with
                   as
                   much
                   exactness
                   states
                   the
                   case
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   if
                   h
                   'ad
                   been
                   Surveyor
                   of
                   the
                   place
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Another
                   frights
                   the
                   Rout
                   with
                   ruful
                   Stories
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Wild
                   
                     Chimaera's
                     ,
                     Limbo's
                     ,
                     Purgatories
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bloated
                   Souls
                   in
                   smoaky
                   durance
                   hung
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   a
                   Westphalia
                   Gammon
                   ,
                   or
                   Neats
                   Tongue
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   be
                   redeem'd
                   with
                   Masses
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Song
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   good
                   round
                   Sum
                   must
                   the
                   Deliv'rance
                   buy
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   none
                   may
                   there
                   swear
                   out
                   on
                   poverty
                   .
                
                 
                   Your
                   rich
                   ,
                   and
                   bounteous
                   Shades
                   are
                   only
                   eas'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Fleet
                   ,
                   or
                   Kings-Bench
                   Ghosts
                   are
                   thence
                   releas'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   third
                   ,
                   the
                   wicked
                   ,
                   and
                   debauch'd
                   to
                   please
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cries
                   up
                   the
                   vertue
                   of
                   Indulgences
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   rates
                   of
                   Vices
                   does
                   assess
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   price
                   they
                   in
                   the
                   
                     holy
                     Chamber
                  
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Customs
                   for
                   each
                   Sin
                   imported
                   there
                   :
                
                 
                   How
                   you
                   at
                   best
                   advantages
                   may
                   buy
                
                 
                   Patents
                   for
                   Sacrilege
                   ,
                   and
                   Simony
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   What
                   Tax
                   is
                   in
                   the
                   Leach'ry-Office
                   laid
                
                 
                   On
                   Panders
                   ,
                   Bawds
                   ,
                   and
                   Whores
                   ,
                   that
                   ply
                   the
                   Trade
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   costs
                   a
                   Rape
                   ,
                   or
                   Incest
                   ,
                   and
                   how
                   cheap
                
                 
                   You
                   may
                   an
                   Harlot
                   ,
                   or
                   an
                   Ingle
                   keep
                   ;
                
                 
                   How
                   easie
                   Murder
                   may
                   afforded
                   be
                
                 
                   For
                   one
                   ,
                   two
                   ,
                   three
                   ,
                   or
                   a
                   whole
                   Family
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   not
                   of
                   Her'ticks
                   ,
                   there
                   no
                   Pardon
                   lacks
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   one
                   o'
                   th'
                   Church's
                   meritorious
                   Acts.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   For
                   venial
                   Trifles
                   ,
                   less
                   and
                   slighter
                   Faults
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   ne're
                   deserve
                   the
                   trouble
                   of
                   your
                   thoughts
                   .
                
                 
                   Ten
                   
                     Ave
                     Maries
                  
                   mumbled
                   to
                   the
                   Cross
                
                 
                   Clear
                   scores
                   of
                   twice
                   ten
                   thousand
                   such
                   as
                   those
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   are
                   at
                   sound
                   of
                   christen'd
                   Bell
                   forgiven
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   some
                   by
                   squirt
                   of
                   Holy
                   Water
                   driven
                   :
                
                 
                   Others
                   by
                   Anthems
                   plaid
                   are
                   charm'd
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   Men
                   cure
                   Bites
                   of
                   the
                   Tarantula
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   nothing
                   with
                   the
                   Crowd
                   does
                   more
                   enhance
                
                 
                   The
                   value
                   of
                   these
                   holy
                   Charlatans
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Than
                   when
                   the
                   Wonders
                   of
                   the
                   Mass
                   they
                   veiw
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   spiritual
                   Jugglers
                   their
                   chief
                   Mast'ry
                   shew
                   :
                
                 
                   
                     Hey
                     Jingo
                     ,
                     Sirs
                  
                   !
                   What
                   's
                   this
                   ?
                   't
                   is
                   Bread
                   you
                   see
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     Presto
                     be
                     gone
                  
                   !
                   't
                   is
                   now
                   a
                   Deity
                   .
                
                 
                   Two
                   grains
                   of
                   Dough
                   ,
                   with
                   Cross
                   ,
                   and
                   stamp
                   of
                   Priest
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   five
                   small
                   words
                   pronounc'd
                   ,
                   make
                   up
                   their
                   Christ.
                
                 
                   To
                   this
                   they
                   all
                   fall
                   down
                   ,
                   this
                   all
                   adore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   strait
                   devour
                   ,
                   what
                   they
                   ador'd
                   before
                   ;
                
                 
                   Down
                   goes
                   the
                   tiny
                   Saviour
                   at
                   a
                   bit
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   be
                   digested
                   ,
                   and
                   at
                   length
                   beshit
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   Altar
                   to
                   Close-Stool
                   ,
                   or
                   Jakes
                   preferr'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   First
                   Wafer
                   ,
                   then
                   a
                   God
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   a
                   —
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   this
                   ,
                   that
                   does
                   the
                   astonish'd
                   Rout
                   amuse
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   Reverence
                   to
                   shaven
                   Crown
                   infuse
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   a
                   silly
                   ,
                   sinful
                   ,
                   mortal
                   Wight
                
                 
                   His
                   Maker
                   make
                   ,
                   create
                   the
                   Infinite
                   .
                
                 
                   None
                   boggles
                   at
                   th'
                   impossibility
                   ;
                
                 
                   Alas
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   wondrous
                   Heavenly
                   Mystery
                   !
                
                 
                 
                   None
                   dares
                   the
                   mighty
                   God-maker
                   blaspheme
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   his
                   most
                   open
                   Crimes
                   ,
                   and
                   Vices
                   blame
                   :
                
                 
                   Saw
                   he
                   those
                   hands
                   that
                   held
                   his
                   God
                   before
                   ,
                
                 
                   Strait
                   grope
                   himself
                   ,
                   and
                   by
                   and
                   by
                   a
                   Whore
                   :
                
                 
                   Should
                   they
                   his
                   aged
                   Father
                   kill
                   ,
                   or
                   worse
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Sisters
                   ,
                   Daughters
                   ,
                   Wife
                   ,
                   himself
                   too
                   force
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   here
                   I
                   might
                   (
                   if
                   I
                   but
                   durst
                   )
                   reveal
                
                 
                   What
                   pranks
                   are
                   plaid
                   in
                   the
                   Confessional
                   :
                
                 
                   How
                   haunted
                   Virgins
                   have
                   been
                   dispossest
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Devils
                   were
                   cast
                   out
                   ,
                   to
                   let
                   in
                   Priest
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   Fathers
                   act
                   with
                   Novices
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   to
                   Punks
                   in
                   shrievings
                   Seats
                   is
                   done
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   thither
                   flock
                   to
                   Ghostly
                   Confessor
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   clear
                   old
                   debts
                   ,
                   and
                   tick
                   with
                   Heav'n
                   for
                   more
                   .
                
                 
                   Oft
                   have
                   I
                   seen
                   these
                   hallow'd
                   Altars
                   stain'd
                
                 
                   With
                   Rapes
                   ,
                   those
                   Pews
                   with
                   Buggeries
                   profan'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   great
                   Cellier
                   ,
                   nor
                   any
                   greater
                   Bawd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   note
                   ,
                   and
                   long
                   experience
                   in
                   the
                   Trade
                   ,
                
                 
                   Has
                   more
                   ,
                   and
                   fouler
                   Scenes
                   of
                   Lust
                   suvey'd
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   I
                   these
                   dang'rous
                   Truths
                   forbear
                   to
                   tell
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   fear
                   I
                   should
                   the
                   Inquisition
                   feel
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Should
                   I
                   tell
                   all
                   their
                   countless
                   Knaveries
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Cheats
                   ,
                   and
                   Shams
                   ,
                   and
                   Forgeries
                   ,
                   and
                   Lies
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   Cringings
                   ,
                   Crossings
                   ,
                   Censings
                   ,
                   Sprinklings
                   ,
                   Chrisms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Conjurings
                   ,
                   and
                   Spells
                   ,
                   and
                   Exorcisms
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   Motly
                   Habits
                   ,
                   Maniples
                   ,
                   and
                   Stoles
                   ,
                
                 
                   Albs
                   ,
                   Ammits
                   ,
                   Rochets
                   ,
                   Chimers
                   ,
                   Hoods
                   ,
                   and
                   Cowls
                   .
                
                 
                   Should
                   I
                   tell
                   all
                   their
                   several
                   Services
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Trentals
                   ,
                   Masses
                   ,
                   Dirges
                   ,
                   Rosaries
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   solemn
                   Pomps
                   ,
                   their
                   Pageants
                   ,
                   and
                   Parades
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   holy
                   Masks
                   ,
                   and
                   spiritual
                   Cavalcades
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   thousand
                   Antick
                   Tricks
                   ,
                   and
                   Gambols
                   more
                   ;
                
                 
                   'T
                   would
                   swell
                   the
                   sum
                   to
                   such
                   a
                   mighty
                   score
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   I
                   at
                   length
                   should
                   more
                   volum'nous
                   grow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   Crabb
                   ,
                   or
                   Surius
                   ,
                   lying
                   Fox
                   ,
                   or
                   Stow.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Believe
                   what
                   e're
                   I
                   have
                   related
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   true
                   ,
                   as
                   if
                   't
                   were
                   spoke
                   from
                   Porph'ry
                   Chair
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   If
                   I
                   have
                   feign'd
                   in
                   ought
                   ,
                   or
                   broach'd
                   a
                   Lie
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   worst
                   of
                   Fates
                   attend
                   me
                   ,
                   let
                   me
                   be
                
                 
                   Pist
                   on
                   by
                   Porter
                   ,
                   Groom
                   ,
                   and
                   Oyster-whore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   find
                   my
                   Grave
                   in
                   Jakes
                   ,
                   and
                   Common-shore
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   make
                   next
                   Bonfire
                   for
                   the
                   Powder-Plot
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   sport
                   of
                   every
                   sneering
                   Huguenot
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   There
                   like
                   a
                   Martyr'd
                   Pope
                   in
                   Flames
                   expire
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   no
                   kind
                   Catholick
                   dare
                   quench
                   the
                   Fire
                   .
                
              
            
          
           
             
             
               
                 
                   Aude
                   aliquid
                   brevibus
                   Gyaris
                   ,
                   &
                   carcere
                   dignum
                   ,
                
                 
                   Si
                   vis
                   esse
                   aliquis
                   .
                   —
                
              
               
                 Juven
                 .
                 Sat.
                 
              
            
             
               ODE
               .
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 NOW
                 Curses
                 on
                 you
                 all
                 !
                 ye
                 vertuous
                 Fools
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 think
                 to
                 fetter
                 free-born
                 souls
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 tie'em
                 to
                 dull
                 Morality
                 ,
                 and
                 rules
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Sagarite
                 be
                 damn'd
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 the
                 Crew
              
               
                 Of
                 learned
                 Ideots
                 ,
                 who
                 his
                 steps
                 pursue
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 those
                 more
                 silly
                 Proselytes
                 ,
                 whom
                 his
                 fond
                 precepts
                 drew
                 .
              
               
                 Oh!
                 had
                 his
                 Ethicks
                 been
                 with
                 their
                 wild
                 Author
                 drown'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 a
                 like
                 Fate
                 with
                 those
                 lost
                 Writings
                 found
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Which
                 that
                 grand
                 Plagiary
                 doom'd
                 to
                 fire
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 made
                 by
                 unjust
                 Flames
                 expire
                 :
              
               
                 They
                 ne're
                 had
                 then
                 seduc'd
                 Mortality
                 ,
              
               
                 Ne're
                 lasted
                 to
                 debauch
                 the
                 World
                 with
                 their
                 lewd
                 Pedantry
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 damn'd
                 ,
                 and
                 more
                 (
                 if
                 Hell
                 can
                 do
                 't
                 )
                 be
                 that
                 thrice
                 cursed
                 name
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 e're
                 the
                 Rudiments
                 of
                 Law
                 design'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Who
                 e're
                 did
                 the
                 first
                 Model
                 of
                 Religion
                 frame
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 that
                 double
                 Vassalage
                 enthrall'd
                 Mankind
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 nought
                 before
                 ,
                 but
                 their
                 own
                 Pow'r
                 ,
                 or
                 Will
                 confin'd
                 :
              
               
                 Now
                 quite
                 abridg'd
                 of
                 all
                 their
                 Primitive
                 Liberty
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 slaves
                 to
                 each
                 capricious
                 Monarch's
                 Tyranny
                 .
              
               
                 More
                 happy
                 Brutes
                 !
                 who
                 the
                 great
                 Rule
                 of
                 Sense
                 observe
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ne're
                 from
                 their
                 first
                 Charter
                 swerve
                 .
              
               
                 Happy
                 !
                 whose
                 lives
                 are
                 meerly
                 to
                 enjoy
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 feel
                 no
                 stings
                 of
                 Sin
                 ,
                 which
                 may
                 their
                 bliss
                 annoy
                 .
              
               
                 Still
                 unconcern'd
                 at
                 Epithets
                 of
                 ill
                 ,
                 or
                 good
                 ,
              
               
                 Distinctions
                 ,
                 unadult'rate
                 Nature
                 never
                 understood
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 Hence
                 hated
                 Virtue
                 from
                 our
                 goodly
                 Isle
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 more
                 our
                 joys
                 beguile
                 ;
              
               
                 No
                 more
                 with
                 thy
                 loath'd
                 presence
                 plague
                 our
                 happy
                 state
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 enemy
                 to
                 all
                 ,
                 that
                 's
                 brisk
                 ,
                 or
                 gay
                 ,
                 or
                 brave
                 or
                 great
                 .
              
               
                 Be
                 gone
                 with
                 all
                 thy
                 pious
                 meagre
                 Train
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 some
                 unfruitful
                 ,
                 unfrequented
                 Land
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 there
                 an
                 Empire
                 gain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 there
                 extend
                 thy
                 rigorous
                 command
                 :
              
               
                 There
                 where
                 illib'ral
                 Nature's
                 niggardise
              
               
                 Has
                 set
                 a
                 Tax
                 on
                 Vice.
              
               
                 Where
                 the
                 lean
                 barren
                 Region
                 does
                 enhance
              
               
                 The
                 worth
                 of
                 dear
                 Intemperance
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 each
                 pleasurable
                 sin
                 exacts
                 excise
                 .
              
               
                 We
                 (
                 thanks
                 to
                 Fate
                 )
                 more
                 cheaply
                 can
                 offend
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 want
                 no
                 tempting
                 Luxuries
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 good
                 convenient
                 sinning
                 opportunities
                 ;
              
               
                 Which
                 Nature's
                 bounty
                 could
                 bestow
                 ,
                 or
                 Heaven's
                 kindness
                 lend
                 .
              
               
               
                 Go
                 follow
                 that
                 nice
                 Goddess
                 to
                 the
                 Skies
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 heretofore
                 disgusted
                 at
                 increasing
                 Vice
                 ,
              
               
                 Dislik'd
                 the
                 World
                 ,
                 and
                 thought
                 it
                 too
                 profane
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 timely
                 hence
                 retir'd
                 ,
                 and
                 kindly
                 ne're
                 return'd
                 again
                 .
              
               
                 Hence
                 to
                 those
                 Airy
                 Mansions
                 rove
                 ,
              
               
                 Converse
                 with
                 Saints
                 ,
                 and
                 holy
                 folks
                 above
                 ;
              
               
                 Those
                 may
                 thy
                 presence
                 woo
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 lazy
                 ease
                 affords
                 them
                 nothing
                 else
                 to
                 do
                 :
              
               
                 Where
                 haughty
                 scornful
                 I
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 my
                 great
                 Friends
                 will
                 ne're
                 vouchsafe
                 thee
                 company
                 .
              
               
                 Thou'
                 rt
                 now
                 an
                 hard
                 ,
                 unpracticable
                 good
                 ,
              
               
                 Too
                 difficult
                 for
                 flesh
                 and
                 blood
                 :
              
               
                 Were
                 I
                 all
                 soul
                 ,
                 like
                 them
                 ,
                 perhaps
                 I
                 'd
                 learn
                 to
                 practise
                 thee
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 Vertue
                 !
                 thou
                 solemn
                 grave
                 impertinence
                 ,
              
               
                 Abhorr'd
                 by
                 all
                 the
                 Men
                 of
                 Wit
                 ,
                 and
                 Sense
                 :
              
               
               
                 Thoudamn'd
                 Fatigue
                 !
                 that
                 clogst
                 life's
                 journey
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 Though
                 thou
                 no
                 weight
                 of
                 wealth
                 or
                 profit
                 bear
                 ;
              
               
                 Thou
                 pu●…ing
                 fond
                 Green-sickness
                 of
                 the
                 mind
                 !
              
               
                 That
                 mak'st
                 us
                 prove
                 to
                 our
                 own
                 selves
                 unkind
                 ,
              
               
                 Whereby
                 we
                 Coals
                 ,
                 and
                 Dirt
                 for
                 diet
                 chuse
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 Pleasur
                 's
                 better
                 food
                 refuse
                 .
              
               
                 Curst
                 Jilt
                 !
                 that
                 lead'st
                 deluded
                 Mortals
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 they
                 too
                 late
                 perceive
                 themselves
                 undone
                 ,
              
               
                 Chous'd
                 by
                 a
                 Dowry
                 in
                 reversion
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 greatest
                 Votary
                 ,
                 thoue'e
                 could
                 boast
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 Pity
                 so
                 brave
                 a
                 Soul
                 was
                 on
                 thy
                 service
                 lost
                 ;
              
               
                 What
                 Wonders
                 he
                 in
                 wickedness
                 had
                 done
                 ,
              
               
                 Whom
                 thy
                 weak
                 pow'r
                 could
                 so
                 inspire
                 alone
                 ?
                 )
              
               
                 Tho
                 long
                 with
                 fond
                 amours
                 he
                 courted
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 dying
                 ,
                 did
                 recant
                 his
                 vain
                 Idolatry
                 :
              
               
                 At
                 length
                 ,
                 though
                 late
                 ,
                 he
                 did
                 repent
                 with
                 shame
                 ,
              
               
                 Forc'd
                 to
                 confess
                 thee
                 nothing
                 ,
                 but
                 an
                 empty
                 name
                 .
              
               
               
                 So
                 was
                 that
                 Lecher
                 gull'd
                 ,
                 whose
                 haughty
                 love
              
               
                 Design'd
                 a
                 Rape
                 on
                 the
                 Queen
                 Regent
                 of
                 the
                 Gods
                 above
                 :
              
               
                 When
                 he
                 a
                 Goddess
                 thought
                 he
                 had
                 in
                 chace
              
               
                 He
                 found
                 a
                 gaudy
                 vapour
                 in
                 the
                 place
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 thin
                 Air
                 beguil'd
                 his
                 starv'd
                 embrace
                 .
              
               
                 Idly
                 he
                 spent
                 his
                 vigour
                 ,
                 spent
                 his
                 blood
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 tyr'd
                 himself
                 t'
                 oblige
                 an
                 unperforming
                 Cloud
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 If
                 Humane
                 kind
                 to
                 thee
                 e're
                 Worship
                 paid
                 ;
              
               
                 They
                 were
                 by
                 ignorance
                 misled
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 only
                 them
                 devout
                 ,
                 and
                 thee
                 a
                 Goddess
                 made
                 .
              
               
                 Known
                 haply
                 in
                 the
                 Worlds
                 rude
                 untaught
                 infancy
                 ,
              
               
                 Before
                 it
                 had
                 out-grown
                 its
                 childish
                 innocence
                 ,
              
               
                 Before
                 it
                 had
                 arriv'd
                 at
                 sense
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 reach'd
                 the
                 Man-hood
                 ,
                 and
                 discretion
                 of
                 Debauchery
                 ;
              
               
                 Known
                 in
                 those
                 antient
                 goodly
                 duller
                 times
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 crafty
                 Pagans
                 had
                 engross'd
                 all
                 crimes
                 :
              
               
               
                 When
                 Christian
                 Fools
                 were
                 obstinately
                 good
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 yet
                 their
                 Gospel-freedom
                 understood
                 .
              
               
                 Tame
                 easie
                 Fops
                 !
                 who
                 could
                 so
                 prodigally
                 bleed
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 thought
                 Saints
                 ,
                 and
                 dye
                 a
                 Calendar
                 with
                 with
                 red
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 prudent
                 Heathen
                 e're
                 seduc'd
                 could
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 suffer
                 Martyrdom
                 for
                 thee
                 :
              
               
                 Only
                 that
                 arrant
                 Ass
                 whom
                 the
                 false
                 Oracle
                 call'd
                 Wise
              
               
                 (
                 No
                 wonder
                 if
                 the
                 Devil
                 utter'd
                 lies
                 )
              
               
                 That
                 sniveling
                 Puritan
                 ,
                 who
                 spite
                 of
                 all
                 the
                 mode
              
               
                 Would
                 be
                 unfashionably
                 good
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 exercis'd
                 his
                 whining
                 gifts
                 to
                 rail
                 at
                 Vice
                 :
              
               
                 Him
                 all
                 the
                 Wits
                 of
                 Athens
                 damn'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 justly
                 with
                 Lampoons
                 defam'd
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 the
                 mad
                 Fanatick
                 ,
                 could
                 not
                 silenc'd
                 be
              
               
                 From
                 broaching
                 dang'rous
                 Divinity
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 wise
                 Republick
                 made
                 him
                 for
                 prevention
                 die
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sent
                 him
                 to
                 the
                 Gods
                 ,
                 and
                 better
                 company
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 Let
                 fumbling
                 Age
                 be
                 grave
                 ,
                 and
                 wise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Vertue
                 's
                 poor
                 contemn'd
                 Idea
                 prize
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 never
                 knew
                 ,
                 or
                 now
                 are
                 past
                 the
                 sweets
                 of
                 Vice
                 ;
              
               
                 While
                 we
                 whose
                 active
                 pulses
                 beat
              
               
                 With
                 lusty
                 youth
                 ,
                 and
                 vigorous
                 heat
                 ,
              
               
                 Can
                 all
                 their
                 Beards
                 ,
                 and
                 Morals
                 too
                 despise
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 my
                 plump
                 veins
                 are
                 fill'd
                 with
                 lust
                 and
                 blood
                 ;
              
               
                 Let
                 not
                 one
                 thought
                 of
                 her
                 intrude
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 dare
                 appoach
                 my
                 brest
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 know
                 't
                 is
                 all
                 possest
              
               
                 By
                 a
                 more
                 welcome
                 guest
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 know
                 ,
                 I
                 have
                 not
                 yet
                 the
                 leisure
                 to
                 be
                 good
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 ever
                 unkind
                 destiny
              
               
                 Shall
                 force
                 long
                 life
                 on
                 me
                 ;
              
               
                 If
                 e're
                 I
                 must
                 the
                 curse
                 of
                 dotage
                 bear
                 ;
              
               
                 Perhaps
                 I
                 'll
                 dedicate
                 those
                 dregs
                 of
                 Time
                 to
                 her
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 come
                 with
                 Crutches
                 her
                 most
                 humble
                 Votary
                 .
              
               
               
                 When
                 sprightly
                 Vice
                 retreats
                 from
                 hence
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 quits
                 the
                 ruins
                 of
                 decayed
                 sense
                 ;
              
               
                 She
                 'l
                 serve
                 to
                 usher
                 in
                 a
                 fair
                 pretence
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 varnish
                 with
                 her
                 name
                 a
                 well-dissembled
                 impotence
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 Ptisick
                 ,
                 Rheums
                 ,
                 Catarrhs
                 ,
                 and
                 Palsies
                 seize
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 Bill
                 of
                 Maladies
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 Heaven
                 to
                 punish
                 over-living
                 Mortals
                 sends
                 ;
              
               
                 Then
                 let
                 her
                 enter
                 with
                 the
                 numerous
                 infirmities
                 ,
              
               
                 Her self
                 the
                 greatest
                 plague
                 ,
                 which
                 wrinkles
                 ,
                 and
                 grey
                 hairs
                 attends
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 6.
                 
              
               
                 Tell
                 me
                 ,
                 ye
                 Venerable
                 Sots
                 ,
                 who
                 court
                 her
                 most
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 small
                 advantage
                 can
                 she
                 boast
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 her
                 great
                 Rival
                 hath
                 not
                 in
                 a
                 greater
                 store
                 ingrost
                 .
              
               
                 Her
                 boasted
                 calm
                 ,
                 and
                 peace
                 of
                 mind
              
               
                 In
                 Wine
                 ,
                 and
                 Company
                 we
                 better
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 Find
                 it
                 with
                 Pleasure
                 too
                 combin'd
                 .
              
               
               
                 In
                 mighty
                 Wine
                 ,
                 where
                 we
                 our
                 senses
                 steep
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Lull
                 our
                 Cares
                 ,
                 and
                 Consciences
                 asleep
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 why
                 do
                 I
                 that
                 wild
                 Chimaera
                 name
                 ?
              
               
                 Conscience
                 !
                 that
                 giddy
                 airy
                 Dream
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 does
                 from
                 brain
                 sick
                 heads
                 ,
                 or
                 ill-digesting
                 stomachs
                 steam
                 .
              
               
                 Conscience
                 !
                 the
                 vain
                 fantastick
                 fear
              
               
                 Of
                 punishments
                 ,
                 we
                 know
                 not
                 when
                 ,
                 nor
                 where
                 :
              
               
                 Project
                 of
                 crafty
                 Statesmen
                 ▪
                 to
                 support
                 weak
                 Law
                 ,
              
               
                 Whereby
                 they
                 slavish
                 Spirits
                 awe
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 dastard
                 Souls
                 to
                 forc'd
                 obedience
                 draw
                 .
              
               
                 Grand
                 Wheadle
                 !
                 which
                 our
                 Gown'd
                 Impostors
                 use
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 poor
                 unthinking
                 Rabble
                 to
                 abuse
                 .
              
               
                 Scarecrow
                 !
                 to
                 fright
                 from
                 the
                 forbidden
                 fruit
                 of
                 Vice
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 own
                 beloved
                 Paradise
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 those
                 vile
                 Canters
                 wickedness
                 decry
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Whose
                 Mercenary
                 tongues
                 take
                 pay
              
               
                 For
                 what
                 they
                 say
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 commend
                 in
                 practice
                 what
                 their
                 words
                 deny
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 we
                 discerning
                 Heads
                 ,
                 who
                 farther
                 pry
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 holy
                 Cheats
                 defie
              
               
                 And
                 scorn
                 their
                 Frauds
                 ,
                 and
                 scorn
                 their
                 sanctified
                 Cajoulery
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 7.
                 
              
               
                 None
                 but
                 dull
                 unbred
                 Fools
                 discredit
                 Vice
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 act
                 their
                 wickedness
                 with
                 an
                 ill
                 grace
                 ;
              
               
                 Such
                 their
                 profession
                 scandalize
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 justly
                 forfeit
                 all
                 that
                 praise
                 ;
              
               
                 All
                 that
                 esteem
                 ,
                 that
                 credit
                 ,
                 and
                 applause
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 we
                 by
                 our
                 wise
                 menage
                 from
                 a
                 sin
                 can
                 raise
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 true
                 ,
                 and
                 brave
                 transgressor
                 ought
              
               
                 To
                 sin
                 with
                 the
                 same
                 height
                 of
                 spirit
                 ,
                 Caesar
                 fought
                 :
              
               
                 Mean-soul'd
                 offenders
                 now
                 no
                 honours
                 gain
                 ,
              
               
                 Only
                 debauches
                 of
                 the
                 nobler
                 strain
                 .
              
               
                 Vice
                 well-improv'd
                 yields
                 bliss
                 ,
                 and
                 fame
                 beside
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 some
                 for
                 sinning
                 have
                 been
                 deifi'd
                 .
              
               
               
                 Thus
                 the
                 lewd
                 Gods
                 of
                 old
                 did
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 these
                 brave
                 methods
                 to
                 the
                 seats
                 above
                 .
              
               
                 Ev'n
                 Jove
                 himself
                 ,
                 the
                 Sovereign
                 Deity
                 ,
              
               
                 Father
                 and
                 King
                 of
                 all
                 th'
                 immortal
                 Progeny
                 ,
              
               
                 Ascended
                 to
                 that
                 high
                 Degree
                 ;
              
               
                 By
                 crimes
                 above
                 the
                 reach
                 of
                 weak
                 Mortality
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 Heav'n
                 one
                 large
                 Seraglio
                 made
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 Goddess
                 turn'd
                 a
                 glorious
                 Punk
                 o'
                 th
                 trade
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 that
                 Sacred
                 place
              
               
                 Was
                 fill'd
                 with
                 Bastard-Gods
                 of
                 his
                 own
                 race
                 :
              
               
                 Almighty
                 Lech'ry
                 got
                 his
                 first
                 repute
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 everlasting
                 Whoring
                 was
                 his
                 chiefest
                 Attribute
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 8.
                 
              
               
                 How
                 gallant
                 was
                 that
                 Wretch
                 ,
                 whose
                 happy
                 guilt
              
               
                 A
                 Fame
                 upon
                 the
                 Ruins
                 of
                 a
                 Temple
                 built
                 !
              
               
                 '
                 Let
                 Fools
                 ,
                 said
                 he
                 ,
                 Impiety
                 alledg
                 ,
              
               
                 '
                 And
                 urge
                 the
                 no
                 great
                 fault
                 of
                 Sacriledg
                 :
              
               
                 '
                 I
                 'll
                 set
                 the
                 Sacred
                 Pile
                 on
                 flame
                 ,
              
               
                 '
                 And
                 in
                 its
                 Ashes
                 write
                 my
                 lasting
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
               
                 '
                 My
                 name
                 which
                 thus
                 shall
                 be
              
               
                 '
                 Deathless
                 as
                 its
                 own
                 Deity
                 .
              
               
                 '
                 Thus
                 the
                 vain-glorious
                 Carian
                 I
                 'll
                 out-do
                 ,
              
               
                 '
                 And
                 Egypts
                 proudest
                 Monarchs
                 too
                 ;
              
               
                 '
                 Those
                 lavish
                 Prodigals
                 ,
                 who
                 idly
                 did
                 consume
              
               
                 '
                 Their
                 Lives
                 ,
                 and
                 Treasures
                 to
                 erect
                 a
                 Tomb
                 ,
              
               
                 '
                 And
                 only
                 great
                 by
                 being
                 buried
                 would
                 become
                 :
              
               
                 '
                 At
                 cheaper
                 rates
                 than
                 they
                 I
                 'll
                 buy
                 renown
                 ,
              
               
                 '
                 And
                 my
                 loud
                 Fame
                 shall
                 all
                 their
                 silent
                 glories
                 drown
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 spake
                 the
                 daring
                 Hector
                 ,
                 so
                 did
                 Prophesie
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 so
                 it
                 prov'd
                 :
                 in
                 vain
                 did
                 envious
                 Spite
              
               
                 By
                 fruitless
                 methods
                 try
              
               
                 To
                 raze
                 his
                 well-built
                 Fame
                 ,
                 and
                 Memory
              
               
                 Amongst
                 Posterity
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Boutefeu
                 can
                 now
                 Immortal
                 write
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 the
                 inglorious
                 Founder
                 is
                 forgotten
                 quite
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 9.
                 
              
               
                 Yet
                 greater
                 was
                 that
                 mighty
                 Emperor
                 ;
              
               
                 (
                 A
                 greater
                 crime
                 besitted
                 his
                 high
                 Pow'r
                 )
              
               
               
                 Who
                 sacrific'd
                 a
                 City
                 to
                 a
                 Jest
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 shew'd
                 he
                 knew
                 the
                 grand
                 intrigues
                 of
                 humor
                 best
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 made
                 all
                 Rome
                 a
                 Bonefire
                 to
                 his
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sung
                 ,
                 and
                 play'd
                 ,
                 and
                 danc'd
                 amidst
                 the
                 Flame
                 ;
              
               
                 Bravely
                 begun
                 !
                 yet
                 pity
                 there
                 he
                 stay'd
                 ,
              
               
                 One
                 step
                 to
                 Glory
                 more
                 he
                 should
                 have
                 made
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 should
                 have
                 heav'd
                 the
                 noble
                 frolick
                 higher
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 made
                 the
                 People
                 on
                 the
                 Fun'ral
                 pile
                 expire
              
               
                 Or
                 providently
                 with
                 their
                 blood
                 put
                 out
                 the
                 Fire
                 .
              
               
                 Had
                 this
                 been
                 done
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 utmost
                 pitch
                 of
                 glory
                 he
                 had
                 won
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 greater
                 Monument
                 could
                 be
              
               
                 To
                 consecrate
                 him
                 to
                 eternity
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 should
                 there
                 need
                 another
                 Herald
                 of
                 his
                 praise
                 ,
                 but
                 me
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 10.
                 
              
               
                 And
                 thou
                 ,
                 yet
                 greater
                 Faux
                 ,
                 the
                 glory
                 of
                 our
                 Isle
                 ,
              
               
                 Whom
                 baffled
                 Hell
                 esteems
                 its
                 chiefest
                 Foyl
                 ;
              
               
               
                 'T
                 were
                 injury
                 should
                 I
                 omit
                 thy
                 name
              
               
                 Whose
                 Action
                 merits
                 all
                 the
                 breath
                 of
                 Fame
                 .
              
               
                 Methinks
                 ,
                 I
                 see
                 the
                 trembling
                 shades
                 below
              
               
                 Around
                 in
                 humble
                 reverence
                 bow
                 ;
              
               
                 Doubtful
                 they
                 seem
                 ,
                 whether
                 to
                 pay
                 their
                 Loyalty
              
               
                 To
                 their
                 dread
                 Monarch
                 ,
                 or
                 to
                 thee
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 wonder
                 he
                 (
                 grown
                 jealous
                 of
                 thy
                 fear'd
                 success
                 )
              
               
                 Envy'd
                 Mankind
                 the
                 honour
                 of
                 thy
                 wickedness
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 spoil'd
                 that
                 brave
                 attempt
                 ,
                 which
                 must
                 have
                 made
                 his
                 grandeur
                 less
                 .
              
               
                 How
                 e're
                 regret
                 not
                 ,
                 mighty
                 Ghost
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Plot
                 by
                 treach'rous
                 fortune
                 crost
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 think
                 thy
                 well
                 deserved
                 glory
                 lost
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 the
                 full
                 praise
                 of
                 Villany
                 shalt
                 ever
                 share
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 will
                 judge
                 thy
                 Act
                 ,
                 compleat
                 enough
                 ,
                 when
                 thou
                 could'st
                 dare
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 thy
                 great
                 Master
                 far'd
                 ,
                 whose
                 high
                 disdain
              
               
                 Contemn'd
                 that
                 Heaven
                 ,
                 where
                 he
                 could
                 not
                 Reign
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 he
                 with
                 bold
                 Ambition
                 strove
              
               
                 T'
                 usurp
                 the
                 Throne
                 above
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 led
                 against
                 the
                 Deity
                 an
                 armed
                 Train
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Tho
                 from
                 his
                 vast
                 designs
                 he
                 fell
                 ,
              
               
                 O●…e
                 power'd
                 by
                 his
                 Almighty
                 Foe
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 gain'd
                 he
                 Victory
                 in
                 his
                 overthrow
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 gain'd
                 sufficient
                 Triumph
                 ,
                 that
                 he
                 durst
                 Rebel
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 't
                 was
                 some
                 pleasure
                 to
                 be
                 thought
                 the
                 great'st
                 in
                 Hell.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 11.
                 
              
               
                 Tell
                 me
                 ,
                 you
                 great
                 Triumvirate
                 ,
                 what
                 shall
                 I
                 do
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 illustrious
                 as
                 you
                 ?
              
               
                 Let
                 your
                 examples
                 move
                 me
                 with
                 a
                 gen'rous
                 fire
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 them
                 into
                 my
                 daring
                 thoughts
                 inspire
              
               
                 Somewhat
                 compleatly
                 wicked
                 ,
                 some
                 vast
                 Gyant-crime
                 ,
              
               
                 Unknown
                 ,
                 unheard
                 ,
                 unthought
                 of
                 by
                 all
                 past
                 and
                 present
                 time
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 done
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 done
                 ;
                 Methinks
                 ,
                 I
                 feel
                 the
                 pow'rful
                 charms
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 a
                 new
                 heat
                 of
                 sin
                 my
                 spirit
                 warms
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 travel
                 with
                 a
                 glorious
                 mischief
                 ,
                 for
                 whose
                 birth
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Soul
                 's
                 too
                 narrow
                 ,
                 and
                 weak
                 Fate
                 too
                 feeble
                 to
                 bring
                 forth
                 .
              
               
               
                 Let
                 the
                 unpitied
                 Vulgar
                 tamely
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 stock
                 for
                 company
                 ,
                 the
                 wild
                 Plantations
                 down
                 below
                 :
              
               
                 Such
                 their
                 vile
                 Souls
                 for
                 viler
                 Barter
                 sell
                 ,
              
               
                 Scarce
                 worth
                 the
                 damning
                 ,
                 or
                 their
                 room
                 in
                 Hell.
              
               
                 We
                 are
                 his
                 Grandees
                 ,
                 and
                 expect
                 as
                 much
                 preferment
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 our
                 good
                 Service
                 ,
                 as
                 on
                 Earth
                 we
                 share
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 them
                 sin
                 is
                 but
                 a
                 meer
                 privative
                 of
                 good
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 frailty
                 ,
                 and
                 defect
                 of
                 flesh
                 and
                 blood
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 us
                 't
                 is
                 a
                 perfection
                 ,
                 who
                 profess
              
               
                 A
                 studied
                 ,
                 and
                 elaborate
                 wickedness
                 :
              
               
                 Weare
                 the
                 great
                 
                   Royal
                   Society
                
                 of
                 Vice
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Talents
                 are
                 to
                 make
                 discoveries
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 advance
                 Sin
                 like
                 other
                 Arts
                 ,
                 and
                 Sciences
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 I
                 the
                 bold
                 Columbus
                 only
                 I
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 must
                 new
                 Worlds
                 in
                 Vice
                 descry
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fix
                 the
                 pillars
                 of
                 unpassable
                 iniquity
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 12.
                 
              
               
                 How
                 sneaking
                 was
                 the
                 first
                 debauch
                 that
                 sin'd
              
               
                 Who
                 for
                 so
                 small
                 a
                 Crime
                 sold
                 humane
                 kind
                 !
              
               
               
                 How
                 undeserving
                 that
                 high
                 place
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 thought
                 Parent
                 of
                 our
                 sin
                 ,
                 and
                 race
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 by
                 low
                 guilt
                 our
                 Nature
                 doubly
                 did
                 debase
                 !
              
               
                 Unworthy
                 was
                 he
                 to
                 be
                 thought
              
               
                 Father
                 of
                 the
                 great
                 first
                 born
                 Cain
                 ,
                 which
                 he
                 begot
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 noble
                 Cain
                 ,
                 whose
                 bold
                 ,
                 and
                 gallant
                 act
              
               
                 Proclaim'd
                 him
                 of
                 more
                 high
                 extract
                 :
              
               
                 Unworthy
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 braver
                 part
                 of
                 his
                 Posterity
                 .
              
               
                 Had
                 the
                 just
                 Fates
                 design'd
                 me
                 in
                 his
                 stead
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 'd
                 done
                 some
                 great
                 ,
                 and
                 unexampled
                 deed
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 deed
                 ,
                 which
                 should
                 decry
              
               
                 The
                 Stoicks
                 dull
                 Equality
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 shew
                 that
                 sin
                 admits
                 transcendency
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 deed
                 ,
                 wherein
                 the
                 Tempter
                 should
                 not
                 share
              
               
                 Above
                 what
                 Heav'n
                 could
                 punish
                 ,
                 and
                 above
                 what
                 he
                 could
                 dare
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 greater
                 crimes
                 than
                 his
                 I
                 would
                 have
                 fell
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 acted
                 somewhat
                 ,
                 which
                 might
                 merit
                 more
                 than
                 Hell
                 ,
              
            
          
           
             
             
               An
               Apology
               for
               the
               foregoing
               Ode
               ,
               by
               way
               of
               Epilogue
               .
            
             
               
                 MY
                 part
                 is
                 done
                 ,
                 and
                 you
                 'l
                 ,
                 I
                 hope
                 ,
                 excuse
              
               
                 Th'
                 extravagance
                 of
                 a
                 repenting
                 Muse
                 ,
              
               
                 Pardon
                 what
                 e're
                 she
                 hath
                 too
                 boldly
                 said
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 only
                 acted
                 here
                 in
                 Masquerade
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 the
                 slight
                 Arguments
                 she
                 did
                 produce
                 ,
              
               
                 Were
                 not
                 to
                 flatter
                 Vice
                 ,
                 but
                 to
                 traduce
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 we
                 Buffoons
                 in
                 Princely
                 dress
                 expose
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 to
                 be
                 gay
                 ,
                 but
                 more
                 ridiculous
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 she
                 an
                 Hector
                 for
                 her
                 Subject
                 had
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 thought
                 she
                 must
                 be
                 Termagant
                 ,
                 and
                 mad
                 :
              
               
                 That
                 made
                 her
                 speak
                 like
                 a
                 lewd
                 Punk
                 o'
                 th'
                 Town
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 by
                 converse
                 with
                 Bullies
                 wicked
                 grown
                 ,
              
               
                 Has
                 learn'd
                 the
                 Mode
                 to
                 cry
                 all
                 Virtue
                 down
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 now
                 the
                 Vizard
                 's
                 off
                 ;
                 she
                 changes
                 Scene
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 turns
                 a
                 modest
                 civil
                 Girl
                 agen
                 .
              
               
               
                 Our
                 Poet
                 has
                 a
                 different
                 taste
                 of
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 will
                 to
                 common
                 Vogue
                 himself
                 submit
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 some
                 admire
                 the
                 Fops
                 whose
                 Talents
                 lie
              
               
                 In
                 venting
                 dull
                 infipid
                 Blasphemy
                 ;
              
               
                 He
                 swears
                 he
                 cannot
                 with
                 those
                 terms
                 dispense
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 will
                 be
                 damn'd
                 for
                 the
                 repute
                 of
                 sense
                 .
              
               
                 Wit
                 's
                 name
                 was
                 never
                 to
                 profaneness
                 due
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 then
                 you
                 see
                 he
                 could
                 be
                 witty
                 too
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 could
                 Lampoon
                 the
                 State
                 ,
                 and
                 Libel
                 Kings
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 that
                 he
                 's
                 Loyal
                 ,
                 and
                 knows
                 better
                 things
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 Fame
                 ,
                 whose
                 guilty
                 Birth
                 from
                 Treason
                 springs
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 likes
                 not
                 Wit
                 ,
                 which
                 can't
                 a
                 Licence
                 claim
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 which
                 the
                 Author
                 dares
                 not
                 set
                 his
                 Name
                 .
              
               
                 Wit
                 should
                 be
                 open
                 ,
                 court
                 each
                 Reader
                 's
                 eye
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 lurk
                 in
                 fly
                 unprinted
                 privacy
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 Crim●…nal
                 Writers
                 like
                 dull
                 Birds
                 of
                 Night
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 weakness
                 ,
                 or
                 for
                 shame
                 avoid
                 the
                 light
                 ;
              
               
                 May
                 such
                 a
                 Jury
                 for
                 their
                 Audience
                 have
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 the
                 Bench
                 ,
                 not
                 Pit
                 ,
                 their
                 doom
                 receive
                 .
              
               
               
                 May
                 they
                 the
                 Tow'r
                 for
                 their
                 due
                 merits
                 share
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 a
                 just
                 wreath
                 of
                 Hemp
                 ,
                 not
                 Laurel
                 wear
                 :
              
            
             
               
                 He
                 could
                 be
                 Bawdy
                 too
                 ,
                 and
                 nick
                 the
                 times
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 what
                 they
                 dearly
                 love
                 ;
                 Damn'd
                 placket
                 Rhimes
                 ,
              
               
                 Such
                 as
                 our
                 Nobles
                 write
                 —
              
               
                 Whose
                 nauseous
                 Poetry
                 can
                 reach
                 no
                 higher
              
               
                 Than
                 what
                 the
                 Codpiece
                 ,
                 or
                 its
                 God
                 inspire
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 lewd
                 ,
                 they
                 spend
                 at
                 quill
                 ;
                 you
                 'd
                 justly
                 think
                 ;
              
               
                 They
                 wrote
                 with
                 something
                 nastier
                 than
                 Ink.
              
               
                 But
                 he
                 still
                 thought
                 that
                 little
                 Wit
                 ,
                 or
                 none
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 a
                 just
                 modesty
                 must
                 never
                 own
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 a
                 meer
                 Reader
                 with
                 a
                 Blush
                 attone
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 Ribauldry
                 deserv'd
                 the
                 praise
                 of
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 must
                 resign
                 to
                 each
                 illit'rate
                 Citt
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Prentices
                 ,
                 and
                 Car-men
                 challenge
                 it
                 .
              
               
                 Ev'n
                 they
                 too
                 can
                 be
                 smart
                 ,
                 and
                 witty
                 there
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 all
                 men
                 on
                 that
                 Subject
                 Poets
                 are
                 .
              
               
                 Henceforth
                 he
                 vows
                 ,
                 if
                 ever
                 more
                 he
                 find
              
               
                 Himself
                 to
                 the
                 base
                 itch
                 of
                 Verse
                 inclin'd
                 ;
              
               
               
                 If
                 e're
                 he
                 's
                 given
                 up
                 so
                 far
                 to
                 write
                 ;
              
               
                 He
                 never
                 means
                 to
                 make
                 his
                 end
                 delight
                 :
              
               
                 Should
                 he
                 do
                 so
                 ;
                 he
                 must
                 despair
                 success
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 he
                 's
                 not
                 now
                 debauch'd
                 enough
                 to
                 please
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 must
                 be
                 damn'd
                 for
                 want
                 of
                 Wickedness
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 'l
                 therefore
                 use
                 his
                 Wit
                 another
                 way
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 next
                 the
                 ugliness
                 of
                 Vice
                 display
                 .
              
               
                 Tho
                 against
                 Vertue
                 once
                 he
                 drew
                 his
                 Pen
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 'l
                 ne're
                 for
                 ought
                 ,
                 but
                 her
                 defence
                 agen
                 .
              
               
                 Had
                 he
                 a
                 Genius
                 ,
                 and
                 Poetick
                 rage
                 ,
              
               
                 Great
                 as
                 the
                 Vices
                 of
                 this
                 guilty
                 Age.
              
               
                 Were
                 he
                 all
                 Gall
                 ,
                 and
                 arm'd
                 with
                 store
                 of
                 spight
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 were
                 worth
                 his
                 pains
                 to
                 undertake
                 to
                 write
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 noble
                 Satyr
                 he
                 'd
                 direct
                 his
                 aim
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 't
                 Mankind
                 ,
                 and
                 Poetry
                 reclaim
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 'd
                 shoot
                 his
                 Quills
                 just
                 like
                 a
                 Porcupine
              
               
                 At
                 Vice
                 ,
                 and
                 make
                 them
                 stab
                 in
                 every
                 Line
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 world
                 should
                 learn
                 to
                 blush
                 ,
                 —
              
               
               
                 And
                 dread
                 the
                 Vengeance
                 of
                 his
                 pointed
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 worse
                 than
                 their
                 own
                 Consciences
                 should
                 fright
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 should
                 think
                 him
                 Heav'ns
                 just
                 Plague
                 ,
                 design'd
              
               
                 To
                 visit
                 for
                 the
                 sins
                 of
                 lewd
                 Mankind
                 .
              
            
          
        
      
       
         
           
             
             
             
               THE
               PASSION
               OF
               BYBLIS
               IN
               
               Ovid's
               Metamorphosis
            
             
               Imitated
               in
               English.
               
            
             
               LONDON
               ,
               Printed
               for
               
                 Jo.
                 Hindmarsh
              
               ,
               1685.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
             
               
                 THE
                 Passion
                 of
                 Byblis
                 OUT
                 OF
              
               Ovid's
               Metamorphosis
               ,
               B.
               9.
               
               F.
               11.
               
               
                 Beginning
                 at
              
               Byblis
               in
               exemplo
               est
               ,
               ut
               ament
               concessa
               puellae
               .
               
                 And
                 ending
                 with
              
               —
               Modumque
               Exit
               ,
               &
               infelix
               committit
               saepe
               repelli
               .
            
             
               
                 YOU
                 heedless
                 Maids
                 ,
                 whose
                 young
                 ,
                 and
                 tender
                 hearts
              
               
                 Unwounded
                 yet
                 ,
                 have
                 scap'd
                 the
                 fatal
                 darts
                 ;
              
               
                 Let
                 the
                 sad
                 tale
                 of
                 wretched
                 Byblis
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 learn
                 by
                 her
                 to
                 shun
                 forbidden
                 Love
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Not
                 all
                 the
                 plenty
                 ,
                 all
                 the
                 bright
                 resort
              
               
                 Of
                 gallant
                 Youth
                 ,
                 that
                 grac'd
                 the
                 
                   Carian
                   Court
                
                 ,
              
               
                 Could
                 charm
                 the
                 hauty
                 Nymph's
                 disdainful
                 heart
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 from
                 a
                 Brother's
                 guilty
                 Love
                 divert
                 ;
              
               
                 Caunus
                 she-lov'd
                 ,
                 not
                 as
                 a
                 Sister
                 ought
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Honour
                 ,
                 Blood
                 ,
                 and
                 Shame
                 alike
                 forgot
                 :
              
               
                 Caunus
                 alone
                 takes
                 up
                 her
                 Thoughts
                 ,
                 and
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 him
                 alone
                 she
                 wishes
                 ,
                 grieves
                 and
                 sighs
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 At
                 first
                 her
                 new-born
                 Passion
                 owns
                 no
                 name
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 glim'ring
                 Spark
                 scarce
                 kindling
                 into
                 flame
                 ;
              
               
                 She
                 thinks
                 it
                 no
                 offence
                 ,
                 if
                 from
                 his
                 Lip
              
               
                 She
                 snatch
                 an
                 harmless
                 bliss
                 ,
                 if
                 her
                 fond
                 clip
              
               
                 With
                 loose
                 embraces
                 oft
                 his
                 Neck
                 surround
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 love
                 is
                 yet
                 in
                 debts
                 of
                 Nature
                 drown'd
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 Love
                 at
                 length
                 grows
                 naughty
                 by
                 degrees
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 she
                 likes
                 ,
                 and
                 strives
                 her self
                 to
                 please
                 :
              
               
                 Well-drest
                 she
                 comes
                 ,
                 &
                 arms
                 her
                 Eyes
                 with
                 darts
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 Smiles
                 with
                 charms
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 the
                 studied
                 arts
              
               
                 Which
                 practis'd
                 Love
                 can
                 teach
                 to
                 vanquish
                 hearts
                 .
              
               
               
                 Industrious
                 now
                 ,
                 she
                 labours
                 to
                 be
                 fair
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 envies
                 all
                 ,
                 whoever
                 fairer
                 are
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Yet
                 knows
                 she
                 not
                 ,
                 she
                 loves
                 ,
                 but
                 still
                 does
                 grow
                 ,
              
               
                 Insensibly
                 the
                 thing
                 ,
                 she
                 does
                 not
                 know
                 :
              
               
                 Strict
                 honour
                 yet
                 her
                 check'd
                 desires
                 does
                 bind
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 modest
                 thoughts
                 ,
                 on
                 this
                 side
                 wish
                 confin'd
                 :
              
               
                 Only
                 within
                 she
                 sooths
                 her
                 pleasing
                 flames
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 ,
                 the
                 hated
                 terms
                 of
                 Blood
                 disclaims
                 :
              
               
                 Brother
                 sounds
                 harsh
                 ;
                 she
                 the
                 unpleasing
                 word
              
               
                 Strives
                 to
                 forget
                 ,
                 and
                 oftner
                 calls
                 him
                 Lord
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 the
                 name
                 of
                 Sister
                 grates
                 her
                 ear
                 ,
              
               
                 Could
                 wish't
                 unsaid
                 ,
                 and
                 rather
                 Byblis
                 hear
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Nor
                 dare
                 she
                 yet
                 with
                 waking
                 thoughts
                 admit
              
               
                 A
                 wanton
                 hope
                 :
                 but
                 when
                 returning
                 night
              
               
                 With
                 Sleep's
                 soft
                 gentle
                 spell
                 her
                 Senses
                 charms
                 ,
              
               
                 Kind
                 fancy
                 often
                 brings
                 him
                 to
                 her
                 Arms
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 them
                 she
                 oft
                 does
                 the
                 lov'd
                 Shadow
                 seem
              
               
                 To
                 grasp
                 ,
                 and
                 joys
                 ,
                 yet
                 blushes
                 too
                 in
                 Dream
                 .
              
               
                 She
                 wakes
                 ,
                 and
                 long
                 in
                 wonder
                 silent
                 lies
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thinks
                 on
                 her
                 late
                 pleasing
                 Extasies
                 :
              
               
               
                 Now
                 likes
                 ,
                 and
                 now
                 abhors
                 her
                 guilty
                 flame
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 turns
                 abandon'd
                 to
                 her
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 Shame
                 :
              
               
                 At
                 length
                 her
                 struggling
                 thoughts
                 an
                 utt'rance
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 vent
                 the
                 wild
                 disorders
                 of
                 her
                 mind
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 "
                 Ah
                 me
                 !
                 (
                 she
                 cries
                 )
                 kind
                 Heaven
                 avert
                 !
                 what
                 means
              
               
                 "
                 This
                 boading
                 form
                 ,
                 that
                 nightly
                 rides
                 my
                 dreams
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 Grant
                 'em
                 untrue
                 !
                 why
                 should
                 lewd
                 hope
                 divine
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 Ah!
                 why
                 was
                 this
                 too
                 charming
                 Vision
                 seen
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 'T
                 is
                 true
                 ,
                 by
                 the
                 most
                 envious
                 wretch
                 ,
                 that
                 sees
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 He
                 's
                 own'd
                 all
                 fair
                 ,
                 and
                 lovely
                 ,
                 own'd
                 a
                 prize
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Worthy
                 the
                 conquest
                 of
                 the
                 brightest
                 eyes
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 A
                 prize
                 that
                 wou'd
                 my
                 high'st
                 Ambition
                 fill
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 All
                 I
                 could
                 wish
                 ;
                 —
                 but
                 he
                 's
                 my
                 brother
                 still
                 !
              
               
                 "
                 That
                 cruel
                 word
                 for
                 ever
                 must
                 disjoyn
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Nor
                 can
                 I
                 hope
                 ,
                 but
                 thus
                 ,
                 to
                 have
                 him
                 mine
                 .
              
               
                 "
                 Since
                 then
                 I
                 waking
                 never
                 must
                 possess
                 ;
              
               
                 "
                 Let
                 me
                 in
                 sleep
                 at
                 least
                 enjoy
                 the
                 bliss
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 sure
                 nice
                 Vertue
                 can't
                 forbid
                 me
                 this
                 :
              
               
               
                 "
                 Kind
                 sleep
                 does
                 no
                 malicious
                 spies
                 admit
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Yet
                 yields
                 a
                 lively
                 semblance
                 of
                 delight
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Gods
                 !
                 what
                 a
                 scene
                 of
                 joy
                 was
                 that
                 !
                 how
                 fast
              
               
                 "
                 I
                 clasp'd
                 the
                 Vision
                 to
                 my
                 panting
                 breast
                 !
              
               
                 "
                 With
                 what
                 fierce
                 bounds
                 I
                 sprung
                 to
                 meet
                 my
                 "
                 bliss
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 While
                 my
                 rapt
                 soul
                 flew
                 out
                 in
                 every
                 kiss
                 !
              
               
                 "
                 Till
                 breathless
                 ,
                 saint
                 ,
                 and
                 foftly
                 sunk
                 away
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 I
                 all
                 dissolv'd
                 in
                 reeking
                 pleasures
                 lay
                 !
              
               
                 "
                 How
                 sweet
                 is
                 the
                 remembrance
                 yet
                 !
                 though
                 night
              
               
                 "
                 Too
                 hasty
                 fled
                 ,
                 drove
                 on
                 by
                 envious
                 light
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 "
                 O
                 that
                 we
                 might
                 the
                 Laws
                 of
                 Nature
                 break
                 !
              
               
                 "
                 How
                 well
                 would
                 Caunus
                 me
                 an
                 Husband
                 make
                 !
              
               
                 "
                 How
                 well
                 to
                 Wise
                 might
                 he
                 his
                 Byblis
                 take
                 !
              
               
                 "
                 Wou'd
                 God!
                 in
                 all
                 things
                 we
                 had
                 partners
                 bin
              
               
                 "
                 Besides
                 our
                 Parents
                 ,
                 and
                 our
                 fatal
                 Kin
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Wou'd
                 thou
                 wert
                 nobler
                 ,
                 I
                 more
                 meanly
                 born
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Then
                 guiltless
                 I
                 'd
                 despair'd
                 ,
                 and
                 suffer'd
                 scorn
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Happy
                 that
                 Maid
                 unknown
                 ,
                 whoe're
                 shall
                 prove
              
               
                 "
                 so
                 blest
                 ,
                 so
                 envied
                 to
                 deserve
                 thy
                 love
                 .
              
               
               
                 "
                 Unhappy
                 me
                 !
                 whom
                 the
                 same
                 womb
                 did
                 joyn
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Which
                 now
                 forbids
                 me
                 ever
                 to
                 be
                 thine
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Curst
                 fate
                 !
                 that
                 we
                 alone
                 in
                 that
                 agree
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 By
                 which
                 we
                 ever
                 must
                 divided
                 be
                 .
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 must
                 we
                 be
                 ?
                 what
                 meant
                 my
                 Vision
                 then
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 Are
                 they
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 their
                 dear
                 presages
                 vain
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 Have
                 Dreams
                 no
                 credit
                 ,
                 but
                 with
                 easie
                 love
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 Or
                 do
                 they
                 hit
                 sometimes
                 ,
                 and
                 faithful
                 prove
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 The
                 Gods
                 forbid
                 !
                 yet
                 those
                 whom
                 I
                 invoke
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Have
                 lov'd
                 like
                 me
                 ,
                 have
                 their
                 own
                 Sisters
                 took
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Great
                 Saturn
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 greater
                 Off-spring
                 Iove
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Both
                 stock'd
                 their
                 Heaven
                 with
                 Incestuous
                 love
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Gods
                 have
                 their
                 priviledge
                 :
                 why
                 do
                 I
                 strive
              
               
                 "
                 To
                 strain
                 my
                 Hopes
                 to
                 their
                 Prerogative
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 "
                 No
                 ,
                 let
                 me
                 banish
                 this
                 forbidden
                 fire
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Or
                 quench
                 it
                 with
                 my
                 Blood
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 't
                 expire
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Unstain'd
                 in
                 honour
                 ,
                 and
                 unhurt
                 in
                 fame
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Let
                 the
                 Grave
                 bury
                 my
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 Shame
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 But
                 when
                 at
                 my
                 last
                 hour
                 I
                 gasping
                 lie
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Let
                 only
                 my
                 kind
                 Murderer
                 be
                 by
                 :
              
               
               
                 "
                 Let
                 him
                 ,
                 while
                 I
                 breath
                 out
                 my
                 soul
                 in
                 sighs
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Or
                 gaz't
                 away
                 ,
                 look
                 on
                 with
                 pitying
                 eyes
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Let
                 him
                 (
                 for
                 sure
                 he
                 can't
                 deny
                 me
                 this
                 )
              
               
                 "
                 Seal
                 my
                 cold
                 Lips
                 with
                 one
                 dear
                 parting
                 Kiss
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 "
                 Besides
                 ,
                 't
                 were
                 vain
                 should
                 I
                 alone
                 agree
              
               
                 "
                 To
                 what
                 anothers
                 Will
                 must
                 ratifie
                 ;
              
               
                 "
                 Cou'd
                 I
                 be
                 so
                 abandon'd
                 to
                 consent
                 ;
              
               
                 "
                 What
                 I
                 have
                 pass
                 for
                 good
                 and
                 innocent
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 He
                 may
                 perhaps
                 as
                 worst
                 of
                 Crimes
                 resent
                 .
              
               
                 "
                 Yet
                 we
                 amongst
                 our
                 Race
                 examples
                 find
              
               
                 "
                 Of
                 Brothers
                 ,
                 who
                 have
                 been
                 to
                 Sisters
                 kind
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Fam'd
                 Canace
                 cou'd
                 thus
                 successful
                 prove
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Cou'd
                 Crown
                 her
                 wishes
                 in
                 a
                 Brother's
                 love
                 .
              
               
                 "
                 But
                 whence
                 cou'd
                 I
                 these
                 instances
                 produce
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 How
                 came
                 I
                 witty
                 to
                 my
                 ruin
                 thus
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 Whither
                 will
                 this
                 mad
                 frenzy
                 hurry
                 on
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 Hence
                 ,
                 hence
                 ,
                 you
                 naughty
                 flames
                 ,
                 far
                 hence
                 be
                 gone
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Nor
                 let
                 me
                 e're
                 the
                 shameful
                 Passion
                 own
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 "
                 And
                 yet
                 shou'd
                 he
                 address
                 ;
                 I
                 shou'd
                 forgive
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 I
                 fear
                 ,
                 I
                 fear
                 ,
                 I
                 shou'd
                 his
                 suit
                 receive
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Shall
                 therefore
                 I
                 ,
                 who
                 cou'd
                 not
                 love
                 disown
              
               
                 "
                 Offer'd
                 by
                 him
                 ,
                 not
                 mine
                 to
                 make
                 him
                 known
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 canst
                 thou
                 speak
                 ?
                 can
                 thy
                 bold
                 tongue
                 declare
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 Yes
                 ,
                 Love
                 shall
                 force
                 :
                 —
                 and
                 now
                 methinks
                 I
                 dare
                 .
              
               
                 "
                 But
                 lest
                 fond
                 modesty
                 at
                 length
                 refuse
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 I
                 will
                 some
                 sure
                 ,
                 and
                 better
                 method
                 chuse
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 A
                 Letter
                 shall
                 my
                 secret
                 flames
                 disclose
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 hide
                 my
                 Blushes
                 ,
                 but
                 reveal
                 their
                 cause
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 This
                 takes
                 ,
                 and
                 't
                 is
                 resolv'd
                 as
                 soon
                 as
                 said
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 this
                 she
                 rais'd
                 her self
                 upon
                 her
                 bed
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 propping
                 with
                 her
                 hand
                 her
                 leaning
                 head
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Happen
                 what
                 will
                 (
                 says
                 she
                 )
                 I
                 'll
                 make
                 him
                 know
              
               
                 "
                 What
                 pains
                 ,
                 what
                 raging
                 pains
                 I
                 undergo
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Ah
                 me
                 !
                 I
                 rave
                 !
                 what
                 tempests
                 shake
                 my
                 breast
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 where
                 ?
                 O
                 where
                 will
                 this
                 distraction
                 rest
                 ?
              
               
                 Trembling
                 ,
                 her
                 Thoughts
                 endite
                 ,
                 and
                 oft
                 her
                 Eye
              
               
                 Looks
                 back
                 for
                 fear
                 of
                 conscious
                 spies
                 too
                 nigh
                 :
              
               
               
                 One
                 hand
                 her
                 Paper
                 ,
                 t'other
                 holds
                 her
                 Pen
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Tears
                 supply
                 that
                 Ink
                 her
                 Lines
                 must
                 drain
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Now
                 she
                 begins
                 ,
                 now
                 stops
                 ,
                 and
                 stopping
                 frames
              
               
                 New
                 doubts
                 ,
                 now
                 writes
                 ,
                 and
                 now
                 her
                 writing
                 damns
                 .
              
               
                 She
                 writes
                 ,
                 defaces
                 ,
                 alters
                 ,
                 likes
                 ,
                 and
                 blames
                 :
              
               
                 Oft
                 throws
                 in
                 hast
                 her
                 Pen
                 ,
                 and
                 Paper
                 by
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 takes
                 'em
                 up
                 again
                 as
                 hastily
                 :
              
               
                 Unsteddy
                 her
                 resolves
                 ,
                 fickle
                 ,
                 and
                 vain
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 sooner
                 made
                 ,
                 but
                 strait
                 unmade
                 again
                 :
              
               
                 What
                 her
                 desires
                 would
                 have
                 ,
                 she
                 does
                 not
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 Displeas'd
                 withall
                 ,
                 what
                 e're
                 she
                 goes
                 to
                 do
                 :
              
               
                 At
                 once
                 contending
                 ,
                 shame
                 ,
                 and
                 hope
                 ,
                 and
                 fear
                 ,
              
               
                 Wrack
                 her
                 tost
                 mind
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 her
                 looks
                 appear
                 .
              
               
                 Sister
                 was
                 wrote
                 ;
                 but
                 soon
                 misguiding
                 doubt
              
               
                 Recalls
                 it
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 guilty
                 word
                 blots
                 out
                 .
              
               
                 Again
                 she
                 pauses
                 ,
                 and
                 again
                 begins
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 length
                 her
                 Pen
                 drops
                 out
                 these
                 hasty
                 Lines
                 .
              
               
               
                 "
                 Kind
                 health
                 ,
                 which
                 you
                 ,
                 and
                 only
                 you
                 can
                 grant
                 .
              
               
                 "
                 Which
                 ,
                 if
                 deny'd
                 ,
                 she
                 must
                 for
                 ever
                 want
                 ;
              
               
                 "
                 To
                 you
                 your
                 Lover
                 sends
                 :
                 ah
                 !
                 blushing
                 Shame
              
               
                 "
                 In
                 silence
                 bids
                 her
                 Paper
                 hide
                 her
                 name
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Wou'd
                 God
                 the
                 fatal
                 Message
                 might
                 be
                 done
              
               
                 "
                 Without
                 annexing
                 it
                 ,
                 nor
                 Byblis
                 known
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 E're
                 blest
                 success
                 her
                 hopes
                 ,
                 and
                 wishes
                 crown
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 "
                 And
                 had
                 I
                 now
                 my
                 smother'd
                 greif
                 conceal'd
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 It
                 might
                 by
                 tokens
                 past
                 have
                 been
                 reveal'd
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 A
                 thousand
                 proofs
                 were
                 ready
                 to
                 impart
              
               
                 "
                 The
                 inward
                 anguish
                 of
                 my
                 wounded
                 heart
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Oft
                 ,
                 as
                 your
                 fight
                 a
                 sudden
                 blush
                 did
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 My
                 blood
                 came
                 up
                 to
                 meet
                 you
                 at
                 my
                 face
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Oft
                 (
                 if
                 you
                 call
                 to
                 mind
                 )
                 my
                 longing
                 Eyes
              
               
                 "
                 Betray'd
                 in
                 looks
                 my
                 souls
                 too
                 thin
                 disguise
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Think
                 how
                 their
                 Tears
                 ,
                 think
                 how
                 my
                 heaving
                 Breast
              
               
                 "
                 Oft
                 in
                 deep
                 sighs
                 some
                 cause
                 unknown
                 confest
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Think
                 how
                 these
                 Arms
                 did
                 oft
                 with
                 fierce
                 embrace
                 ,
              
               
               
                 "
                 Eager
                 as
                 my
                 desires
                 ,
                 about
                 you
                 press
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 These
                 Lips
                 too
                 ,
                 when
                 they
                 cou'd
                 so
                 happy
                 prove
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 (
                 ●…d
                 you
                 but
                 mark'd
                 )
                 with
                 close
                 warm
                 kisses
                 strove
              
               
                 "
                 To
                 whisper
                 something
                 more
                 than
                 Sisters
                 Love.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 "
                 And
                 yet
                 ,
                 though
                 rankling
                 grief
                 my
                 mind
                 distrest
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Tho
                 raging
                 flames
                 within
                 burn
                 up
                 my
                 breast
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Long
                 time
                 I
                 did
                 the
                 mighty
                 pain
                 endure
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Long
                 strove
                 to
                 bring
                 the
                 fierce
                 disease
                 to
                 cure
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Witness
                 ,
                 ye
                 cruel
                 Pow'rs
                 ,
                 who
                 did
                 inspire
              
               
                 "
                 This
                 strange
                 ,
                 this
                 fatal
                 ,
                 this
                 resistless
                 fire
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Witness
                 ,
                 what
                 pains
                 (
                 for
                 you
                 alone
                 can
                 know
                 )
              
               
                 "
                 This
                 helpless
                 wretch
                 to
                 quench't
                 did
                 undergo
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 A
                 thousand
                 Racks
                 ,
                 and
                 Martyrdoms
                 ,
                 and
                 more
              
               
                 "
                 Than
                 a
                 weak
                 Virgin
                 can
                 be
                 thought
                 ,
                 I
                 bore
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 O'rematch'd
                 in
                 pow'r
                 at
                 last
                 ,
                 I
                 'm
                 forc'd
                 to
                 yield
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 to
                 the
                 conqu'ring
                 God
                 resign
                 the
                 field
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 To
                 you
                 ,
                 dear
                 cause
                 of
                 all
                 ,
                 I
                 make
                 address
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 From
                 you
                 with
                 humble
                 pray'rs
                 I
                 beg
                 redress
                 :
              
               
               
                 "
                 You
                 rule
                 alone
                 my
                 arbitrary
                 fate
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 life
                 ,
                 and
                 death
                 on
                 your
                 disposal
                 wait
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Ordain
                 ,
                 as
                 you
                 think
                 fit
                 ;
                 deny
                 ,
                 or
                 grant
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Yet
                 know
                 no
                 stranger
                 is
                 your
                 suppliant
                 .
              
               
                 "
                 But
                 she
                 ,
                 who
                 ,
                 tho
                 to
                 you
                 by
                 Blood
                 allied
              
               
                 "
                 In
                 nearest
                 bonds
                 ,
                 in
                 nearer
                 wou'd
                 be
                 tied
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 "
                 Let
                 doting
                 age
                 debate
                 of
                 Law
                 ,
                 and
                 Right
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 gravely
                 state
                 the
                 bounds
                 of
                 just
                 ,
                 and
                 fit
                 ;
              
               
                 "
                 Whose
                 Wisdom's
                 but
                 their
                 Envy
                 ,
                 to
                 destroy
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 bar
                 those
                 pleasures
                 ,
                 which
                 they
                 can't
                 enjoy
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Our
                 blooming
                 years
                 ,
                 more
                 sprightly
                 ,
                 and
                 more
                 gay
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 By
                 Nature
                 we
                 're
                 design'd
                 for
                 love
                 and
                 play
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Youth
                 knows
                 no
                 check
                 ,
                 but
                 leaps
                 weak
                 Vertu
                 's
                 fence
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 briskly
                 hunts
                 the
                 noble
                 chase
                 of
                 Sense
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Without
                 dull
                 thinking
                 we
                 enjoyment
                 trace
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 call
                 that
                 lawful
                 ,
                 whatsoe're
                 does
                 please
                 .
              
               
                 "
                 Nor
                 will
                 our
                 guilt
                 want
                 instances
                 alone
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 'T
                 is
                 what
                 the
                 glorious
                 Gods
                 above
                 have
                 done
                 :
              
               
               
                 "
                 Let
                 's
                 follow
                 where
                 those
                 great
                 examples
                 went
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Nor
                 think
                 that
                 Sin
                 ,
                 where
                 Heaven
                 's
                 a
                 precedent
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 "
                 Let
                 neither
                 awe
                 of
                 Fathers
                 frowns
                 ,
                 nor
                 shame
              
               
                 "
                 For
                 ought
                 that
                 can
                 be
                 told
                 by
                 blabbing
                 fame
              
               
                 "
                 Nor
                 any
                 gastlier
                 fantom
                 ,
                 fear
                 can
                 frame
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Frighten
                 or
                 stop
                 us
                 in
                 our
                 way
                 to
                 bliss
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 But
                 boldly
                 let
                 us
                 rush
                 on
                 happiness
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Where
                 glorious
                 hazards
                 shall
                 enhanse
                 delight
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 that
                 ,
                 that
                 makes
                 it
                 dangerous
                 ,
                 make
                 it
                 great
                 :
              
            
             
               
                 "
                 Relation
                 too
                 ,
                 which
                 does
                 our
                 fault
                 increase
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Will
                 serve
                 that
                 fault
                 the
                 better
                 to
                 disguise
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 That
                 lets
                 us
                 now
                 in
                 private
                 often
                 meet
              
               
                 "
                 Bless'd
                 opportunities
                 for
                 stoln
                 delight
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 In
                 publick
                 often
                 we
                 embrace
                 ,
                 and
                 kiss
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 fear
                 no
                 jealous
                 ,
                 no
                 suspecting
                 eyes
                 .
              
               
                 "
                 How
                 little
                 more
                 remains
                 for
                 me
                 to
                 crave
                 !
              
               
                 "
                 How
                 little
                 more
                 for
                 you
                 to
                 give
                 !
                 O
                 save
              
               
                 "
                 A
                 wretched
                 Maid
                 undone
                 by
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 you
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Who
                 does
                 in
                 tears
                 ,
                 and
                 dying
                 accents
                 sue
                 ;
              
               
               
                 "
                 Who
                 bleeds
                 that
                 Passion
                 ,
                 she
                 had
                 ne're
                 reveal'd
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 If
                 not
                 by
                 Love
                 ,
                 Almighty
                 Love
                 compell'd
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Nor
                 ever
                 let
                 her
                 mournful
                 Tomb
                 complain
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   "
                   Here
                
                 Byblis
                 
                   lies
                   ,
                   kill'd
                   by
                   your
                   cold
                   disdain
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Here
                 forc'd
                 to
                 end
                 ,
                 for
                 want
                 of
                 room
                 ,
                 not
                 will
              
               
                 To
                 add
                 ,
                 her
                 lines
                 the
                 crowded
                 Margin
                 fill
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 space
                 allow
                 for
                 more
                 :
                 she
                 trembling
                 ,
                 folds
              
               
                 The
                 Paper
                 ,
                 which
                 her
                 shameful
                 Message
                 holds
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 sealing
                 ,
                 as
                 she
                 wept
                 with
                 boading
                 fear
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 wet
                 her
                 Signet
                 with
                 a
                 falling
                 Tear.
              
               
                 This
                 done
                 ,
                 a
                 trusty
                 Messenger
                 she
                 call'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 kind
                 words
                 the
                 whisper'd
                 Errand
                 told
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Go
                 ,
                 carry
                 this
                 with
                 faithful
                 care
                 ,
                 she
                 said
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 To
                 my
                 dear
                 ,
                 —
                 there
                 she
                 paus'd
                 a
                 while
                 ,
                 and
                 staid
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 and
                 by
                 —
                 Brother
                 —
                 was
                 heard
                 to
                 add
                 :
              
               
                 As
                 she
                 deliver'd
                 it
                 with
                 her
                 commands
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Letter
                 fell
                 from
                 out
                 her
                 trembling
                 hands
                 ,
              
               
                 Dismay'd
                 with
                 the
                 ill
                 Omen
                 ,
                 she
                 anew
              
               
                 Doubted
                 success
                 ,
                 and
                 held
                 ,
                 yet
                 bad
                 him
                 go
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 He
                 goes
                 ,
                 and
                 after
                 quick
                 admission
                 got
              
               
                 To
                 Caunus
                 hands
                 the
                 fatal
                 secret
                 brought
                 :
              
               
                 Soon
                 as
                 the
                 doubtful
                 Youth
                 a
                 glance
                 had
                 cast
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 first
                 lines
                 ,
                 and
                 guest
                 by
                 them
                 the
                 rest
                 ,
              
               
                 Strait
                 horror
                 ,
                 and
                 amazement
                 fill'd
                 his
                 breast
                 :
              
               
                 Impatient
                 with
                 his
                 rage
                 ,
                 he
                 could
                 not
                 stay
              
               
                 To
                 see
                 the
                 end
                 ,
                 but
                 threw
                 't
                 half
                 read
                 away
                 :
              
               
                 Scarce
                 could
                 his
                 hands
                 the
                 trembling
                 wretch
                 forbear
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 did
                 his
                 tongue
                 those
                 angry
                 threatnings
                 spare
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Fly
                 hence
                 ,
                 nor
                 longer
                 my
                 chaf'd
                 fury
                 trust
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Thou
                 cursed
                 Pander
                 of
                 detested
                 Lust
                 ;
              
               
                 "
                 Fly
                 quickly
                 hence
                 ,
                 and
                 to
                 thy
                 swiftness
                 owe
              
               
                 "
                 Thy
                 life
                 ,
                 a
                 forfeit
                 to
                 my
                 vengeance
                 due
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Which
                 ,
                 had
                 not
                 danger
                 of
                 my
                 Honour
                 crost
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 thou
                 'dst
                 paid
                 by
                 this
                 ,
                 and
                 been
                 sent
                 back
                 a
                 Ghost
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 He
                 the
                 rough
                 orders
                 strait
                 obeys
                 ,
                 and
                 bears
              
               
                 The
                 killing
                 news
                 to
                 wretched
                 Byblis
                 ears
                 ;
              
               
                 Like
                 striking
                 Thunder
                 the
                 fierce
                 tidings
                 stun
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 her
                 heart
                 quicker
                 than
                 lightning
                 run
                 :
              
               
               
                 The
                 frighted
                 blood
                 forsakes
                 her
                 ghastly
                 face
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 a
                 short
                 death
                 doth
                 every
                 Member
                 seize
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 soon
                 as
                 sense
                 returns
                 ,
                 her
                 frenzy
                 too
              
               
                 Returns
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 these
                 words
                 breaks
                 forth
                 anew
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 "
                 And
                 justly
                 serv'd
                 ;
                 —
                 for
                 why
                 did
                 foolish
                 I
              
               
                 "
                 Consent
                 to
                 make
                 this
                 rash
                 discovery
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 Why
                 did
                 I
                 thus
                 in
                 hasty
                 lines
                 reveal
              
               
                 "
                 That
                 dang'rous
                 secret
                 ,
                 Honour
                 wou'd
                 conceal
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 I
                 shou'd
                 have
                 first
                 with
                 art
                 disguis'd
                 the
                 hook
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 seen
                 how
                 well
                 the
                 gawdy
                 bait
                 had
                 took
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 found
                 him
                 hung
                 at
                 least
                 before
                 I
                 strook
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 From
                 shore
                 I
                 shou'd
                 have
                 first
                 descri'd
                 the
                 wind
              
               
                 "
                 Whether
                 't
                 would
                 prove
                 to
                 my
                 adventure
                 kind
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 E're
                 I
                 to
                 untry'd
                 Seas
                 my self
                 resign'd
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Now
                 dash'd
                 on
                 Rocks
                 ,
                 unable
                 to
                 retire
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 I
                 must
                 i'
                 th
                 wreck
                 of
                 all
                 my
                 hopes
                 expire
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 "
                 And
                 was
                 not
                 I
                 by
                 tokens
                 plain
                 enough
              
               
                 "
                 Fore-warn'd
                 to
                 quit
                 my
                 inauspicious
                 Love
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 Did
                 not
                 the
                 Fates
                 my
                 ill
                 success
                 foretell
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 When
                 from
                 my
                 hands
                 th'
                 unhappy
                 Letter
                 fell
                 ?
              
               
               
                 "
                 So
                 should
                 my
                 hopes
                 have
                 done
                 ,
                 and
                 my
                 design
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 That
                 ,
                 or
                 the
                 day
                 should
                 then
                 have
                 alter'd
                 been
                 ;
              
               
                 "
                 But
                 rather
                 the
                 unlucky
                 day
                 ;
                 when
                 Heaven
              
               
                 "
                 Such
                 ominous
                 proofs
                 of
                 its
                 dislike
                 had
                 given
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 so
                 it
                 had
                 ,
                 had
                 not
                 mad
                 Passion
                 sway'd
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 Reason
                 been
                 by
                 blinder
                 Love
                 misled
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 "
                 Besides
                 (
                 alas
                 !
                 )
                 I
                 shou'd
                 my self
                 have
                 gone
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Nor
                 made
                 my
                 Pen
                 a
                 proxy
                 to
                 my
                 Tongue
                 ;
              
               
                 "
                 Much
                 more
                 I
                 cou'd
                 have
                 spoke
                 ,
                 much
                 more
                 have
                 told
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Than
                 a
                 short
                 Letter
                 's
                 narrow
                 room
                 would
                 hold
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 He
                 might
                 have
                 seen
                 my
                 looks
                 ,
                 my
                 wishing
                 Eyes
              
               
                 "
                 My
                 melting
                 Tears
                 ,
                 and
                 heard
                 my
                 begging
                 Sighs
                 ;
              
               
                 "
                 About
                 his
                 Neck
                 I
                 could
                 have
                 flung
                 my
                 Arms
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 been
                 all
                 over
                 Love
                 ,
                 all
                 over
                 Charms
                 ;
              
               
                 "
                 Grasp'd
                 ,
                 and
                 hung
                 on
                 his
                 Knees
                 ,
                 and
                 there
                 have
                 dyed
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 There
                 breath'd
                 my
                 gasping
                 Soul
                 out
                 if
                 denied
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 This
                 and
                 ten
                 thousand
                 things
                 I
                 might
                 have
                 done
              
               
                 "
                 To
                 make
                 my
                 Passion
                 with
                 advantage
                 known
                 ;
              
               
               
                 "
                 Which
                 if
                 they
                 each
                 could
                 not
                 have
                 bent
                 his
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Yet
                 surely
                 all
                 had
                 forc'd
                 him
                 to
                 be
                 kind
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 "
                 Perhaps
                 he
                 ,
                 whom
                 I
                 sent
                 ,
                 was
                 too
                 in
                 fault
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Nor
                 rightly
                 tim'd
                 his
                 Message
                 ,
                 as
                 he
                 ought
                 ;
              
               
                 "
                 I
                 fear
                 he
                 went
                 in
                 some
                 ill-chosen
                 hour
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 When
                 cloudy
                 weather
                 made
                 his
                 temper
                 lour
                 .
              
               
                 "
                 Not
                 those
                 calm
                 seasons
                 of
                 the
                 mind
                 ,
                 which
                 prove
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 The
                 fittest
                 to
                 receive
                 the
                 seeds
                 of
                 Love
                 ;
              
            
             
               
                 "
                 These
                 things
                 have
                 ruin'd
                 me
                 ;
                 for
                 doubtless
                 he
              
               
                 "
                 Is
                 made
                 of
                 humane
                 flesh
                 ,
                 and
                 blood
                 ,
                 like
                 me
                 ;
              
               
                 "
                 He
                 suck'd
                 no
                 Tygress
                 sure
                 ,
                 nor
                 Mountain
                 Bear
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Nor
                 does
                 his
                 Breast
                 relentless
                 Marble
                 wear
                 .
              
               
                 "
                 He
                 must
                 ,
                 he
                 shall
                 consent
                 ,
                 again
                 I
                 'll
                 try
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 try
                 again
                 ,
                 if
                 he
                 again
                 deny
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 No
                 scorn
                 ,
                 no
                 harsh
                 repulse
                 ,
                 or
                 rough
                 defeat
              
               
                 "
                 Shall
                 ever
                 my
                 desire
                 ,
                 or
                 hopes
                 rebate
                 .
              
               
                 "
                 My
                 earnest
                 suits
                 shall
                 never
                 give
                 him
                 rest
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 While
                 Life
                 ,
                 and
                 Love
                 more
                 durable
                 ,
                 shall
                 last
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Alive
                 I
                 'll
                 press
                 ,
                 till
                 breath
                 in
                 pray'rs
                 be
                 lost
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 after
                 come
                 a
                 kind
                 beseeching
                 Ghost
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 "
                 For
                 ,
                 if
                 I
                 might
                 ,
                 what
                 I
                 have
                 done
                 ,
                 recall
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 The
                 first
                 point
                 were
                 ,
                 not
                 to
                 have
                 don
                 't
                 at
                 all
                 ;
              
               
                 "
                 But
                 since
                 't
                 is
                 done
                 ,
                 the
                 second
                 to
                 be
                 gain'd
              
               
                 "
                 Is
                 now
                 to
                 have
                 ,
                 what
                 I
                 have
                 sought
                 ,
                 attain'd
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 For
                 he
                 ,
                 though
                 I
                 should
                 now
                 my
                 wishes
                 quit
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Can
                 never
                 my
                 unchast
                 attempts
                 forget
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Should
                 I
                 desist
                 ,
                 't
                 will
                 be
                 believ'd
                 that
                 I
              
               
                 "
                 By
                 slightly
                 asking
                 ,
                 taught
                 him
                 to
                 deny
                 ;
              
               
                 "
                 Or
                 that
                 I
                 tempted
                 him
                 with
                 wily
                 fraud
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 snares
                 for
                 his
                 unwary
                 honour
                 laid
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Or
                 ,
                 what
                 I
                 sent
                 (
                 and
                 the
                 belief
                 were
                 just
                 )
              
               
                 "
                 Were
                 not
                 th'
                 efforts
                 of
                 Love
                 ,
                 but
                 shameful
                 Lust.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 "
                 In
                 fine
                 ,
                 I
                 now
                 dare
                 any
                 thing
                 that
                 's
                 ill
                 ;
              
               
                 "
                 I
                 've
                 writ
                 ,
                 I
                 have
                 solicited
                 ,
                 my
                 will
              
               
                 "
                 Has
                 been
                 debauch'd
                 ;
                 and
                 shou'd
                 I
                 thus
                 give
                 out
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 I
                 cannot
                 chast
                 ,
                 and
                 innocent
                 be
                 thought
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Much
                 there
                 is
                 wanting
                 still
                 to
                 be
                 fulfill'd
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Much
                 to
                 my
                 wish
                 ,
                 but
                 little
                 to
                 my
                 guilt
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 She
                 spoke
                 ;
                 but
                 such
                 is
                 her
                 unsetled
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 〈◊〉
                 from
                 thought
                 to
                 thought
                 ,
                 like
                 veering
                 wind
                 ,
              
               
                 Now
                 to
                 this
                 point
                 ,
                 and
                 now
                 to
                 that
                 inclin'd
                 :
              
               
                 What
                 she
                 could
                 wish
                 had
                 unattempted
                 been
                 :
              
               
                 She
                 strait
                 is
                 eager
                 to
                 attempt
                 agen
                 :
              
               
                 What
                 she
                 repents
                 ,
                 she
                 acts
                 ;
                 and
                 now
                 le
                 ts
                 loose
              
               
                 The
                 reins
                 to
                 Love
                 ,
                 nor
                 any
                 bounds
                 allows
                 ,
              
               
                 Repulse
                 upon
                 repulse
                 umov'd
                 she
                 bears
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 still
                 sues
                 on
                 ,
                 while
                 she
                 her
                 suit
                 despairs
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               
                 A
                 SATYR
              
               Upon
               a
               WOMAN
               ,
               who
               by
               her
               Falshood
               and
               Scorn
               was
               the
               Death
               of
               my
               Friend
               .
            
             
               
                 NO
                 she
                 shall
                 ne're
                 escape
                 ,
                 if
                 Gods
                 there
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Unless
                 they
                 perjur'd
                 grow
                 ,
                 and
                 false
                 as
                 she
                 ;
              
               
                 Though
                 no
                 strange
                 Judgment
                 yet
                 the
                 Murd'ress
                 seize
              
               
                 To
                 punish
                 her
                 ,
                 and
                 quit
                 the
                 partial
                 Skies
                 :
              
               
                 Though
                 no
                 revenging
                 lightni●…g
                 yet
                 has
                 flasht
              
               
                 From
                 thence
                 ,
                 that
                 might
                 her
                 criminal
                 beauties
                 blast
                 :
              
               
                 Tho
                 they
                 in
                 their
                 old
                 lustre
                 still
                 prevail
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 no
                 disease
                 ,
                 nor
                 guilt
                 it self
                 made
                 pale
                 .
              
               
               
                 Guilt
                 ,
                 which
                 should
                 blackest
                 Moors
                 themselves
                 but
                 own
                 ,
              
               
                 Would
                 make
                 through
                 all
                 their
                 night
                 new
                 blushes
                 dawn
                 :
              
               
                 Though
                 that
                 kind
                 soul
                 ,
                 who
                 now
                 augments
                 the
                 blest
                 ,
              
               
                 Thither
                 too
                 soon
                 by
                 her
                 unkindness
                 chas'd
                 .
              
               
                 (
                 Where
                 may
                 it
                 be
                 her
                 small'st
                 ,
                 and
                 lightest
                 doom
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 For
                 that
                 's
                 not
                 half
                 my
                 curse
                 )
                 never
                 to
                 come
                 )
              
               
                 Though
                 he
                 ,
                 when
                 prompted
                 by
                 the
                 high'st
                 despair
                 ,
              
               
                 Ne're
                 mention'd
                 her
                 without
                 an
                 Hymn
                 ,
                 or
                 Prayer
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 could
                 by
                 all
                 her
                 scorn
                 be
                 forc'd
                 no
                 more
              
               
                 Than
                 Martyrs
                 to
                 revile
                 what
                 they
                 adore
                 .
              
               
                 Who
                 ,
                 had
                 he
                 curst
                 her
                 with
                 his
                 dying
                 breath
                 ;
              
               
                 Had
                 done
                 but
                 just
                 ,
                 and
                 Heaven
                 had
                 forgave
                 :
              
               
                 Tho
                 ill-made
                 Law
                 〈◊〉
                 Sentence
                 has
                 ordain'd
              
               
                 For
                 her
                 ,
                 no
                 Statute
                 has
                 her
                 Guilt
                 arraign'd
                 .
              
               
                 (
                 For
                 Hangmen
                 ,
                 Womens
                 Scorn
                 ,
                 and
                 Doctors
                 skill
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 by
                 a
                 licenc'd
                 way
                 of
                 murder
                 kill
                 .
                 )
              
               
               
                 Tho
                 she
                 from
                 Justice
                 of
                 all
                 these
                 go
                 free
              
               
                 And
                 boast
                 perhaps
                 in
                 her
                 success
                 ,
                 and
                 cry
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 but
                 a
                 little
                 harmless
                 perjury
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 think
                 she
                 not
                 ,
                 she
                 still
                 secure
                 shall
                 prove
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 that
                 none
                 dare
                 avenge
                 an
                 injur'd
                 Love
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 rise
                 in
                 Judgement
                 ,
                 am
                 to
                 be
                 to
                 her
              
               
                 Both
                 Witness
                 ,
                 Judge
                 ,
                 and
                 Executioner
                 :
              
               
                 Arm'd
                 with
                 dire
                 Satyr
                 ,
                 and
                 resentful
                 spite
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 come
                 to
                 haunt
                 her
                 with
                 the
                 ghosts
                 of
                 Wit.
              
               
                 My
                 Ink
                 unbid
                 starts
                 out
                 ,
                 and
                 flies
                 on
                 her
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 blood
                 upon
                 some
                 touching
                 murderer
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 shou'd
                 that
                 fail
                 ,
                 rather
                 than
                 want
                 ,
                 I
                 wou'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 Haggs
                 ,
                 to
                 curse
                 her
                 ,
                 write
                 in
                 my
                 own
                 blood
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Ye
                 spightful
                 pow'rs
                 (
                 if
                 any
                 there
                 can
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 boast
                 a
                 worse
                 ,
                 and
                 keener
                 spite
                 than
                 I
                 )
              
               
                 Assist
                 with
                 Malice
                 ,
                 and
                 your
                 mighty
                 aid
              
               
                 My
                 sworn
                 Revenge
                 ,
                 and
                 help
                 me
                 Rhime
                 her
                 dead
                 :
              
               
                 Grant
                 I
                 may
                 fix
                 such
                 brands
                 of
                 Infamy
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 plain
                 ,
                 so
                 deeply
                 grav'd
                 on
                 her
                 ,
                 that
                 she
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Her
                 Skill
                 ,
                 Patches
                 ,
                 nor
                 Paint
                 ,
                 all
                 joyn'd
                 can
                 hide
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 which
                 shall
                 lasting
                 as
                 her
                 Soul
                 abide
                 :
              
               
                 Grant
                 my
                 strong
                 hate
                 may
                 such
                 strong
                 poison
                 cast
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 every
                 breath
                 may
                 taint
                 ,
                 and
                 rot
                 ,
                 and
                 blast
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 one
                 large
                 Gangrene
                 quite
                 o'respread
                 her
                 fame
              
               
                 With
                 foul
                 contagion
                 ;
                 till
                 her
                 odious
                 name
                 ,
              
               
                 Spit
                 at
                 ,
                 and
                 curst
                 by
                 every
                 mouth
                 like
                 mine
                 ,
              
               
                 Be
                 terror
                 to
                 her self
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 her
                 line
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Vilest
                 of
                 that
                 viler
                 Sex
                 ,
                 who
                 damn'd
                 us
                 all
                 !
              
               
                 Ordain'd
                 to
                 cause
                 ,
                 and
                 plague
                 us
                 for
                 ,
                 our
                 fall
                 !
              
               
                 WOMAN
                 !
                 nay
                 worse
                 !
                 for
                 she
                 can
                 nought
                 be
                 said
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Mummy
                 by
                 some
                 Dev'l
                 inhabited
                 :
              
               
                 Not
                 made
                 in
                 Heaven's
                 Mint
                 ,
                 but
                 base
                 coin'd
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 wears
                 an
                 humane
                 image
                 stampt
                 on
                 Fiend
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 whoso
                 Marriage
                 would
                 with
                 her
                 contract
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 Witch
                 by
                 Law
                 ,
                 and
                 that
                 a
                 meer
                 compact
                 :
              
               
                 Her
                 Soul
                 (
                 if
                 any
                 Soul
                 in
                 her
                 there
                 be
                 )
              
               
                 By
                 Hell
                 was
                 breath'd
                 into
                 her
                 in
                 a
                 lye
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 its
                 whole
                 stock
                 of
                 falshood
                 there
                 was
                 lent
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 hereafter
                 to
                 be
                 true
                 it
                 meant
                 :
              
               
               
                 Bawd
                 Nature
                 taught
                 her
                 jilting
                 ,
                 when
                 she
                 made
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 her
                 make
                 ,
                 design'd
                 her
                 for
                 the
                 trade
                 :
              
               
                 Hence
                 't
                 was
                 she
                 daub'd
                 her
                 with
                 a
                 painted
                 Face
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 she
                 at
                 once
                 might
                 better
                 cheat
                 ,
                 and
                 please
                 :
              
               
                 All
                 those
                 gay
                 charming
                 looks
                 ,
                 that
                 court
                 the
                 eye
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 but
                 an
                 ambush
                 to
                 hide
                 treachery
                 ;
              
               
                 Mischief
                 adorn'd
                 with
                 pomp
                 ,
                 and
                 smooth
                 disguise
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 painted
                 skin
                 stuff'd
                 full
                 of
                 guile
                 and
                 lyes
                 ;
              
               
                 Within
                 a
                 gawdy
                 Case
                 ,
                 a
                 nasty
                 Soul
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 T
                 —
                 of
                 quality
                 in
                 a
                 gilt
                 Close-stool
                 :
              
               
                 Such
                 on
                 a
                 Cloud
                 those
                 flatt'ring
                 colours
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 only
                 serve
                 to
                 dress
                 a
                 Tempest
                 fair
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 Men
                 upon
                 this
                 Earth's
                 fair
                 surface
                 dwell
                 ,
              
               
                 Within
                 are
                 Fiends
                 ,
                 and
                 at
                 the
                 center
                 Hell
                 :
              
               
                 Court-promises
                 ,
                 the
                 Leagues
                 ,
                 which
                 States-men
                 make
              
               
                 With
                 more
                 convenience
                 ,
                 and
                 more
                 ease
                 to
                 break
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Faith
                 ,
                 a
                 Jesuit
                 in
                 allegiance
                 swears
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 a
                 Town-jilt
                 to
                 keeping
                 Coxcombs
                 bears
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 firm
                 ,
                 and
                 certain
                 all
                 ,
                 compar'd
                 with
                 hers
                 :
              
               
               
                 Early
                 in
                 falshood
                 ,
                 at
                 her
                 Font
                 she
                 lied
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 should
                 ev'n
                 then
                 for
                 Perjury
                 been
                 tried
                 :
              
               
                 Her
                 Conscience
                 stretch'd
                 ,
                 and
                 open
                 as
                 the
                 Stews
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 laughs
                 at
                 Oaths
                 ,
                 and
                 plays
                 with
                 solemn
                 Vows
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 at
                 her
                 mouth
                 swallows
                 down
                 perjur'd
                 breath
                 ,
              
               
                 More
                 glib
                 than
                 bits
                 of
                 Lechery
                 beneath
                 :
              
               
                 Less
                 serious
                 known
                 ,
                 when
                 she
                 doth
                 most
                 protest
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 thoughts
                 of
                 arrantest
                 Buffoons
                 in
                 jest
                 :
              
               
                 More
                 cheap
                 ,
                 than
                 the
                 vile
                 mercenariest
                 Squire
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 plies
                 for
                 Half-crown
                 Fees
                 at
                 Westminster
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 trades
                 in
                 staple
                 ▪
                 Oaths
                 ,
                 and
                 Swears
                 to
                 hire
                 :
              
               
                 Less
                 Guilt
                 than
                 hers
                 ,
                 less
                 breach
                 of
                 Oath
                 ,
                 and
                 Word
              
               
                 Has
                 stood
                 aloft
                 ,
                 and
                 look'd
                 through
                 Penance
                 board
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 he
                 that
                 trusts
                 her
                 in
                 a
                 Death-bed
                 Prayer
                 ,
              
               
                 Has
                 Faith
                 to
                 merit
                 ,
                 and
                 save
                 any
                 thing
                 ,
                 but
                 her
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 since
                 her
                 Guilt
                 description
                 does
                 out-go
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 try
                 if
                 it
                 out-strip
                 my
                 Curses
                 too
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Curses
                 ,
                 which
                 may
                 they
                 equal
                 my
                 just
                 hate
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 wish
                 ,
                 and
                 her
                 desert
                 ,
                 be
                 each
                 so
                 great
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 heard
                 like
                 Pray'rs
                 ,
                 and
                 Heaven
                 make
                 'em
                 fate
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 First
                 ,
                 for
                 her
                 Beauties
                 ,
                 which
                 the
                 Mischief
                 brought
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 she
                 affected
                 ,
                 they
                 be
                 borrow'd
                 thought
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 her
                 own
                 hand
                 ,
                 not
                 that
                 of
                 Nature
                 wrought
                 :
              
               
                 Her
                 Credit
                 ,
                 Honour
                 ,
                 Portion
                 ,
                 Health
                 ,
                 and
                 those
              
               
                 Prove
                 light
                 ,
                 and
                 frail
                 ,
                 as
                 her
                 broke
                 Faith
                 ,
                 and
                 Vows
                 .
              
               
                 Some
                 base
                 unnam'd
                 Disease
                 ,
                 her
                 Carkass
                 foul
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 make
                 her
                 Body
                 ugly
                 ,
                 as
                 her
                 Soul.
              
               
                 Cankers
                 ,
                 and
                 Ulcers
                 eat
                 her
                 ,
                 till
                 she
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Shun'd
                 like
                 Infection
                 ,
                 loath'd
                 like
                 Infamy
                 .
              
               
                 Strength
                 quite
                 expir'd
                 ,
                 may
                 she
                 alone
                 retain
              
               
                 The
                 snuff
                 of
                 Life
                 ,
                 may
                 that
                 unquench'd
                 remain
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 in
                 the
                 damn'd
                 ,
                 to
                 keep
                 her
                 fresh
                 for
                 pain
                 :
              
               
                 Hot
                 Lust
                 light
                 on
                 her
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 plague
                 of
                 Pride
              
               
                 On
                 that
                 ,
                 this
                 ever
                 scorn'd
                 ,
                 as
                 that
                 denied
                 :
              
               
                 Ach
                 ,
                 Anguish
                 ,
                 horror
                 ,
                 grief
                 ,
                 dishonour
                 ,
                 shame
              
               
                 Pursue
                 at
                 once
                 her
                 body
                 ,
                 soul
                 ,
                 and
                 fame
                 :
              
               
               
                 If
                 e're
                 the
                 Devil-love
                 must
                 enter
                 her
              
               
                 (
                 For
                 nothing
                 sure
                 but
                 Fiends
                 can
                 enter
                 there
                 )
              
               
                 May
                 she
                 a
                 just
                 and
                 true
                 tormenter
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 that
                 like
                 an
                 ill
                 ▪
                 conscience
                 rack
                 her
                 mind
                 :
              
               
                 Be
                 some
                 Diseas'd
                 ,
                 and
                 ugly
                 wretch
                 her
                 fate
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 doom'd
                 to
                 love
                 of
                 one
                 ,
                 whom
                 all
                 else
                 hate
                 .
              
               
                 May
                 he
                 hate
                 her
                 ,
                 and
                 may
                 her
                 destiny
              
               
                 Be
                 to
                 despair
                 ,
                 and
                 yet
                 love
                 on
                 ,
                 and
                 die
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 to
                 invent
                 some
                 wittier
                 punishment
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 he
                 ,
                 to
                 plague
                 her
                 ,
                 out
                 of
                 spite
                 consent
                 ;
              
               
                 May
                 the
                 old
                 fumbler
                 ,
                 though
                 disabled
                 quite
                 ,
              
               
                 Have
                 strength
                 to
                 give
                 her
                 Claps
                 ,
                 but
                 no
                 delight
                 :
              
               
                 May
                 he
                 of
                 her
                 unjustly
                 jealous
                 be
              
               
                 For
                 one
                 that
                 's
                 worse
                 ▪
                 and
                 uglier
                 far
                 than
                 he
                 :
              
               
                 May's
                 Impotence
                 ball●…
                 ,
                 and
                 torment
                 her
                 lust
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 scarcely
                 her
                 to
                 dreams
                 ,
                 or
                 wishes
                 trust
                 :
              
               
                 Forc'd
                 to
                 be
                 chast
                 ,
                 may
                 she
                 suspected
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Share
                 none
                 o'
                 th'
                 Pleasure
                 ,
                 all
                 the
                 Infamy
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 In●…e
                 ,
                 that
                 I
                 all
                 curses
                 may
                 compleat
              
               
                 (
                 For
                 I
                 've
                 but
                 curs'd
                 in
                 jest
                 ,
                 ra●…llied
                 y●…
                 )
              
               
                 Whate're
                 the
                 Sex
                 deserves
                 ,
                 or
                 feels
                 ,
                 or
                 fears
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 all
                 those
                 plagues
                 be
                 hers
                 ,
                 and
                 only
                 hers
                 ;
              
               
                 Whate're
                 great
                 Favourites
                 turn'd
                 out
                 of
                 doors
                 ,
              
               
                 Scorn'd
                 Lovers
                 ,
                 bilk'd
                 and
                 disappointed
                 Whores
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 losing
                 Gamesters
                 vent
                 ,
                 what
                 Curses
                 e're
              
               
                 Are
                 spoke
                 by
                 sinners
                 raving
                 in
                 despair
                 :
              
               
                 All
                 those
                 fall
                 on
                 her
                 ,
                 as
                 they
                 're
                 all
                 her
                 due
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 spite
                 can't
                 think
                 ,
                 nor
                 Heav'n
                 inflict
                 anew
                 :
              
               
                 May
                 then
                 (
                 for
                 once
                 I
                 will
                 be
                 kind
                 ,
                 and
                 pray
                 )
              
               
                 No
                 madness
                 take
                 her
                 use
                 of
                 Sense
                 away
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 may
                 she
                 in
                 full
                 strength
                 of
                 Reason
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 feel
                 ,
                 and
                 understand
                 her
                 misery
                 ;
              
               
                 Plagu'd
                 so
                 ,
                 till
                 she
                 think
                 damning
                 a
                 release
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 humbly
                 pray
                 to
                 go
                 to
                 Hell
                 for
                 ease
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 may
                 not
                 all
                 these
                 suff'rings
                 here
                 attone
              
               
                 Her
                 sin
                 ,
                 and
                 may
                 she
                 still
                 go
                 sinning
                 on
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Tick
                 up
                 in
                 Perjury
                 ,
                 and
                 run
                 o'
                 th
                 Score
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 on
                 her
                 Soul
                 she
                 can
                 get
                 trust
                 no
                 more
                 ▪
              
            
             
               
                 Then
                 may
                 she
                 Stupid
                 ,
                 and
                 Repentless
                 die
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Heav'n
                 it self
                 forgive
                 no
                 more
                 than
                 I
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 so
                 be
                 damn'd
                 of
                 meer
                 necessit●…
                 ;
              
            
             
               FINIS
               .
            
          
        
      
       
         
           
             
             
               SOME
               NEW
               PIECES
               Never
               before
               Publish'd
               .
            
             
               By
               the
               Author
               of
               the
               
                 Satyrs
                 upon
                 the
                 Jesuites
              
               .
            
             
               
                 —
                 Nos
                 otia
                 vitae
              
               
                 Solamur
                 cantu
                 ,
                 ventosaque
                 gaudia
                 famae
              
               
                 Quaerimus
                 .
                 —
              
               
                 Stat.
                 Sylv.
                 
              
            
             
               LONDON
               :
               Printed
               by
               
                 M.
                 C.
              
               for
               
                 Jo.
                 Hindmarsh
              
               ,
               Bookseller
               to
               his
               Royal
               Highness
               ,
               at
               the
               Black
               Bull
               in
               Cornhil
               ,
               1684.
               
            
          
           
             
             
             
               ADVERTISEMENT
               .
            
             
               
                 BEing
                 to
                 appear
                 anew
                 in
                 the
                 World
                 ,
                 it
                 may
                 be
                 expected
                 ,
                 that
                 I
                 should
                 say
                 something
                 concerning
                 these
                 ensuing
                 Trisies
                 ,
                 which
                 I
                 shall
                 endeavour
                 to
                 do
                 with
                 as
                 much
                 briefness
                 ,
                 as
                 I
                 did
                 besore
                 what
                 I
                 last
                 published
                 in
                 this
                 kind
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 I
                 doubt
                 not
                 but
                 the
                 Reader
                 will
                 think
                 me
                 guilty
                 of
                 an
                 high
                 presumption
                 in
                 adventuring
                 upon
                 a
                 Translation
                 of
              
               The
               Art
               of
               Poetry
               ,
               
                 after
                 two
                 such
                 great
                 Hands
                 as
                 have
                 gone
                 before
                 me
                 in
                 the
                 same
                 attempts
                 :
                 I
                 need
                 not
                 acquaint
                 him
                 ,
                 that
                 I
                 mean
              
               Ben
               Johnson
               ,
               
                 and
                 the
                 Earl
                 of
              
               Roscommon
               ,
               
                 the
                 one
                 being
                 of
                 so
                 establish'd
                 an
                 Authority
                 ,
                 that
                 whatever
                 he
                 did
                 is
                 held
                 as
                 Sacred
                 ,
                 the
                 other
                 having
                 lately
                 performed
                 it
                 with
                 such
                 admirable
                 success
                 ,
                 as
                 almost
                 cuts
                 off
                 all
                 hope
                 in
                 any
                 after
                 Pretenders
                 of
                 ever
                 coming
                 up
                 to
                 what
                 he
                 has
                 eone
                 .
                 Howbeit
                 ,
                 when
                 I
                 let
                 him
                 kn●…w
                 ,
                 that
                 it
                 was
                 a
                 Task
                 imposed
                 upon
                 me
                 ,
                 and
                 not
                 what
                 I
                 voluntarily
                 engaged
                 in
                 ;
                 I
                 hope
                 he
                 will
                 be
                 the
                 more
                 favourable
                 in
                 his
                 Censures
                 .
                 I
                 would
                 indeed
                 very
                 willingly
                 have
                 wav'd
                 the
                 undertaking
                 upon
                 the
                 forementioned
                 account
                 ,
                 and
                 urged
                 it
                 as
                 a
                 reason
                 for
                 my
                 declining
                 the
                 same
                 ,
                 but
                 it
                 would
                 not
                 be
                 allowed
                 as
                 sufficient
                 to
                 excuse
                 me
                 therefrom
                 .
                 Wherefore
                 ,
                 being
                 prevailed
                 upon
                 to
                 make
                 an
                 Essay
                 .
                 I
                 fell
                 to
                 thinking
                 of
                 some
                 course
                 ,
                 whereby
                 I
                 might
                 serve
                 my self
                 of
                 the
                 Advantages
                 ,
                 which
                 those
                 that
                 went
                 before
                 me
                 ,
                 have
                 either
                 not
                 
                 minded
                 ,
                 or
                 scrupulously
                 abridged
                 themselves
                 of
                 .
                 This
                 I
                 soon
                 imagined
                 was
                 to
                 be
                 effected
                 by
                 putting
              
               Horace
               
                 into
                 a
                 more
                 modern
                 dress
                 ,
                 than
                 hitherto
                 he
                 has
                 appeared
                 in
                 ,
                 that
                 is
                 by
                 making
                 him
                 speak
                 ,
                 as
                 if
                 he
                 were
                 living
                 ,
                 and
                 writing
                 now
                 .
                 I
                 therefore
                 resolved
                 to
                 alter
                 the
                 Scene
                 from
              
               Rome
               to
               London
               ,
               
                 and
                 to
                 make
                 use
                 of
              
               English
               
                 names
                 of
                 Men
                 ,
                 Places
                 ,
                 and
                 Customs
                 ,
                 where
                 the
                 Parallel
                 would
                 decently
                 permit
                 ,
                 which
                 I
                 conceived
                 would
                 give
                 a
                 kind
                 of
                 new
                 Air
                 to
                 the
                 Poem
                 ,
                 and
                 render
                 it
                 more
                 agreeable
                 to
                 the
                 rellish
                 of
                 the
                 present
                 Age.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 With
                 these
                 Considerations
                 I
                 set
                 upon
                 the
                 Work
                 ,
                 and
                 pursued
                 it
                 accordingly
                 .
                 I
                 have
                 not
                 ,
                 I
                 acknowledg
                 ,
                 been
                 ever-nice
                 in
                 keeping
                 to
                 the
                 words
                 of
                 the
                 Original
                 ,
                 for
                 that
                 were
                 to
                 transgress
                 a
                 Rule
                 therein
                 contained
                 .
                 Nevertheless
                 I
                 have
                 been
                 religiously
                 strict
                 to
                 its
                 sense
                 ,
                 and
                 express'd
                 it
                 in
                 as
                 plain
                 ,
                 and
                 intelligible
                 a
                 manner
                 ,
                 as
                 the
                 Subject
                 would
                 bear
                 .
                 Where
                 I
                 may
                 be
                 thought
                 to
                 have
                 varied
                 from
                 it
                 (
                 which
                 is
                 not
                 above
                 once
                 or
                 twi●…e
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 Passages
                 not
                 much
                 material
                 )
                 the
                 skilful
                 Reader
                 will
                 perceive
                 't
                 was
                 necessary
                 for
                 carrying
                 on
                 my
                 proposed
                 design
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Author
                 himself
                 ,
                 were
                 he
                 again
                 alive
                 ,
                 would
                 (
                 I
                 believe
                 )
                 forgive
                 me
                 .
                 I
                 have
                 been
                 careful
                 to
                 avoid
                 stiffness
                 ,
                 and
                 made
                 it
                 my
                 endeavour
                 to
                 hit
                 (
                 as
                 near
                 as
                 I
                 could
                 )
                 the
                 easie
                 and
                 familiar
                 way
                 of
                 writing
                 ,
                 which
                 is
                 peculiar
                 to
              
               Horace
               
                 in
                 his
                 Epistles
                 ,
                 and
                 was
                 his
                 proper
                 Talent
                 above
                 any
                 of
                 mankind
                 .
                 After
                 all
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 humbly
                 submitted
                 to
                 the
                 judgment
                 of
                 the
                 truly
                 knowing
                 ,
                 how
                 I
                 have
                 acquitted
                 my self
                 herein
                 .
                 Let
                 the
                 success
                 be
                 what
                 it
                 will
                 ,
                 I
                 shall
                 not
                 however
                 wholly
                 repent
                 of
                 my
                 undertaking
                 ,
                 being
                 (
                 I
                 
                 reckon
                 )
                 in
                 some
                 measure
                 recompenced
                 for
                 my
                 pains
                 by
                 the
                 advantage
                 I
                 have
                 reaped
                 of
                 fixing
                 these
                 admirable
                 Rules
                 of
                 Sense
                 so
                 well
                 in
                 my
                 memory
                 .
              
            
             
               The
               Satyr
               and
               Odes
               
                 of
                 the
                 Author
                 ,
                 which
                 follow
                 next
                 in
                 order
                 ,
                 I
                 have
                 translated
                 after
                 the
                 same
                 libertine
                 way
                 .
                 In
                 them
                 also
                 I
                 labour'd
                 under
                 the
                 disadvantages
                 of
                 coming
                 after
                 other
                 persons
                 .
                 The
              
               Satyr
               
                 had
                 been
                 made
                 into
                 a
                 Scene
                 by
              
               Ben
               Johnson
               ,
               
                 in
                 a
                 Play
                 of
                 his
                 ,
                 called
                 the
              
               Poetaster
               .
               
                 After
                 I
                 had
                 finished
                 my
                 imitation
                 thereof
                 ,
                 I
                 came
                 to
                 learn
                 ,
                 that
                 it
                 had
                 been
                 done
                 likewise
                 by
                 Dr.
              
               Sprat
               ,
               
                 and
                 since
                 I
                 have
                 had
                 the
                 sight
                 of
                 it
                 amongst
                 the
                 Printed
                 Translations
                 of
              
               Horace
               
                 's
                 Works
                 .
                 The
              
               Odes
               
                 are
                 there
                 done
                 too
                 ,
                 but
                 not
                 so
                 excellently
                 well
                 ,
                 as
                 ,
                 to
                 discourage
                 any
                 farther
                 endeavours
                 .
                 If
                 these
                 of
                 mine
                 meet
                 with
                 good
                 entertainment
                 in
                 the
                 world
                 ,
                 I
                 may
                 perhaps
                 find
                 leisure
                 to
                 attempt
                 some
                 other
                 of
                 them
                 ,
                 which
                 at
                 present
                 suffer
                 as
                 much
                 from
                 their
                 Translaters
                 ,
                 as
                 the
                 Psalms
                 of
              
               David
               from
               Sternhold
               and
               Hopkins
               .
            
             
               
                 The
                 two
                 sacred
              
               Odes
               
                 I
                 designed
                 not
                 to
                 have
                 made
                 publick
                 now
                 ,
                 forasmuch
                 as
                 they
                 might
                 seem
                 unfit
                 to
                 appear
                 among
                 Subjects
                 of
                 this
                 nature
                 ,
                 and
                 were
                 intended
                 to
                 come
                 forth
                 apart
                 hereafter
                 in
                 company
                 of
                 others
                 of
                 their
                 own
                 kind
                 .
                 But
                 ,
                 having
                 suffer'd
                 Copies
                 of
                 them
                 to
                 straggle
                 abroad
                 in
                 Manuscript
                 ,
                 and
                 remembring
                 the
                 Fate
                 of
                 some
                 other
                 Pieces
                 of
                 mine
                 ,
                 which
                 have
                 formerly
                 stoln
                 into
                 the
                 Press
                 without
                 my
                 leave
                 ,
                 or
                 knowledg
                 ,
                 and
                 be
                 exposed
                 to
                 the
                 world
                 abominably
                 false
                 and
                 uncorrect
                 ;
                 to
                 prevent
                 the
                 same
                 misfortune
                 likely
                 en●…ugh
                 to
                 befal
                 these
                 ,
                 I
                 have
                 been
                 persuaded
                 to
                 yield
                 my
                 consent
                 to
                 their
                 Publishing
                 
                 amongst
                 the
                 rest
                 .
                 Nor
                 is
                 the
                 Printing
                 of
                 such
                 Miscellanies
                 altogether
                 so
                 unpresidented
                 ,
                 but
                 that
                 it
                 may
                 be
                 seen
                 in
                 the
                 Editions
                 of
                 Dr.
              
               Donne
               ,
               
                 and
                 Mr.
              
               Cowley
               
                 's
                 Works
                 ,
                 whether
                 done
                 by
                 their
                 own
                 appointment
                 ,
                 or
                 the
                 sole
                 direction
                 of
                 the
                 Stationers
                 ,
                 I
                 am
                 not
                 able
                 to
                 determine
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 As
                 for
                 the
                 two
                 Essays
                 out
                 of
              
               Greek
               ,
               
                 they
                 were
                 occasioned
                 by
                 a
                 report
                 ,
                 that
                 some
                 persons
                 found
                 fault
                 with
                 the
                 roughness
                 of
                 my
                 Satyrs
                 formerly
                 published
                 ,
                 tho
                 ,
                 upon
                 what
                 ground
                 they
                 should
                 do
                 it
                 ,
                 I
                 could
                 be
                 glad
                 to
                 be
                 informed
                 .
                 Unless
                 I
                 am
                 mistaken
                 ,
                 there
                 are
                 not
                 many
                 Lines
                 but
                 will
                 endure
                 the
                 reading
                 without
                 shocking
                 any
                 Hearer
                 ,
                 that
                 is
                 not
                 too
                 nice
                 ,
                 and
                 censorious
                 .
                 I
                 confess
                 ,
                 I
                 did
                 not
                 so
                 much
                 mind
                 the
                 Cadence
                 ,
                 as
                 the
                 Sense
                 and
                 expressiveness
                 of
                 my
                 words
                 ,
                 and
                 therefore
                 chose
                 not
                 those
                 ,
                 which
                 were
                 best
                 disposed
                 to
                 placing
                 themselves
                 in
                 Rhyme
                 ,
                 but
                 rather
                 the
                 most
                 keen
                 ,
                 and
                 tuant
                 ,
                 as
                 being
                 the
                 most
                 sutable
                 to
                 my
                 Argument
                 .
                 And
                 certainly
                 no
                 one
                 that
                 pretends
                 to
                 distinguish
                 the
                 several
                 Colours
                 of
                 Poetry
                 ,
                 would
                 expect
                 that
              
               Juvenal
               ,
               
                 when
                 he
                 is
                 lashing
                 of
                 Vice
                 and
                 Villany
                 ,
                 should
                 flow
                 so
                 smoothly
                 ,
                 as
              
               Ovid
               ,
               or
               Tibullus
               ,
               
                 when
                 they
                 are
                 describing
                 Amours
                 and
                 Gallantries
                 ,
                 and
                 have
                 nothing
                 to
                 disturb
                 and
                 ruffle
                 the
                 evenness
                 of
                 their
                 Stile
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Howbeit
                 ,
                 to
                 shew
                 that
                 the
                 way
                 I
                 took
                 ,
                 was
                 out
                 of
                 choice
                 ,
                 not
                 want
                 of
                 judgment
                 ,
                 and
                 that
                 my
                 Genius
                 is
                 not
                 wholly
                 uncapa●…e
                 of
                 performing
                 upon
                 more
                 gay
                 and
                 agreeable
                 Subjects
                 ,
                 if
                 my
                 humour
                 inclined
                 me
                 to
                 exercise
                 it
                 ,
                 I
                 have
                 pitch'd
                 upon
                 these
                 two
                 ,
                 which
                 the
                 greatestmen
                 of
                 sense
                 have
                 allowed
                 to
                 be
                 some
                 of
                 the
                 softest
                 and
                 tenderest
                 of
                 all
                 Antiquity
                 .
                 Nay
                 ,
                 if
                 we
                 
                 will
                 believe
              
               Rapine
               ,
               
                 one
                 of
                 the
                 best
                 Criticks
                 which
                 these
                 latter
                 Ages
                 have
                 produced
                 ;
                 they
                 have
                 no
                 other
                 fault
                 ,
                 than
                 that
                 they
                 are
                 too
                 exquisitely
                 delicate
                 for
                 the
                 Character
                 of
                 Pastoral
                 ,
                 which
                 should
                 not
                 seem
                 too
                 laboured
                 ,
                 and
                 w●…ose
                 chief
                 beauty
                 is
                 an
                 unaffected
                 air
                 of
                 plainness
                 and
                 simplicity
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 That
                 ,
                 which
                 laments
                 the
                 Death
                 of
              
               Adonis
               
                 has
                 been
                 attempted
                 in
              
               Latine
               
                 by
                 several
                 great
                 Masters
                 ,
                 namely
                 ,
              
               Vulcanius
               ,
               Douza
               ,
               and
               Monsieur
               le
               Fevre
               .
               
                 The
                 last
                 of
                 them
                 has
                 done
                 it
                 Paraphrastically
                 ,
                 but
                 left
                 good
                 part
                 of
                 the
                 Poem
                 toward
                 the
                 latter
                 end
                 untouch'd
                 ,
                 perhaps
                 because
                 he
                 thought
                 it
                 not
                 so
                 capable
                 of
                 Ornament
                 ,
                 as
                 the
                 rest
                 .
                 Him
                 I
                 chiefly
                 chose
                 to
                 follow
                 ,
                 as
                 being
                 most
                 agreeable
                 to
                 my
                 way
                 of
                 translating
                 ,
                 and
                 where
                 I
                 was
                 at
                 a
                 loss
                 for
                 want
                 of
                 his
                 guidance
                 ,
                 I
                 was
                 content
                 to
                 steer
                 by
                 my
                 own
                 Fancy
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Translation
                 of
                 that
                 upon
              
               Bion
               
                 was
                 begun
                 by
                 another
                 Hand
                 ,
                 as
                 far
                 as
                 the
                 first
                 fifteen
                 Verses
                 ,
                 but
                 who
                 was
                 the
                 Author
                 I
                 could
                 never
                 yet
                 learn.
                 I
                 have
                 been
                 told
                 that
                 they
                 were
                 done
                 by
                 the
                 Earl
                 of
              
               Rochester
               ;
               
                 but
                 I
                 could
                 not
                 well
                 believe
                 it
                 ,
                 both
                 because
                 he
                 seldom
                 medled
                 with
                 such
                 Subjects
                 ,
                 and
                 more
                 especially
                 by
                 reason
                 of
                 an
                 uncorrect
                 line
                 ,
                 or
                 two
                 to
                 be
                 found
                 amongst
                 them
                 ,
                 at
                 their
                 first
                 coming
                 to
                 my
                 hands
                 ,
                 which
                 never
                 us'd
                 to
                 flow
                 from
                 his
                 excellent
                 Pen.
                 Conceiving
                 it
                 to
                 be
                 in
                 the
                 Original
                 ,
                 a
                 piece
                 of
                 as
                 much
                 Art
                 ,
                 Grace
                 ,
                 and
                 Tenderness
                 ,
                 as
                 perhaps
                 was
                 ever
                 offered
                 to
                 the
                 Ashes
                 of
                 a
                 Poet
                 ,
                 I
                 thought
                 fit
                 to
                 dedicate
                 it
                 to
                 the
                 memory
                 of
                 that
                 incomparable
                 Person
                 ,
                 of
                 whom
                 nothing
                 can
                 be
                 said
                 ,
                 or
                 thought
                 so
                 choice
                 and
                 curious
                 ,
                 which
                 his
                 Deserts
                 do
                 not
                 surmount
                 .
                 If
                 it
                 be
                 thought
                 mean
                 to
                 have
                 borrowed
                 the
                 sense
                 of
                 another
                 to
                 praise
                 him
                 
                 in
                 ,
                 yet
                 at
                 least
                 it
                 argues
                 at
                 the
                 same
                 time
                 a
                 value
                 and
                 reverence
                 ,
                 that
                 I
                 durst
                 not
                 think
                 any
                 thing
                 of
                 my
                 own
                 good
                 enough
                 for
                 his
                 Commendation
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 This
                 is
                 all
                 ,
                 which
                 I
                 judg
                 material
                 to
                 be
                 said
                 of
                 these
                 following
                 Resveries
                 .
                 As
                 for
                 what
                 others
                 are
                 to
                 be
                 found
                 in
                 the
                 parcel
                 ,
                 I
                 reckon
                 them
                 not
                 worth
                 mentioning
                 in
                 particular
                 ,
                 but
                 leave
                 them
                 wholly
                 open
                 and
                 unguarded
                 to
                 the
                 mercy
                 o●…
                 the
                 Reader
                 ;
                 let
                 him
                 make
                 his
                 Attaques
                 how
                 ,
                 and
                 where
                 he
                 please
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
               
                 HORACE
                 His
                 ART
                 of
                 POETRY
                 ,
                 Imitated
                 in
              
               English.
               
            
             
               Address'd
               by
               way
               of
               Letter
               to
               a
               Friend
               .
            
             
               
                 SHould
                 some
                 ill
                 Painter
                 in
                 a
                 wild
                 design
              
               
                 To
                 a
                 mans
                 Head
                 an
                 Horses
                 shoulders
                 joyn
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 Fishes
                 Tail
                 to
                 a
                 fair
                 Womans
                 Was●…
              
               
                 Or
                 draw
                 the
                 Limbs
                 of
                 many
                 a
                 different
                 Beast
                 ,
              
               
                 Ill
                 match'd
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 as
                 motly
                 Feathers
                 drest
                 ;
              
               
                 If
                 you
                 by
                 chance
                 were
                 to
                 pass
                 by
                 his
                 Shop
                 ;
              
               
                 Could
                 you
                 forbear
                 from
                 laughing
                 at
                 the
                 Fop
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 not
                 believe
                 him
                 whimsical
                 ,
                 or
                 mad
                 ?
              
               
                 Credit
                 me
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ;
                 that
                 Book
                 is
                 quite
                 as
                 bad
                 ,
              
               
               
                 As
                 worthy
                 laughter
                 ,
                 which
                 throughout
                 is
                 fill'd
              
               
                 With
                 monstrous
                 inconsistencies
                 ,
                 more
                 vain
                 ,
                 and
                 wild
              
               
                 Than
                 sick
                 mensDreams
                 ,
                 whose
                 neither
                 head
                 ,
                 nor
                 tail
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 any
                 parts
                 in
                 due
                 proportion
                 fall
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 't
                 will
                 be
                 said
                 ,
                 
                   None
                   ever
                   did
                   deny
                
              
               
                 
                   Painters
                   and
                   Poets
                   their
                   free
                   liberty
                
              
               
                 
                   Of
                   feigning
                   any
                   thing
                
                 :
                 We
                 grant
                 it
                 true
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 same
                 privilege
                 crave
                 and
                 allow
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 to
                 mix
                 natures
                 clearly
                 opposite
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 the
                 Serpent
                 and
                 the
                 Dove
                 unite
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 Lambs
                 from
                 savage
                 Tygers
                 seek
                 defence
                 ,
              
               
                 Shocks
                 Reason
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Rules
                 of
                 common
                 Sense
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Some
                 ,
                 who
                 would
                 have
                 us
                 think
                 they
                 meant
                 to
                 treat
              
               
                 At
                 first
                 on
                 Arguments
                 of
                 greatest
                 weight
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 〈◊〉
                 ,
                 when
                 here
                 and
                 there
                 a
                 glittering
                 line
              
               
                 Does
                 through
                 the
                 mass
                 of
                 their
                 coarse
                 rubbish
                 shine
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 gay
                 digtessions
                 they
                 delight
                 to
                 rove
                 ,
              
               
                 Describing
                 here
                 a
                 Temple
                 ,
                 there
                 a
                 Grove
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Vale
                 enamel'd
                 o're
                 with
                 pleasant
                 streams
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 painted
                 Rainbow
                 ,
                 or
                 the
                 gliding
                 Thames
                 .
              
               
               
                 But
                 how
                 does
                 this
                 relate
                 to
                 their
                 design
                 ?
              
               
                 Though
                 good
                 elsewhere
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 here
                 but
                 foisted
                 in
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 common
                 Dawber
                 may
                 perhaps
                 have
                 skill
              
               
                 To
                 paint
                 a
                 Tavern
                 Sign
                 ,
                 or
                 Landskip
                 well
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 is
                 this
                 to
                 drawing
                 of
                 a
                 Fight
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Wrack
                 ,
                 a
                 Storm
                 ,
                 or
                 the
                 
                   last
                   Judgment
                
                 right
                 ?
              
               
                 When
                 the
                 fair
                 Model
                 ,
                 and
                 Foundation
                 shews
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 you
                 some
                 great
                 Escurial
                 would
                 produce
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 comes
                 it
                 dwindled
                 to
                 a
                 Cottage
                 thus
                 ?
              
               
                 In
                 fine
                 ,
                 whatever
                 work
                 you
                 mean
                 to
                 frame
                 ,
              
               
                 Be
                 uniform
                 ,
                 and
                 every
                 where
                 the
                 same
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Most
                 Poets
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 (
                 't
                 is
                 easie
                 to
                 observe
                 )
              
               
                 Into
                 the
                 worst
                 of
                 faults
                 are
                 apt
                 to
                 swerve
              
               
                 Through
                 a
                 false
                 hope
                 of
                 reaching
                 excellence
                 :
              
               
                 Avoiding
                 length
                 ,
                 we
                 often
                 cramp
                 our
                 Sense
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 make
                 't
                 obscure
                 ;
                 oft
                 ,
                 when
                 we'd
                 have
                 our
                 stile
              
               
                 Easie
                 ,
                 and
                 flowing
                 ,
                 lose
                 its
                 force
                 the
                 while
                 :
              
               
                 Some
                 ,
                 striving
                 to
                 surmount
                 the
                 common
                 flight
                 ,
              
               
                 Soar
                 up
                 in
                 airy
                 Bombast
                 out
                 of
                 sight
                 .
              
               
                 Others
                 ,
                 who
                 fear
                 to
                 a
                 bold
                 pitch
                 to
                 trust
              
               
                 Themselves
                 ,
                 flag
                 low
                 ,
                 and
                 humbly
                 sweep
                 the
                 dust
                 :
              
               
               
                 And
                 many
                 fond
                 of
                 seeming
                 marvellous
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 they
                 too
                 carelesly
                 transgress
                 the
                 Laws
              
               
                 Of
                 likelihood
                 ,
                 most
                 odd
                 Chimeras
                 feign
                 ,
              
               
                 Dolphins
                 in
                 Woods
                 ,
                 and
                 Boars
                 upon
                 the
                 Main
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 they
                 ,
                 who
                 would
                 take
                 aim
                 ,
                 but
                 want
                 the
                 skill
                 ,
              
               
                 Miss
                 always
                 ,
                 and
                 shoot
                 wide
                 ,
                 or
                 narrow
                 still
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 One
                 of
                 the
                 meanest
                 Workmen
                 in
                 the
                 Town
              
               
                 Can
                 imitate
                 the
                 Nails
                 ,
                 or
                 Hair
                 in
                 Stone
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 the
                 life
                 enough
                 perhaps
                 ,
                 who
                 yet
              
               
                 Wants
                 mastery
                 to
                 make
                 the
                 Work
                 complete
                 :
              
               
                 Troth
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 if
                 't
                 were
                 my
                 fancy
                 to
                 compose
                 ,
              
               
                 Rather
                 than
                 be
                 this
                 bungling
                 wretch
                 ,
                 I
                 'd
                 choos●…
              
               
                 To
                 wear
                 a
                 crooked
                 and
                 unsightly
                 Nose
              
               
                 Mongst
                 other
                 handsom
                 features
                 of
                 a
                 Face
              
               
                 Which
                 only
                 would
                 set
                 off
                 my
                 ugliness
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Be
                 sure
                 all
                 you
                 that
                 undertake
                 to
                 write
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 chuse
                 a
                 Subject
                 for
                 your
                 Genius
                 fit
                 :
              
               
                 Try
                 long
                 and
                 often
                 what
                 your
                 Talents
                 are
                 ;
              
               
                 What
                 is
                 the
                 burthen
                 ,
                 which
                 your
                 parts
                 will
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 where
                 they
                 'l
                 fail
                 :
                 he
                 that
                 discerns
                 with
                 skill
              
               
                 To
                 ●…ull
                 his
                 Argument
                 ,
                 and
                 matter
                 well
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Will
                 never
                 be
                 to
                 seek
                 for
                 Eloquence
              
               
                 To
                 dress
                 ,
                 or
                 method
                 to
                 dispose
                 his
                 Sense
                 .
              
               
                 They
                 the
                 chief
                 Art
                 ,
                 and
                 Grace
                 in
                 order
                 show
              
               
                 (
                 If
                 I
                 may
                 claim
                 any
                 pretence
                 to
                 know
                 )
              
               
                 Who
                 time
                 discreetly
                 what
                 's
                 to
                 be
                 discours'd
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 should
                 be
                 said
                 at
                 last
                 ,
                 and
                 what
                 at
                 first
                 :
              
               
                 Some
                 passages
                 at
                 present
                 may
                 be
                 heard
                 ,
              
               
                 Others
                 till
                 afterward
                 are
                 best
                 deferr'd
                 :
              
               
                 Verse
                 ,
                 which
                 disdains
                 the
                 Laws
                 of
                 History
                 ,
              
               
                 Speaks
                 things
                 not
                 as
                 they
                 are
                 ,
                 but
                 ought
                 to
                 be
                 :
              
               
                 Whoever
                 will
                 in
                 Poetry
                 excel
                 ,
              
               
                 Must
                 learn
                 ,
                 and
                 use
                 this
                 hidden
                 secret
                 well
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 'T
                 is
                 next
                 to
                 be
                 observ'd
                 ,
                 that
                 care
                 is
                 due
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sparingness
                 in
                 framing
                 words
                 anew
                 :
              
               
                 You
                 shew
                 your
                 mast'ry
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 have
                 the
                 knack
              
               
                 So
                 to
                 make
                 use
                 of
                 what
                 known
                 word
                 you
                 take
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 give
                 't
                 a
                 newer
                 sense
                 :
                 if
                 there
                 be
                 need
              
               
                 For
                 some
                 uncommon
                 matter
                 to
                 be
                 said
                 ;
              
               
                 Pow'r
                 of
                 inventing
                 terms
                 may
                 be
                 allow'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 Chaucer
                 and
                 his
                 Age
                 ne're
                 understood
                 :
              
               
               
                 Provided
                 always
                 ,
                 as
                 't
                 was
                 said
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 seldom
                 ,
                 and
                 discreetly
                 use
                 that
                 pow'r
                 .
              
               
                 Words
                 new
                 and
                 forein
                 may
                 be
                 best
                 brought
                 in
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 borrow'd
                 from
                 a
                 Language
                 near
                 akin
                 :
              
               
                 Why
                 should
                 the
                 peevish
                 Criticks
                 now
                 forbid
              
               
                 To
                 Lee
                 ,
                 and
                 Dryden
                 ,
                 what
                 was
                 not
                 deny'd
              
               
                 To
                 
                   Shakespear
                   ,
                   Ben
                
                 ,
                 and
                 Fletcher
                 heretofore
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 which
                 they
                 praise
                 ,
                 and
                 commendation
                 bore
                 ?
              
               
                 If
                 
                 Spencer's
                 Muse
                 be
                 justly
                 so
                 ador'd
              
               
                 For
                 that
                 rich
                 copiousness
                 ,
                 wherewith
                 he
                 stor'd
              
               
                 Our
                 Native
                 Tongue
                 ;
                 for
                 Gods
                 sake
                 why
                 should
                 I
              
               
                 Straight
                 be
                 thought
                 arrogant
                 ;
                 if
                 modestly
              
               
                 I
                 claim
                 and
                 use
                 the
                 self-same
                 liberty
                 ?
              
               
                 This
                 the
                 just
                 Right
                 of
                 Poets
                 ever
                 was
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 will
                 be
                 still
                 ,
                 to
                 coin
                 what
                 words
                 they
                 please
                 ,
              
               
                 Well
                 fitted
                 to
                 the
                 present
                 Age
                 ,
                 and
                 Place
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 Words
                 with
                 the
                 Leaves
                 of
                 Trees
                 a
                 semblance
                 hold
              
               
                 In
                 this
                 respect
                 ,
                 where
                 every
                 year
                 the
                 old
              
               
                 Fall
                 off
                 ,
                 and
                 new
                 ones
                 in
                 their
                 places
                 grow
                 :
              
               
                 Death
                 is
                 the
                 Fate
                 of
                 all
                 things
                 here
                 below
                 :
              
               
               
                 Nature
                 herself
                 by
                 Art
                 has
                 changes
                 felt
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Tangier
                 Mole
                 (
                 by
                 our
                 great
                 Monarch
                 built
                 )
              
               
                 Like
                 a
                 vast
                 Bulwark
                 in
                 the
                 Ocean
                 set
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 Pyrates
                 and
                 from
                 Storms
                 defends
                 our
                 Fleet
                 :
              
               
                 Fens
                 every
                 day
                 are
                 drain'd
                 ,
                 and
                 Men
                 now
                 Plow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ●…ow
                 ,
                 and
                 Reap
                 ,
                 where
                 they
                 before
                 might
                 Row
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Rivers
                 have
                 been
                 taught
                 by
                 Middleton
              
               
                 From
                 their
                 old
                 course
                 within
                 new
                 Banks
                 to
                 run
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 pay
                 their
                 useful
                 Tribute
                 to
                 the
                 Town
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 Mans
                 and
                 Natures
                 works
                 submit
                 to
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 Much
                 less
                 must
                 words
                 expect
                 a
                 lasting
                 date
                 :
              
               
                 Many
                 which
                 we
                 approve
                 for
                 currant
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 next
                 Age
                 out
                 of
                 request
                 shall
                 grow
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 others
                 which
                 are
                 now
                 thrown
                 out
                 of
                 doors
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 be
                 reviv'd
                 ,
                 and
                 come
                 again
                 in
                 force
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 custom
                 please
                 :
                 from
                 whence
                 their
                 vogue
                 they
                 draw
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 of
                 our
                 Speech
                 is
                 the
                 sole
                 Judg
                 ,
                 and
                 Law.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Homer
                 first
                 shew'd
                 us
                 in
                 Heroick
                 strains
              
               
                 To
                 write
                 of
                 Wars
                 ,
                 of
                 Battles
                 and
                 Campaigns
                 ,
              
               
                 Kings
                 and
                 great
                 Leaders
                 ,
                 mighty
                 in
                 Renown
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 him
                 we
                 still
                 for
                 our
                 chief
                 Pattern
                 own
                 ,
              
            
             
               
               
                 Soft
                 Elegy
                 ,
                 design'd
                 for
                 grief
                 ,
                 and
                 tears
                 ,
              
               
                 Was
                 first
                 devis'd
                 to
                 grace
                 some
                 mournful
                 Herse
                 :
              
               
                 Since
                 to
                 a
                 brisker
                 note
                 't
                 is
                 taught
                 to
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 cloaths
                 our
                 gayest
                 Passions
                 ,
                 Joy
                 ,
                 and
                 Love.
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 who
                 was
                 first
                 Inventer
                 of
                 the
                 kind
                 ,
              
               
                 Criticks
                 have
                 sought
                 ,
                 but
                 never
                 yet
                 could
                 find
                 .
              
               
                 Gods
                 ,
                 Heroes
                 ,
                 Warriors
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 losty
                 praise
              
               
                 Of
                 peaceful
                 Conquerors
                 in
                 
                 Pisa's
                 Race
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Mirth
                 and
                 Joys
                 ,
                 which
                 Love
                 and
                 Wine
                 produce
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 other
                 wanton
                 sallies
                 of
                 a
                 Muse
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 stately
                 Ode
                 does
                 for
                 its
                 Subjects
                 choose
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Archilochus
                 to
                 vent
                 his
                 Gall
                 and
                 spite
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 keen
                 Iambicks
                 first
                 was
                 known
                 to
                 write
                 :
              
               
                 Dramatick
                 Authors
                 us'd
                 this
                 sort
                 of
                 Verse
              
               
                 On
                 all
                 the
                 Greek
                 and
                 Roman
                 Theaters
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 for
                 Discourse
                 and
                 Conversation
                 fit
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ap●…'st
                 to
                 drown
                 the
                 noises
                 of
                 the
                 Pit
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 If
                 I
                 discern
                 not
                 the
                 true
                 stile
                 and
                 air
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 how
                 to
                 give
                 the
                 proper
                 Character
              
               
               
                 To
                 every
                 kind
                 of
                 work
                 ;
                 how
                 dare
                 I
                 claim
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 challenge
                 to
                 my self
                 a
                 Poets
                 Name
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 why
                 had
                 I
                 with
                 awkard
                 modesty
                 ,
              
               
                 Rather
                 than
                 learn
                 ,
                 always
                 unskilful
                 be
                 ?
              
               
                 Volp●…ne
                 and
                 M●…rose
                 will
                 not
                 admit
              
               
                 Of
                 
                 Catiline's
                 high
                 strains
                 ,
                 nor
                 is
                 it
                 fit
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 Sejanus
                 on
                 the
                 Stage
                 appear
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 low
                 dress
                 ,
                 which
                 Comick
                 persons
                 wear
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 e're
                 the
                 Subject
                 be
                 ,
                 on
                 which
                 you
                 write
                 ,
              
               
                 Give
                 each
                 thing
                 its
                 due
                 place
                 ,
                 and
                 time
                 aright
                 :
              
            
             
               
                 Yet
                 Comedy
                 sometimes
                 may
                 raise
                 her
                 stile
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 angry
                 Chremes
                 is
                 allow'd
                 to
                 swell
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Tragedy
                 alike
                 sometimes
                 has
                 leave
              
               
                 To
                 throw
                 off
                 Majesty
                 ,
                 when
                 't
                 is
                 to
                 grieve
                 :
              
               
                 Peleus
                 and
                 Telephus
                 in
                 misery
                 ,
              
               
                 Lay
                 their
                 big
                 words
                 ,
                 and
                 blust'ring
                 language
                 by
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 they
                 expect
                 to
                 make
                 their
                 Audience
                 cry
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 not
                 enough
                 to
                 have
                 your
                 Plays
                 succeed
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 they
                 be
                 elegant
                 :
                 they
                 must
                 not
                 need
              
               
               
                 Those
                 warm
                 and
                 moving
                 touches
                 which
                 impart
              
               
                 A
                 kind
                 con●…rnment
                 to
                 each
                 Hearers
                 heart
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ravish
                 it
                 which
                 way
                 they
                 please
                 with
                 art
                 .
              
               
                 Where
                 Joy
                 and
                 Sorrow
                 put
                 on
                 good
                 disguise
                 ,
              
               
                 Ours
                 with
                 the
                 persons
                 looks
                 straight
                 sympathize
                 :
              
               
                 Would'st
                 have
                 me
                 weep
                 ?
                 thy self
                 must
                 first
                 begin
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 ,
                 Telephus
                 ,
                 to
                 pity
                 I
                 incline
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 think
                 thy
                 case
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 thy
                 suff●…rings
                 mine
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 if
                 thou'
                 rt
                 made
                 to
                 act
                 thy
                 part
                 amiss
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 can't
                 forbear
                 to
                 sleep
                 ,
                 or
                 laugh
                 ,
                 or
                 hiss
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 words
                 express
                 the
                 looks
                 ,
                 which
                 speakers
                 wear
                 ;
              
               
                 Sad
                 ,
                 fit
                 a
                 mournful
                 ,
                 and
                 dejected
                 air
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 passionate
                 must
                 huff
                 ,
                 and
                 storm
                 ,
                 and
                 rave
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 gay
                 be
                 pleasant
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 serious
                 grave
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 Nature
                 works
                 ,
                 and
                 moulds
                 our
                 Frame
                 within
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 take
                 all
                 manner
                 of
                 Impressions
                 in
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 makes
                 us
                 hot
                 ,
                 and
                 ready
                 to
                 take
                 fire
                 ,
              
               
                 Now
                 hope
                 ,
                 now
                 joy
                 ,
                 now
                 sorrow
                 does
                 inspire
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 these
                 passions
                 in
                 our
                 face
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 which
                 the
                 Tongue
                 is
                 sole
                 interpreter
                 :
              
               
               
                 But
                 he
                 whose
                 words
                 ,
                 and
                 Fortunes
                 do
                 not
                 suit
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 Pit
                 and
                 Gall'ty
                 both
                 ,
                 is
                 hooted
                 out
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Observe
                 what
                 Characters
                 your
                 persons
                 fit
                 ,
              
               
                 Whether
                 the
                 Master
                 speak
                 ,
                 or
                 Todelet
                 :
              
               
                 Whether
                 a
                 man
                 ,
                 that
                 's
                 elderly
                 in
                 growth
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 a
                 brisk
                 Hotspur
                 in
                 his
                 boiling
                 youth
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 roaring
                 Bully
                 ,
                 or
                 a
                 shirking
                 Cheat
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Court-bred
                 Lady
                 ,
                 or
                 a
                 tawdry
                 Cit
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 prating
                 Gossip
                 ,
                 or
                 a
                 jilting
                 Whore
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 travell'd
                 Merchant
                 ,
                 or
                 an
                 home
                 spun
                 Boor
                 :
              
               
                 Spaniard
                 ,
                 or
                 
                   French
                   ,
                   Italian
                   ,
                   Dutch
                
                 ,
                 or
                 Dane
                 ;
              
               
                 Native
                 of
                 
                   Turky
                   ,
                   India
                
                 ,
                 or
                 Japan
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Either
                 from
                 History
                 your
                 persons
                 take
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 let
                 them
                 nothing
                 inconsistent
                 speak
                 :
              
               
                 If
                 you
                 bring
                 great
                 Achilles
                 on
                 the
                 Stage
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 him
                 be
                 fierce
                 and
                 brave
                 ,
                 all
                 heat
                 and
                 rage
                 ,
              
               
                 Inflexible
                 ,
                 and
                 head-strong
                 to
                 all
                 Laws
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 those
                 ,
                 which
                 Arms
                 and
                 his
                 own
                 will
                 impose
                 .
              
               
                 Cruel
                 Medea
                 must
                 no
                 pity
                 have
                 ,
              
               
                 Ixion
                 must
                 be
                 treacherous
                 ,
                 Ino
                 grieve
                 ,
              
               
                 Io
                 must
                 wander
                 ,
                 and
                 Orestes
                 rave
                 ,
              
               
               
                 But
                 if
                 you
                 dare
                 to
                 tread
                 in
                 paths
                 unknown
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 boldly
                 start
                 new
                 persons
                 of
                 your
                 own
                 ;
              
               
                 Be
                 sure
                 to
                 make
                 them
                 in
                 one
                 strain
                 agree
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 let
                 the
                 end
                 like
                 the
                 beginning
                 be
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 'T
                 is
                 difficult
                 for
                 Writers
                 to
                 succeed
              
               
                 On
                 Arguments
                 ,
                 which
                 none
                 before
                 have
                 tri'd
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Iliad
                 ,
                 or
                 the
                 Odyssee
                 with
                 ease
              
               
                 Will
                 better
                 furnish
                 Subjects
                 for
                 your
                 Plays
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 that
                 you
                 should
                 your
                 own
                 Invention
                 trust
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 broath
                 unheard
                 of
                 things
                 your self
                 the
                 first
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 copying
                 others
                 works
                 ,
                 to
                 make
                 them
                 pass
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 seem
                 your
                 own
                 ,
                 let
                 these
                 few
                 Rules
                 take
                 place
                 :
              
               
                 When
                 you
                 some
                 of
                 the●…r
                 Story
                 represent
                 ,
              
               
                 Take
                 care
                 that
                 you
                 new
                 Episodes
                 invent
                 :
              
               
                 Be
                 not
                 too
                 nice
                 the
                 Authors
                 words
                 to
                 trace
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 vary
                 all
                 with
                 a
                 fresh
                 air
                 ,
                 and
                 grace
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 such
                 strict
                 rules
                 of
                 imitation
                 choose
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 you
                 must
                 still
                 be
                 tied
                 to
                 follow
                 close
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 forc'd
                 to
                 a
                 retreat
                 for
                 want
                 of
                 room
                 ,
              
               
                 Give
                 over
                 ,
                 and
                 ridiculous
                 become
                 :
              
            
             
               
               
                 Do
                 not
                 like
                 that
                 affected
                 Fool
                 begin
                 ,
              
               
                 King
                 Priam's
                 
                   Fate
                   ,
                   and
                
                 Troy's
                 
                   fam'd
                   War
                   ,
                   I
                   sing
                
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 will
                 this
                 mighty
                 Promiser
                 produce
                 ?
              
               
                 You
                 look
                 for
                 Mountains
                 ,
                 and
                 out
                 creeps
                 a
                 Mouse
                 .
              
               
                 How
                 short
                 is
                 this
                 of
                 
                 Homer's
                 fine
                 Address
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Art
                 ,
                 who
                 ne're
                 says
                 any
                 thing
                 amiss
                 ?
              
               
                 
                   Muse
                   ,
                   speak
                   the
                   man
                   ,
                   Who
                   since
                
                 Troy
                 
                   's
                   laying
                   waste
                
              
               
                 
                   Into
                   such
                   numerous
                   Dangers
                   has
                   been
                   cast
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   So
                   many
                   Towns
                   ,
                   and
                   various
                   People
                   past
                   :
                
              
               
                 He
                 does
                 not
                 lavish
                 at
                 a
                 blaze
                 his
                 Fire
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 glare
                 a
                 while
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 a
                 Snuff
                 expire
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 modesty
                 at
                 first
                 conceals
                 his
                 light
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 dazling
                 wonders
                 ,
                 then
                 breaks
                 forth
                 to
                 sight
                 ;
              
               
                 Surprizes
                 you
                 with
                 Miracles
                 all
                 o're
                 ,
              
               
                 Makes
                 dreadful
                 Scylla
                 and
                 Charybdis
                 roar
                 ,
              
               
                 Cyclops
                 ,
                 and
                 bloudy
                 Lestrygons
                 devour
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 does
                 he
                 time
                 in
                 long
                 Preambles
                 spend
                 ,
              
               
                 Describing
                 
                 Meleager's
                 rusul
                 end
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 he
                 's
                 of
                 
                 Di●…ed's
                 return
                 to
                 treat
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 when
                 he
                 would
                 the
                 Trojan
                 War
                 relare
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Tale
                 of
                 brooding
                 
                 Leda's
                 Eggs
                 repeat
                 .
              
               
               
                 But
                 still
                 to
                 the
                 design'd
                 event
                 hastes
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 at
                 first
                 dash
                 ,
                 as
                 if
                 before
                 't
                 were
                 known
                 ,
              
               
                 Embarques
                 you
                 in
                 the
                 middle
                 of
                 the
                 Plot
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 what
                 is
                 unimprovable
                 leaves
                 out
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 mixes
                 Truth
                 and
                 Fiction
                 skilfully
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 nothing
                 in
                 the
                 whole
                 may
                 disagree
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Who
                 e're
                 you
                 are
                 ,
                 that
                 set
                 your selves
                 to
                 write
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 you
                 expect
                 to
                 have
                 your
                 Audience
                 sit
              
               
                 Till
                 the
                 fifth
                 Act
                 be
                 done
                 ,
                 and
                 Curtain
                 fall
                 ;
              
               
                 Mind
                 what
                 Instructions
                 I
                 shall
                 further
                 tell
                 :
              
               
                 Our
                 Guise
                 ,
                 and
                 Manners
                 alter
                 with
                 our
                 Age
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 such
                 they
                 must
                 be
                 brought
                 upon
                 the
                 Stage
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 Child
                 ,
                 who
                 newly
                 has
                 to
                 Speech
                 attain'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 can
                 go
                 without
                 the
                 Nurses
                 hand
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 play
                 with
                 those
                 of
                 his
                 own
                 growth
                 is
                 pleas'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Suddenly
                 angry
                 ,
                 and
                 as
                 soon
                 appeas'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Fond
                 of
                 new
                 Trifles
                 ,
                 and
                 as
                 quickly
                 cloy'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 loaths
                 next
                 hour
                 what
                 he
                 the
                 last
                 enjoy'd
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 beardless
                 Youth
                 from
                 Pedagogue
                 got
                 loose
                 ;
              
               
                 Does
                 Dogs
                 and
                 Horses
                 for
                 his
                 pleasures
                 choose
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Yielding
                 ,
                 and
                 soft
                 to
                 every
                 print
                 of
                 vice
                 ,
              
               
                 Resty
                 to
                 those
                 who
                 would
                 his
                 faults
                 chastise
                 ,
              
               
                 Careless
                 of
                 Profit
                 ,
                 of
                 expences
                 vain
                 ,
              
               
                 Haughty
                 ,
                 and
                 eager
                 his
                 desires
                 t'
                 obtain
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 swift
                 to
                 quit
                 the
                 same
                 desires
                 again
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Those
                 ,
                 who
                 to
                 manly
                 years
                 ,
                 and
                 sense
                 are
                 grown
                 ,
              
               
                 Seek
                 Wealth
                 and
                 Friendship
                 ,
                 Honour
                 and
                 Renown
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 are
                 discreet
                 ,
                 and
                 fearful
                 how
                 to
                 act
              
               
                 What
                 after
                 they
                 must
                 alter
                 and
                 correct
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Diseases
                 ,
                 Ills
                 ,
                 and
                 Troubles
                 numberless
              
               
                 Attend
                 old
                 Men
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 their
                 Age
                 increase
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 painful
                 toil
                 they
                 spend
                 their
                 wretched
                 years
                 ,
              
               
                 Still
                 heaping
                 Wealth
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 that
                 wealth
                 new
                 cares
                 :
              
               
                 Fond
                 to
                 possess
                 ,
                 and
                 fearful
                 to
                 enjoy
                 ,
              
               
                 Slow
                 ,
                 and
                 suspicious
                 in
                 their
                 managry
                 ,
              
               
                 Full
                 of
                 Delays
                 ,
                 and
                 Hopes
                 ,
                 lovers
                 of
                 ease
                 ,
              
               
                 Greedy
                 of
                 life
                 ,
                 morose
                 ,
                 and
                 hard
                 to
                 please
                 ,
              
               
                 Envious
                 at
                 Pleasures
                 of
                 the
                 young
                 and
                 gay
                 ;
              
               
                 Where
                 they
                 themselves
                 now
                 want
                 a
                 stock
                 to
                 play
                 ;
              
               
                 Ill
                 natur'd
                 Censors
                 of
                 the
                 present
                 Age
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 what
                 has
                 past
                 since
                 they
                 have
                 quit
                 the
                 Stage
                 :
              
               
               
                 But
                 loud
                 Admirers
                 of
                 Queen
                 
                 Besse's
                 time
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 what
                 was
                 done
                 when
                 they
                 were
                 in
                 their
                 prime
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thus
                 ,
                 what
                 our
                 tide
                 of
                 flowing
                 years
                 brings
                 in
                 ,
              
               
                 Still
                 with
                 our
                 ebb
                 of
                 life
                 goes
                 out
                 agen
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 humors
                 of
                 Fourscore
                 will
                 never
                 hit
              
               
                 One
                 of
                 Fifteen
                 ,
                 nor
                 a
                 Boy
                 's
                 part
                 befit
              
               
                 A
                 full-grown
                 man
                 :
                 it
                 shews
                 no
                 mean
                 Address
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 you
                 the
                 tempers
                 of
                 each
                 Age
                 express
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Some
                 things
                 are
                 best
                 to
                 act
                 ,
                 others
                 to
                 tell
                 ;
              
               
                 Those
                 by
                 the
                 ear
                 convey'd
                 ,
                 do
                 not
                 so
                 well
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 half
                 so
                 movingly
                 affect
                 the
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 what
                 we
                 to
                 our
                 eyes
                 presented
                 find
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 there
                 are
                 many
                 things
                 ,
                 which
                 should
                 not
                 come
              
               
                 In
                 view
                 ,
                 nor
                 pass
                 beyond
                 the
                 Tiring
                 Room
                 :
              
               
                 Which
                 ,
                 after
                 in
                 expressive
                 Language
                 told
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 please
                 the
                 Audience
                 more
                 ,
                 than
                 to
                 behold
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 not
                 Medea
                 shew
                 her
                 fatal
                 rage
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 cut
                 her
                 Childrens
                 Throats
                 upon
                 the
                 Stage
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 Oedipus
                 tear
                 out
                 his
                 eye
                 balls
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 bloudy
                 Atreus
                 his
                 dire
                 Feast
                 prepare
                 :
              
               
               
                 Cadmus
                 ,
                 nor
                 Progne
                 their
                 odd
                 changes
                 take
                 ,
              
               
                 This
                 to
                 a
                 Bird
                 ,
                 the
                 other
                 to
                 a
                 Snake
                 :
              
               
                 Whatever
                 so
                 incredible
                 you
                 show
                 ,
              
               
                 Shocks
                 my
                 Belief
                 ,
                 and
                 straight
                 does
                 nauseous
                 grow
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Five
                 Acts
                 ,
                 no
                 more
                 ,
                 nor
                 less
                 ,
                 your
                 Play
                 must
                 have
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 you
                 'l
                 an
                 handsom
                 Third
                 Days
                 share
                 receive
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 not
                 a
                 God
                 be
                 summon'd
                 to
                 attend
              
               
                 On
                 a
                 slight
                 errand
                 ,
                 nor
                 on
                 Wire
                 des●…end
                 ,
              
               
                 Unless
                 th'
                 importance
                 of
                 the
                 Plot
                 engage
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 let
                 but
                 Three
                 at
                 once
                 speak
                 on
                 the
                 Stage
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Be
                 sure
                 to
                 make
                 the
                 Chorus
                 still
                 promote
              
               
                 The
                 chief
                 Intrigue
                 and
                 business
                 of
                 the
                 Plot
                 :
              
               
                 Betwixt
                 the
                 Acts
                 there
                 must
                 be
                 nothing
                 Sung
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 does
                 not
                 to
                 the
                 main
                 Design
                 belong
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 praises
                 of
                 the
                 Good
                 must
                 here
                 be
                 told
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Passions
                 curb'd
                 ,
                 and
                 foes
                 of
                 Vice
                 extoll'd
                 :
              
               
                 Here
                 Thrift
                 and
                 Temperance
                 ,
                 and
                 wholesome
                 Laws
                 ,
              
               
                 Strict
                 Justice
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 gentle
                 calms
                 of
                 Peace
              
               
                 Must
                 have
                 their
                 Commendations
                 ,
                 and
                 Applause
                 :
              
               
               
                 And
                 Prayers
                 must
                 be
                 sent
                 to
                 Heaven
                 to
                 guide
              
               
                 Blind
                 Fortunes
                 blessings
                 to
                 the
                 juster
                 side
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 raise
                 the
                 Poor
                 ,
                 and
                 lower
                 prosp'rous
                 Pride
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 At
                 first
                 the
                 Musick
                 of
                 our
                 Stage
                 was
                 rude
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 in
                 the
                 Cock-Pit
                 and
                 
                   Black
                   Friers
                
                 it
                 stood
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 this
                 might
                 please
                 enough
                 in
                 former
                 Reigns
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 thrifty
                 ,
                 thin
                 ,
                 and
                 bashful
                 Audience
                 :
              
               
                 When
                 
                   Bussy
                   d'
                   Ambois
                
                 and
                 his
                 Fustian
                 took
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 men
                 were
                 ravish'd
                 with
                 Queen
                 Gordobuc
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 since
                 our
                 Monarch
                 by
                 kind
                 Heaven
                 sent
                 ,
              
               
                 Brought
                 back
                 the
                 Arts
                 with
                 him
                 from
                 Banishment
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 his
                 gentle
                 influence
                 gave
                 increase
              
               
                 To
                 all
                 the
                 harmless
                 Luxuries
                 of
                 peace
                 :
              
               
                 Favour'd
                 by
                 him
                 ,
                 our
                 Stage
                 has
                 flourish'd
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 every
                 day
                 in
                 outward
                 splendor
                 grew
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 Musick
                 ,
                 Song
                 ,
                 and
                 Dance
                 of
                 every
                 kind
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 grace
                 of
                 Action
                 't
                 is
                 tefin'd
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 since
                 that
                 Opera's
                 at
                 length
                 came
                 in
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 Players
                 have
                 so
                 well
                 improv'd
                 the
                 Scene
              
               
                 With
                 gallantry
                 of
                 Habit
                 ,
                 and
                 Machine
                 ,
              
               
               
                 As
                 makes
                 our
                 Theater
                 in
                 Glory
                 vie
              
               
                 With
                 the
                 best
                 Ages
                 of
                 Antiquity
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 mighty
                 Roscius
                 were
                 heliving
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 Would
                 envy
                 both
                 our
                 Stage
                 ,
                 and
                 Acting
                 too
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Those
                 ,
                 who
                 did
                 first
                 in
                 Tragedy
                 essay
              
               
                 (
                 When
                 a
                 vile
                 Goat
                 was
                 all
                 the
                 Poets
                 day
                 )
              
               
                 Us'd
                 to
                 allay
                 their
                 Subjects
                 gravity
              
               
                 With
                 enterludes
                 of
                 Mirth
                 ,
                 and
                 Raillery
                 :
              
               
                 Here
                 they
                 brought
                 rough
                 ,
                 and
                 naked
                 Satyrs
                 in
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Farce-like
                 Gesture
                 ,
                 Motion
                 ,
                 Speech
                 ,
                 and
                 Meen
              
               
                 Resemble
                 those
                 of
                 modern
                 Harlequin
                 .
              
               
                 Because
                 such
                 antick
                 Tricks
                 ,
                 and
                 odd
                 grimace
                 ,
              
               
                 After
                 their
                 drunken
                 Feasts
                 on
                 Holidays
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 giddy
                 and
                 hot
                 headed
                 Rout
                 would
                 please
                 ;
              
               
                 As
                 the
                 wild
                 Feats
                 of
                 
                   Merry
                   Andrews
                
                 now
              
               
                 Divert
                 the
                 sensless
                 Crowd
                 at
                 Bartholmew
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 he
                 ,
                 that
                 would
                 in
                 this
                 Mock-way
                 excel
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 exercise
                 the
                 Art
                 of
                 Railing
                 well
                 ,
              
               
                 Had
                 need
                 with
                 diligence
                 observe
                 this
                 Rule
              
               
                 In
                 turning
                 serious
                 things
                 to
                 ridicule
                 :
              
               
               
                 If
                 he
                 an
                 Hero
                 ,
                 or
                 a
                 God
                 bring
                 in
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Kingly
                 Robes
                 and
                 Scepter
                 lately
                 seen
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 them
                 not
                 speak
                 ,
                 like
                 Burlesque
                 Characters
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 wit
                 of
                 Billingsgate
                 and
                 Temple-stairs
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 ,
                 while
                 they
                 of
                 those
                 meannesses
                 beware
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 tearing
                 lines
                 of
                 Bajazet
                 appear
                 .
              
               
                 Majestick
                 Tragedy
                 as
                 much
                 disdains
              
               
                 To
                 condescend
                 to
                 low
                 ,
                 and
                 trivial
                 strains
                 :
              
               
                 As
                 a
                 Court-Lady
                 thinks
                 her self
                 disgrac'd
              
               
                 To
                 Dance
                 with
                 Dowdies
                 at
                 a
                 May-pole-Feast
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 If
                 in
                 this
                 kind
                 you
                 will
                 attempt
                 to
                 write
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 must
                 no
                 broad
                 and
                 clownish
                 words
                 admit
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 must
                 you
                 fo
                 confound
                 your
                 Characters
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 not
                 to
                 mind
                 what
                 person
                 't
                 is
                 appears
                 .
              
               
                 Take
                 a
                 known
                 Subject
                 ,
                 and
                 invent
                 it
                 well
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 let
                 your
                 stile
                 be
                 smooth
                 and
                 natural
                 :
              
               
                 Though
                 others
                 think
                 it
                 easie
                 to
                 attain
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 'l
                 find
                 it
                 hard
                 ,
                 and
                 imitate
                 in
                 vain
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 much
                 does
                 method
                 and
                 connexion
                 grace
              
               
                 The
                 common'st
                 things
                 ,
                 the
                 plainest
                 matters
                 raise
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 In
                 my
                 opinion
                 't
                 is
                 absurd
                 and
                 odd
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 wild
                 Satyrs
                 ,
                 coming
                 from
                 the
                 Wood
                 ,
              
               
                 Speak
                 the
                 fine
                 Language
                 of
                 the
                 Park
                 and
                 Mall
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 they
                 had
                 their
                 Training
                 at
                 
                   '
                   Whitehall
                
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 ,
                 tho
                 I
                 would
                 not
                 have
                 their
                 Words
                 too
                 quaint
                 ,
              
               
                 Much
                 less
                 can
                 I
                 allow
                 them
                 impudent
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 men
                 of
                 Breeding
                 ,
                 and
                 of
                 Quality
              
               
                 Must
                 needs
                 be
                 shock'd
                 with
                 sulsom
                 Ribaldry
                 :
              
               
                 Which
                 ,
                 though
                 it
                 pass
                 the
                 Footboy
                 and
                 the
                 Cit
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 always
                 nauscous
                 to
                 the
                 Box
                 ,
                 and
                 Pit.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 There
                 are
                 but
                 few
                 ,
                 who
                 have
                 such
                 skilful
                 ears
              
               
                 To
                 judg
                 of
                 artless
                 ,
                 and
                 ill
                 measured
                 Verse
                 .
              
               
                 This
                 till
                 of
                 late
                 was
                 hardly
                 understood
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 still
                 ▪
                 there
                 's
                 too
                 much
                 liberty
                 allow'd
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 will
                 you
                 therefore
                 be
                 so
                 much
                 a
                 fool
              
               
                 To
                 write
                 at
                 random
                 ,
                 and
                 neglect
                 a
                 Rule
                 ?
              
               
                 Or
                 ,
                 while
                 your
                 faults
                 are
                 set
                 to
                 general
                 view
                 ,
              
               
                 Hope
                 all
                 men
                 should
                 be
                 blind
                 ,
                 or
                 pardon
                 you
                 ?
              
               
                 Who
                 would
                 not
                 such
                 sool
                 hardiness
                 condemn
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 ,
                 tho
                 perchance
                 you
                 may
                 escape
                 from
                 blame
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 praise
                 you
                 never
                 can
                 expect
                 ,
                 or
                 claim
                 ?
              
               
               
                 Therefore
                 be
                 sure
                 your
                 study
                 to
                 apply
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 great
                 patterns
                 of
                 Antiquity
                 :
              
               
                 Ne're
                 lay
                 the
                 Greeks
                 and
                 Romans
                 out
                 of
                 sight
                 ,
              
               
                 Ply
                 them
                 by
                 day
                 ,
                 and
                 think
                 on
                 them
                 by
                 night
                 .
              
               
                 Rough
                 hobbling
                 numbers
                 were
                 allow'd
                 for
                 Rhime
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 clench
                 for
                 deep
                 conceit
                 in
                 former
                 time
                 :
              
               
                 With
                 too
                 much
                 patience
                 (
                 not
                 to
                 call
                 it
                 worse
                 )
              
               
                 Both
                 were
                 applauded
                 in
                 our
                 Ancestors
                 :
              
               
                 If
                 you
                 ,
                 or
                 I
                 have
                 sense
                 to
                 judg
                 aright
              
               
                 Betwixt
                 a
                 Quibble
                 ,
                 and
                 true
                 sterling
                 Wit
                 :
              
               
                 Or
                 ear
                 enough
                 to
                 give
                 the
                 difference
              
               
                 Of
                 sweet
                 well-sounding
                 Verse
                 from
                 doggrel
                 strains
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thespis
                 (
                 't
                 is
                 said
                 )
                 did
                 Tragedy
                 devise
                 ,
              
               
                 Unknown
                 besore
                 ,
                 and
                 rude
                 at
                 its
                 first
                 rise
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 Carts
                 the
                 Gypsie
                 Actors
                 strowl'd
                 about
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 faces
                 smear'd
                 with
                 Lees
                 of
                 Wine
                 and
                 Soot
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 through
                 the
                 Towns
                 amus'd
                 the
                 wondring
                 rout
              
               
                 Till
                 AEschylus
                 appearing
                 to
                 the
                 Age
                 ,
              
               
                 Contriv'd
                 a
                 Play
                 house
                 ,
                 and
                 convenient
                 Stage
                 .
              
               
               
                 Found
                 out
                 the
                 use
                 of
                 Vizards
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 Dress
              
               
                 (
                 An
                 handsomer
                 ,
                 and
                 more
                 gentile
                 Disguise
                 )
              
               
                 And
                 taught
                 the
                 Actors
                 with
                 a
                 stately
                 Air
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Meen
                 to
                 speak
                 ,
                 and
                 Tread
                 ,
                 and
                 whatsoe're
              
               
                 Gave
                 Port
                 ,
                 and
                 grandeur
                 to
                 the
                 Theater
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Next
                 this
                 succeeded
                 ancient
                 Comedy
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 good
                 applause
                 ,
                 till
                 too
                 much
                 liberty
              
               
                 Usurp'd
                 by
                 Writers
                 had
                 debauch'd
                 the
                 Stage
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 made
                 it
                 grow
                 the
                 Grievance
                 of
                 the
                 Age
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 merit
                 was
                 seoure
                 ,
                 no
                 person
                 free
              
               
                 From
                 its
                 licentious
                 Buffoonery
                 :
              
               
                 Till
                 for
                 redress
                 the
                 Magistrate
                 was
                 fain
              
               
                 By
                 Law
                 those
                 Insolencies
                 to
                 restrain
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Our
                 Authors
                 in
                 each
                 kind
                 their
                 praise
                 may
                 claim
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 leave
                 no
                 paths
                 untrod
                 ,
                 that
                 lead
                 to
                 fame
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 well
                 they
                 merit
                 it
                 ,
                 who
                 scorn'd
                 to
                 be
              
               
                 So
                 much
                 the
                 Vassals
                 of
                 Antiquity
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 those
                 ,
                 who
                 know
                 no
                 better
                 than
                 to
                 cloy
              
               
                 With
                 the
                 old
                 musty
                 Tales
                 of
                 Thebes
                 and
                 Troy
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 boldly
                 the
                 dull
                 beaten
                 track
                 forsook
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Subjects
                 from
                 our
                 Country
                 story
                 took
                 .
              
               
               
                 Nor
                 would
                 our
                 Nation
                 less
                 in
                 Wit
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 in
                 its
                 great
                 performances
                 of
                 War
                 ;
              
               
                 Were
                 there
                 encouragements
                 to
                 bribe
                 our
                 care
                 ,
              
               
                 Would
                 we
                 to
                 file
                 ,
                 and
                 finish
                 spare
                 the
                 pains
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 add
                 but
                 justness
                 to
                 our
                 manly
                 sense
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 let
                 nothing
                 tempt
                 you
                 to
                 bely
              
               
                 Your
                 skill
                 ,
                 and
                 judgment
                 ,
                 by
                 mean
                 flattery
                 :
              
               
                 Never
                 pretend
                 to
                 like
                 a
                 piece
                 of
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 ,
                 you
                 're
                 certain
                 ,
                 is
                 correctly
                 writ
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 has
                 stood
                 all
                 Tests
                 ,
                 and
                 is
                 allow'd
              
               
                 By
                 all
                 to
                 be
                 unquestionably
                 good
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Because
                 some
                 wild
                 Enthusiasts
                 there
                 be
              
               
                 Who
                 bar
                 the
                 Rules
                 of
                 Art
                 in
                 Poetry
                 .
              
               
                 Would
                 have
                 it
                 rapture
                 all
                 ,
                 and
                 scarce
                 admit
              
               
                 A
                 man
                 of
                 sober
                 sense
                 to
                 be
                 a
                 Wit
                 ;
              
               
                 Others
                 by
                 this
                 conceit
                 have
                 been
                 misled
              
               
                 So
                 much
                 ,
                 that
                 they
                 're
                 grown
                 statu●…ably
                 mad
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Sots
                 affect
                 to
                 be
                 retir'd
                 alone
                 .
              
               
                 Court
                 Solitude
                 and
                 Conversation
                 shun
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 dirty
                 Cloaths
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 wild
                 Garb
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 scarce
                 are
                 brought
                 to
                 cut
                 their
                 Nails
                 and
                 Hair.
              
               
               
                 And
                 hope
                 to
                 purchace
                 credit
                 and
                 esteem
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 they
                 ,
                 like
                 
                   Cromwel's
                   Porter
                
                 ,
                 frantick
                 seem
                 ,
              
               
                 Strange
                 !
                 that
                 they
                 very
                 height
                 of
                 Lunacy
                 ,
              
               
                 Beyond
                 the
                 cure
                 of
                 Alle●…
                 ,
                 e're
                 should
                 be
              
               
                 A
                 mark
                 of
                 the
                 Elect
                 in
                 Poetry
                 .
              
               
                 How
                 much
                 as
                 Ass
                 am
                 I
                 that
                 us'd
                 to
                 Bleed
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 take
                 a
                 Purge
                 each
                 Spring
                 to
                 clear
                 my
                 Head
                 ?
              
               
                 None
                 otherwise
                 would
                 be
                 so
                 good
                 as
                 I
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 lofty
                 strains
                 ,
                 and
                 rants
                 of
                 Poetry
                 :
                 )
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 faith
                 ,
                 I
                 am
                 not
                 yet
                 so
                 fond
                 of
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 lose
                 my
                 Reason
                 for
                 a
                 Poets
                 name
                 .
              
               
                 Tho
                 I
                 my self
                 am
                 not
                 dispos'd
                 to
                 write
                 ;
              
               
                 In
                 others
                 I
                 may
                 serve
                 to
                 sharpen
                 Wit
                 :
              
               
                 Acquaint
                 them
                 what
                 a
                 Poet's
                 duty
                 is
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 how
                 he
                 shall
                 perform
                 it
                 with
                 success
                 :
              
               
                 Whence
                 the
                 materials
                 for
                 his
                 work
                 are
                 sought
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 how
                 with
                 skilful
                 Art
                 they
                 must
                 be
                 wrought
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 shew
                 what
                 is
                 and
                 is
                 not
                 decency
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 where
                 his
                 faults
                 and
                 excellencies
                 lie
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Good
                 sense
                 must
                 be
                 the
                 certain
                 standard
                 still
              
               
                 To
                 all
                 that
                 will
                 pretend
                 to
                 writing
                 well
                 :
              
               
               
                 If
                 you
                 'l
                 arrive
                 at
                 that
                 ,
                 you
                 needs
                 must
                 be
              
               
                 Well
                 vers'd
                 and
                 grounded
                 in
                 Philosophy
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 choose
                 a
                 Subject
                 ,
                 which
                 you
                 throughly
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 words
                 unsought
                 thereon
                 will
                 easie
                 flow
                 .
              
               
                 Whoe're
                 will
                 write
                 ,
                 must
                 diligently
                 mind
              
               
                 The
                 several
                 sorts
                 and
                 ranks
                 of
                 humane
                 kind
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 that
                 has
                 learnt
                 ,
                 what
                 to
                 his
                 Country's
                 due
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 we
                 to
                 Parents
                 ,
                 Friends
                 ,
                 and
                 Kindred
                 owe
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 charge
                 a
                 Statesman
                 ,
                 or
                 a
                 Judg
                 does
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 what
                 the
                 parts
                 of
                 a
                 Commander
                 are
                 ;
              
               
                 Will
                 never
                 be
                 at
                 loss
                 (
                 he
                 may
                 be
                 sure
                 )
              
               
                 To
                 give
                 each
                 person
                 their
                 due
                 portraiture
                 .
              
               
                 Take
                 humane
                 life
                 for
                 your
                 original
                 ,
              
               
                 Keep
                 but
                 your
                 Draughts
                 to
                 that
                 ,
                 you
                 'l
                 never
                 fail
                 .
              
               
                 Sometimes
                 in
                 Plays
                 ,
                 though
                 else
                 but
                 badly
                 writ
              
               
                 With
                 nought
                 of
                 Force
                 ,
                 or
                 Grace
                 ,
                 of
                 Art
                 ,
                 or
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 Some
                 one
                 well
                 humour'd
                 Character
                 we
                 meet
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 takes
                 us
                 more
                 than
                 all
                 the
                 empty
                 Scenes
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 jingling
                 toys
                 of
                 more
                 elaborate
                 Pens
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Greece
                 had
                 command
                 of
                 Language
                 ,
                 Wit
                 and
                 Sense
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 cultivating
                 which
                 she
                 spar'd
                 no
                 pains
                 :
              
               
               
                 Glory
                 her
                 sole
                 design
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 her
                 aim
              
               
                 Was
                 how
                 to
                 gain
                 here self
                 immortal
                 Fame
                 :
              
               
                 Our
                 English
                 Youth
                 another
                 way
                 are
                 bred
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 're
                 fitted
                 for
                 a
                 Prentiship
                 ,
                 and
                 Trade
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 
                 Wingate's
                 all
                 the
                 Authors
                 ,
                 which
                 they
                 've
                 read
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Boy
                   has
                   been
                   a
                   year
                   at
                   Writing-School
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Has
                   learnt
                   Division
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Golden
                   Rule
                
                 ;
              
               
                 
                   Scholar
                   enough
                
                 !
                 cries
                 the
                 old
                 doting
                 Fool
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   I
                   'll
                   hold
                   a
                   Piece
                   ,
                   he
                   'l
                   prove
                   an
                   Alderman
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   come
                   to
                   sit
                   at
                   Church
                   with
                   's
                   Furs
                   and
                   Chain
                   .
                
              
               
                 This
                 is
                 the
                 top
                 design
                 ,
                 the
                 only
                 praise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sole
                 ambition
                 of
                 the
                 booby
                 Race
                 :
              
               
                 While
                 this
                 base
                 spirit
                 in
                 the
                 Age
                 does
                 reign
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 men
                 might
                 nought
                 but
                 Wealth
                 and
                 sordid
                 gain
                 ,
              
               
                 Can
                 we
                 expect
                 or
                 hope
                 it
                 should
                 bring
                 forth
              
               
                 A
                 work
                 in
                 Poetry
                 of
                 any
                 worth
                 ,
              
               
                 Fit
                 for
                 the
                 learned
                 Bodley
                 to
                 admit
              
               
                 Among
                 its
                 Sacred
                 Monuments
                 of
                 Wit
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 Poet
                 should
                 inform
                 us
                 ,
                 or
                 divert
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 joyning
                 both
                 he
                 shews
                 his
                 chiefest
                 Art
                 :
              
               
               
                 Whatever
                 Precepts
                 you
                 pretend
                 to
                 give
                 ,
              
               
                 Be
                 sure
                 to
                 lay
                 them
                 down
                 both
                 clear
                 and
                 brief
                 :
              
               
                 By
                 that
                 they
                 're
                 easier
                 far
                 to
                 apprehend
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 this
                 more
                 faithfully
                 preserv'd
                 in
                 mind
                 :
              
               
                 All
                 things
                 superfluous
                 are
                 apt
                 to
                 cloy
              
               
                 The
                 Judgment
                 ,
                 and
                 surcharge
                 the
                 Memory
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Let
                 whatsoe'r
                 of
                 Fiction
                 you
                 bring
                 in
                 ,
              
               
                 Be
                 so
                 like
                 Truth
                 ,
                 to
                 seem
                 at
                 least
                 akin
                 :
              
               
                 Do
                 not
                 improbabilities
                 conceive
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 hope
                 to
                 ram
                 them
                 into
                 my
                 belief
                 :
              
               
                 Ne're
                 make
                 a
                 Witch
                 upon
                 the
                 Stage
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 Riding
                 enchanted
                 Broomstick
                 through
                 the
                 Air
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 Canibal
                 a
                 living
                 Infant
                 spew
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 he
                 had
                 murther'd
                 ,
                 and
                 devout'd
                 but
                 now
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 graver
                 sort
                 dislike
                 all
                 Poetry
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 does
                 not
                 (
                 as
                 they
                 call
                 it
                 )
                 edifie
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 youthful
                 sparks
                 as
                 much
                 that
                 Wit
                 dispise
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 is
                 not
                 strew'd
                 with
                 pleasant
                 Gaieties
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 he
                 ,
                 that
                 has
                 the
                 knack
                 of
                 mingling
                 well
              
               
                 What
                 is
                 of
                 use
                 with
                 what
                 's
                 agreeable
                 ,
              
               
               
                 That
                 knows
                 at
                 once
                 how
                 to
                 instruct
                 and
                 please
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 justly
                 crown'd
                 by
                 all
                 mens
                 suffrages
                 :
              
               
                 These
                 are
                 the
                 works
                 ,
                 which
                 valued
                 every
                 where
                 ,
              
               
                 Enrich
                 
                   Paul's
                   Church-yard
                
                 and
                 the
                 Stationer
                 :
              
               
                 These
                 admiration
                 through
                 all
                 Nations
                 claim
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 through
                 all
                 Ages
                 spread
                 their
                 Author's
                 Fame
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Yet
                 there
                 are
                 faults
                 wherewith
                 we
                 ought
                 to
                 bear
                 ;
              
               
                 An
                 Instrument
                 may
                 sometimes
                 chance
                 to
                 jar
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 best
                 hand
                 ,
                 in
                 spight
                 of
                 all
                 its
                 care
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 have
                 I
                 known
                 that
                 skilful
                 Marks-man
                 yet
              
               
                 So
                 fortunate
                 ,
                 who
                 never
                 mist
                 the
                 White
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 where
                 I
                 many
                 excellencies
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'm
                 not
                 so
                 nicely
                 critical
                 to
                 mind
              
               
                 Each
                 slight
                 mistake
                 an
                 Author
                 may
                 produce
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 humane
                 frailty
                 justly
                 may
                 excuse
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 he
                 ,
                 who
                 having
                 oft
                 been
                 taught
                 to
                 mend
              
               
                 A
                 Fault
                 ,
                 will
                 still
                 pursue
                 it
                 to
                 the
                 end
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 like
                 that
                 scraping
                 Fool
                 ,
                 who
                 the
                 same
                 Note
              
               
                 Is
                 ever
                 playing
                 .
                 and
                 is
                 ever
                 out
                 ,
              
               
               
                 And
                 silly
                 as
                 that
                 bubble
                 every
                 whit
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 at
                 the
                 self-same
                 blot
                 is
                 always
                 hit
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 such
                 a
                 lewd
                 incorrigible
                 sot
              
               
                 Lucks
                 by
                 meer
                 chance
                 upon
                 some
                 happy
                 thought
                 ;
              
               
                 Among
                 such
                 filthy
                 trash
                 ,
                 I
                 vex
                 to
                 see
                 't
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 wonder
                 how
                 (
                 the
                 Devil
                 !
                 )
                 he
                 came
                 by
                 't
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 works
                 of
                 bulk
                 and
                 length
                 we
                 now
                 and
                 then
              
               
                 May
                 grant
                 an
                 Author
                 to
                 be
                 overseen
                 :
              
               
                 Homer
                 himself
                 ,
                 how
                 sacred
                 e're
                 he
                 is
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 claims
                 not
                 a
                 pretence
                 to
                 Faultlesness
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Poems
                 with
                 Pictures
                 a
                 resemblance
                 bear
                 ;
              
               
                 Some
                 (
                 best
                 at
                 distance
                 )
                 shun
                 a
                 view
                 too
                 near
                 :
              
               
                 Others
                 are
                 bolder
                 ,
                 and
                 stand
                 off
                 to
                 sight
                 ;
              
               
                 These
                 love
                 the
                 shade
                 ,
                 those
                 choose
                 the
                 clearest
                 light
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 dare
                 the
                 survey
                 of
                 the
                 skilfull'st
                 eyes
                 :
              
               
                 Some
                 once
                 ,
                 and
                 some
                 ten
                 thousand
                 times
                 will
                 please
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 ,
                 though
                 your self
                 so
                 much
                 of
                 knowledg
                 own
              
               
                 In
                 these
                 affairs
                 ,
                 that
                 you
                 can
                 learn
                 of
                 none
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 mind
                 this
                 certain
                 truth
                 which
                 I
                 lay
                 down
                 :
              
               
                 Most
                 Callings
                 else
                 do
                 difference
                 allow
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 ordinary
                 Parts
                 ,
                 and
                 Skill
                 may
                 do
                 :
              
               
               
                 I
                 've
                 known
                 Physicians
                 ,
                 who
                 respect
                 might
                 claim
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho
                 they
                 ne're
                 rose
                 to
                 Willis
                 his
                 great
                 fame
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 there
                 are
                 Preachers
                 who
                 have
                 great
                 renown
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 ne're
                 come
                 up
                 to
                 Sprat
                 ,
                 or
                 Tillotson
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 Counsellors
                 ,
                 or
                 Pleaders
                 in
                 the
                 Hall
              
               
                 May
                 have
                 esteem
                 ,
                 and
                 practice
                 ,
                 tho
                 they
                 fall
              
               
                 Far
                 short
                 of
                 smooth-tongu'd
                 Finch
                 in
                 Eloquence
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho
                 they
                 want
                 
                 Selden's
                 Learning
                 ,
                 
                 Vaughan's
                 sense
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Verse
                 alone
                 does
                 of
                 no
                 mean
                 admit
                 ,
              
               
                 Whoe're
                 will
                 please
                 ,
                 must
                 please
                 us
                 to
                 the
                 height
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 must
                 a
                 Cowley
                 or
                 a
                 Fleckno
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 there
                 's
                 no
                 second
                 Rate
                 in
                 Poetry
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 dull
                 insipid
                 Writer
                 none
                 can
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 every
                 place
                 he
                 is
                 the
                 publick
                 jeer
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Lumber
                 of
                 the
                 Shops
                 and
                 Stationer
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 No
                 man
                 that
                 understands
                 to
                 make
                 a
                 Feast
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 a
                 coarse
                 Dessert
                 will
                 offend
                 his
                 Guest
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 bring
                 ill
                 Musick
                 in
                 to
                 grate
                 the
                 ear
                 ,
              
               
                 Because
                 't
                 is
                 what
                 the
                 entertain
                 might
                 spare
                 :
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 the
                 same
                 case
                 with
                 those
                 that
                 deal
                 in
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 main
                 design
                 and
                 end
                 should
                 be
                 delight
                 :
              
               
               
                 They
                 must
                 by
                 this
                 same
                 sentence
                 stand
                 ,
                 or
                 fall
                 ,
              
               
                 Be
                 highly
                 excellent
                 ,
                 or
                 not
                 at
                 all
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 In
                 all
                 things
                 else
                 ,
                 save
                 only
                 Poetry
                 ,
              
               
                 Men
                 shew
                 some
                 signs
                 of
                 common
                 modesty
                 :
              
               
                 You
                 'l
                 hardly
                 find
                 a
                 Fencer
                 so
                 unwise
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 at
                 Bear-garden
                 e're
                 will
                 fight
                 a
                 Prize
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 having
                 learnt
                 before
                 :
                 nor
                 at
                 a
                 Wake
              
               
                 One
                 ,
                 that
                 wants
                 skill
                 and
                 strength
                 ,
                 the
                 Girdle
                 take
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 be
                 so
                 vain
                 the
                 pond'rous
                 Weight
                 to
                 sling
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 fear
                 they
                 should
                 be
                 hiss'd
                 out
                 of
                 the
                 Ring
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 every
                 Coxcomb
                 will
                 pretend
                 to
                 Verse
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 write
                 in
                 spight
                 of
                 nature
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 Stars
                 :
              
               
                 All
                 sorts
                 of
                 Subjects
                 challenge
                 at
                 this
                 time
              
               
                 The
                 Liberty
                 ,
                 and
                 Property
                 of
                 Rhime
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Sot
                 of
                 honour
                 ,
                 fond
                 of
                 being
                 great
              
               
                 By
                 something
                 else
                 than
                 Title
                 ,
                 and
                 Estate
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 a
                 Patent
                 gave
                 him
                 claim
                 to
                 sense
                 ,
              
               
                 O●…
                 't
                 were
                 entail'd
                 with
                 an
                 Inheritance
                 ,
              
               
                 Believes
                 a
                 cast
                 of
                 Foot-boys
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 set
              
               
                 Of
                 Flanders
                 must
                 advance
                 him
                 to
                 a
                 Wit.
              
               
               
                 But
                 you
                 who
                 have
                 the
                 judgment
                 to
                 descry
              
               
                 Where
                 you
                 excel
                 ,
                 which
                 way
                 your
                 Talents
                 lie
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'm
                 sure
                 ,
                 will
                 never
                 be
                 induc'd
                 to
                 strain
              
               
                 Your
                 Genius
                 ,
                 or
                 attempt
                 against
                 your
                 vein
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 (
                 this
                 let
                 me
                 advise
                 )
                 if
                 e're
                 you
                 write
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 none
                 of
                 your
                 composures
                 see
                 the
                 light
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 they
                 've
                 been
                 throughly
                 weigh'd
                 ,
                 and
                 past
                 the
                 Test
              
               
                 Of
                 all
                 those
                 Judges
                 who
                 are
                 thought
                 the
                 best
                 :
              
               
                 While
                 in
                 your
                 Desk
                 they
                 're
                 lock'd
                 up
                 from
                 the
                 Press
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 've
                 power
                 to
                 correct
                 them
                 as
                 you
                 please
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 they
                 once
                 come
                 forth
                 to
                 view
                 of
                 all
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 Faults
                 are
                 Chronicled
                 ,
                 and
                 past
                 recall
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Orpheus
                 the
                 first
                 of
                 the
                 inspired
                 Train
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 force
                 of
                 powerful
                 numbers
                 did
                 restrain
              
               
                 Mankind
                 from
                 rage
                 ,
                 and
                 bloudy
                 cruelty
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 taught
                 the
                 barbarous
                 world
                 civility
                 ,
              
               
                 Hence
                 rose
                 the
                 Fiction
                 ,
                 which
                 the
                 Poets
                 sram'd
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Lions
                 were
                 by
                 's
                 tuueful
                 Magick
                 tam'd
                 ,
              
               
               
                 And
                 Tygers
                 ,
                 charm'd
                 by
                 his
                 harmonious
                 lays
                 ,
              
               
                 Grew
                 gentle
                 ,
                 and
                 said
                 by
                 their
                 savageness
                 :
              
               
                 Hence
                 that
                 ,
                 which
                 of
                 Amphion
                 too
                 they
                 tell
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 pow'r
                 of
                 whose
                 miraculous
                 Lute
                 could
                 call
              
               
                 The
                 well-plac'd
                 stones
                 into
                 the
                 Theban
                 Wall.
              
               
                 Wondrous
                 were
                 the
                 effects
                 of
                 primitive
                 Verse
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 setled
                 and
                 reform'd
                 the
                 Universe
                 :
              
               
                 This
                 did
                 all
                 things
                 to
                 their
                 due
                 ends
                 reduce
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 publick
                 ,
                 private
                 ,
                 sacred
                 ,
                 civil
                 use
                 :
              
               
                 Marriage
                 for
                 weighty
                 causes
                 was
                 ordain'd
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 bridled
                 lust
                 ,
                 and
                 lawless
                 Love
                 restrain'd
                 :
              
               
                 Cities
                 with
                 Walls
                 ,
                 and
                 Rampiers
                 were
                 inclos'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 property
                 with
                 wholsom
                 Laws
                 dispos'd
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 bounds
                 were
                 fix'd
                 of
                 Equity
                 and
                 Right
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 guard
                 weak
                 Innocence
                 from
                 wrongful
                 might
                 .
              
               
                 Hence
                 Poets
                 have
                 been
                 held
                 a
                 sacred
                 name
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 plac'd
                 with
                 first
                 Rates
                 in
                 the
                 Lists
                 of
                 Fame
                 .
              
               
                 Next
                 these
                 ,
                 great
                 Homer
                 to
                 the
                 world
                 appear'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Around
                 the
                 Globe
                 his
                 loud
                 alarms
                 were
                 heard
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 all
                 the
                 brave
                 to
                 war
                 like
                 action
                 fir'd
                 :
              
               
               
                 And
                 Hesiod
                 after
                 him
                 with
                 useful
                 skill
              
               
                 Gave
                 Lessons
                 to
                 instruct
                 the
                 Plough-mans
                 toil
                 .
              
               
                 Verse
                 was
                 the
                 language
                 of
                 the
                 gods
                 of
                 old
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 which
                 their
                 sacred
                 Oracles
                 were
                 told
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 Verse
                 were
                 the
                 first
                 rules
                 of
                 vertue
                 taught
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Doctrine
                 thence
                 ,
                 as
                 now
                 from
                 Pulpits
                 sought
                 :
              
               
                 By
                 Verse
                 some
                 have
                 the
                 love
                 of
                 Princes
                 gain'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 oft
                 vouchsafe
                 so
                 to
                 be
                 entertain'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 a
                 Muse
                 their
                 weighty
                 cares
                 unbend
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 think
                 it
                 no
                 disparagement
                 ,
                 dear
                 Sir
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 own
                 your self
                 a
                 Member
                 of
                 that
                 Quire
                 ,
              
               
                 Whom
                 Kings
                 esteem
                 ,
                 and
                 Heaven
                 does
                 inspire
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Concerning
                 Poets
                 there
                 has
                 been
                 contest
                 ,
              
               
                 Whether
                 they
                 're
                 made
                 by
                 Art
                 ,
                 or
                 Nature
                 best
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 if
                 I
                 may
                 presume
                 in
                 this
                 Affair
                 ,
              
               
                 Amongst
                 the
                 rest
                 my
                 judgment
                 to
                 declare
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 Art
                 without
                 a
                 Genius
                 will
                 avail
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Parts
                 without
                 the
                 help
                 of
                 Art
                 will
                 fail
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 both
                 Ingredients
                 joyntly
                 must
                 unite
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 the
                 happy
                 Character
                 complete
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 None
                 at
                 New-market
                 ever
                 won
                 the
                 Prize
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 us'd
                 his
                 Airings
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 Exercise
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Courses
                 and
                 his
                 Diets
                 long
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Wine
                 ,
                 and
                 Women
                 for
                 a
                 time
                 forbore
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 is
                 there
                 any
                 Singing
                 man
                 ,
                 we
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 good
                 Repute
                 in
                 either
                 Chappel
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 was
                 a
                 Learner
                 once
                 (
                 he
                 'l
                 freely
                 own
                 )
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 long
                 Practice
                 to
                 that
                 Skill
                 has
                 grown
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 each
                 conceited
                 Dunce
                 ,
                 without
                 pretence
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 least
                 grain
                 of
                 Learning
                 ,
                 Parts
                 ,
                 or
                 sense
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 any
                 thing
                 but
                 harden'd
                 impudence
                 ,
              
               
                 Sets
                 up
                 for
                 Poetry
                 ,
                 and
                 dares
                 engage
              
               
                 With
                 all
                 the
                 topping
                 Writers
                 of
                 the
                 Age
                 :
              
               
                 
                   "
                   Why
                   should
                   not
                   be
                   put
                   in
                   amongst
                   the
                   rest
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   "
                   Damn
                   him
                   !
                   he
                   scorns
                   to
                   come
                   behind
                   the
                   best
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   "
                   Declares
                   himself
                   a
                   Wit
                   ,
                   and
                   vows
                   to
                   draw
                
              
               
                 
                   "
                   On
                   the
                   next
                   man
                   ,
                   who
                   e're
                   disowns
                   him
                   so
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Scriblers
                 of
                 Quality
                 who
                 have
                 Estate
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 gain
                 applauding
                 Fools
                 at
                 any
                 rate
                 ,
              
               
                 Practise
                 as
                 many
                 tricks
                 as
                 Shop-keepers
              
               
                 To
                 force
                 a
                 Trade
                 ,
                 and
                 put
                 off
                 naughty
                 wares
                 :
              
            
             
               
               
                 Some
                 hire
                 the
                 House
                 their
                 Follies
                 to
                 expose
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 are
                 at
                 charge
                 to
                 be
                 ridiculous
                 :
              
               
                 Others
                 with
                 Wine
                 ,
                 and
                 Ordinaries
                 treat
              
               
                 A
                 needy
                 Rabble
                 to
                 cry
                 up
                 their
                 Wit
                 :
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 strange
                 ,
                 that
                 such
                 should
                 the
                 true
                 diff'rence
                 find
              
               
                 Betwixt
                 a
                 spunging
                 Knave
                 and
                 faithful
                 Friend
                 .
              
               
                 Take
                 heed
                 how
                 you
                 e're
                 prostitute
                 your
                 sense
              
               
                 To
                 such
                 a
                 fawning
                 crew
                 of
                 Sycophants
                 :
              
               
                 All
                 signs
                 of
                 being
                 pleas'd
                 the
                 Rogues
                 will
                 feign
                 ,
              
               
                 Wonder
                 ,
                 and
                 bless
                 themselves
                 at
                 every
                 line
                 .
              
               
                 Swearing
                 ,
                 
                   "
                   'T
                   is
                   soft
                   !
                   't
                   is
                   charming
                   !
                   't
                   is
                   Divine
                   !
                
              
               
                 Here
                 they
                 'l
                 look
                 pale
                 ,
                 as
                 if
                 surpriz'd
                 ,
                 and
                 there
              
               
                 In
                 a
                 disguise
                 of
                 grief
                 squeeze
                 out
                 a
                 tear
                 :
              
               
                 Oft
                 seem
                 transported
                 with
                 a
                 sudden
                 joy
                 ,
              
               
                 Stamp
                 and
                 list
                 up
                 their
                 hands
                 in
                 extasie
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 if
                 by
                 chance
                 your
                 back
                 once
                 turn'd
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 'l
                 have
                 'em
                 strait
                 put
                 out
                 their
                 tongues
                 in
                 jeer
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 point
                 ,
                 or
                 gibe
                 you
                 with
                 a
                 scornful
                 sneer
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 they
                 who
                 truly
                 grieve
                 at
                 Funerals
                 ,
                 shew
              
               
                 Less
                 outward
                 sorrow
                 than
                 hir'd
                 mourners
                 do
                 ;
              
               
               
                 So
                 true
                 Admirers
                 less
                 concernment
                 wear
              
               
                 Before
                 your
                 face
                 than
                 the
                 sham
                 Flatterer
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 They
                 tell
                 of
                 Kings
                 ,
                 who
                 never
                 would
                 admit
              
               
                 A
                 Confident
                 ,
                 or
                 bosom-Favourite
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 store
                 of
                 Wine
                 had
                 made
                 his
                 secrets
                 float
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 that
                 means
                 they
                 'd
                 found
                 his
                 temper
                 out
                 :
              
               
                 'T
                 were
                 well
                 if
                 Poets
                 knew
                 some
                 way
                 like
                 this
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 to
                 discern
                 their
                 friends
                 from
                 enemies
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Had
                 you
                 consulted
                 learned
                 Ben
                 of
                 old
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 would
                 your
                 faults
                 impartially
                 have
                 told
                 :
              
               
                 
                   "
                   This
                   Verse
                   correction
                   wants
                
                 (
                 he
                 would
                 have
                 said
                 )
              
               
                 
                   "
                   And
                   so
                   does
                   this
                
                 :
                 If
                 you
                 replied
                 ,
                 you
                 had
              
               
                 To
                 little
                 purpose
                 several
                 trials
                 made
                 ;
              
               
                 He
                 presently
                 would
                 bid
                 you
                 strike
                 a
                 dash
              
               
                 On
                 all
                 ,
                 and
                 put
                 in
                 better
                 in
                 the
                 place
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 if
                 he
                 found
                 you
                 once
                 a
                 stubborn
                 sot
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 would
                 not
                 be
                 corrected
                 in
                 a
                 fault
                 ;
              
               
                 He
                 would
                 no
                 more
                 his
                 pains
                 and
                 counsel
                 spend
              
               
                 On
                 an
                 abandon'd
                 Fool
                 that
                 scorn'd
                 to
                 mend
                 ;
              
               
               
                 But
                 bid
                 you
                 in
                 the
                 Devils
                 name
                 go
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 hug
                 your
                 dear
                 impertinence
                 alone
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 trusty
                 knowing
                 Friend
                 will
                 boldly
                 dare
              
               
                 To
                 give
                 his
                 sense
                 and
                 judgment
                 ,
                 wheresoe're
              
               
                 He
                 sees
                 a
                 Fault
                 :
                 
                   "
                   Here
                   ,
                   Sir
                   ,
                   good
                   faith
                   ,
                   you
                   're
                   low
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   "
                   And
                   must
                   some
                   heightning
                   on
                   the
                   place
                   bestow
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   "
                   There
                   ,
                   if
                   you
                   mind
                   ,
                   the
                   Rhime
                   is
                   harsh
                   ,
                   and
                   rough
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   "
                   And
                   should
                   be
                   soft'ned
                   to
                   go
                   smoothlier
                   off
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   "
                   Your
                   strokes
                   are
                   here
                   of
                   Varnish
                   left
                   too
                   bare
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   "
                   Your
                   Colours
                   there
                   too
                   thick
                   laid
                   on
                   appear
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   "
                   Your
                   Metaphor
                   is
                   coarse
                   ,
                   that
                   Phrase
                   not
                   pure
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   "
                   This
                   Word
                   improper
                   ,
                   and
                   that
                   sense
                   obscure
                   .
                
              
               
                 In
                 fine
                 ,
                 you
                 'l
                 find
                 him
                 a
                 strict
                 Censurer
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 will
                 not
                 your
                 least
                 negligences
                 spare
              
               
                 Through
                 a
                 vain
                 fear
                 of
                 disobliging
                 you
                 :
              
               
                 They
                 are
                 but
                 slight
                 ,
                 and
                 trivial
                 things
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 true
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 these
                 same
                 Trifles
                 (
                 take
                 a
                 Poets
                 word
                 )
              
               
                 Matter
                 of
                 high
                 importance
                 will
                 afford
                 ,
              
               
               
                 When
                 e're
                 by
                 means
                 of
                 them
                 you
                 come
                 to
                 be
              
               
                 Expos'd
                 to
                 Laughter
                 ,
                 Scorn
                 ,
                 and
                 Infamy
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Not
                 those
                 with
                 
                   Lord
                   have
                   mercy
                
                 on
                 their
                 doors
                 ,
              
               
                 Venom
                 of
                 Adders
                 ,
                 or
                 infected
                 Whores
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 dreaded
                 worse
                 by
                 men
                 of
                 sense
                 ,
                 and
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 a
                 mad
                 Seribler
                 in
                 his
                 raving
                 fit
                 :
              
               
                 Like
                 Dog
                 ,
                 whose
                 tail
                 is
                 pegg'd
                 into
                 a
                 bone
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 hooting
                 Rabble
                 all
                 about
                 the
                 Town
                 ,
              
               
                 Pursue
                 the
                 Cur
                 ,
                 aund
                 pelt
                 him
                 up
                 and
                 down
                 .
              
               
                 Should
                 this
                 poor
                 Frantick
                 ,
                 as
                 he
                 pass'd
                 along
                 ,
              
               
                 Intent
                 on
                 's
                 Rhiming
                 work
                 amidst
                 the
                 throng
                 ,
              
               
                 Into
                 Fleet-Ditch
                 ,
                 or
                 some
                 deep
                 Cellar
                 fall
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 till
                 he
                 rent
                 his
                 throat
                 for
                 succour
                 bawl
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 one
                 would
                 lend
                 an
                 helping
                 hand
                 at
                 call
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 who
                 (
                 the
                 Plague
                 !
                 )
                 could
                 guess
                 at
                 his
                 design
                 ,
              
               
                 Whether
                 he
                 did
                 not
                 for
                 the
                 nonce
                 drop
                 in
                 ?
              
               
                 I
                 'd
                 tell
                 you
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 but
                 questionless
                 you
                 've
                 heard
              
               
                 Of
                 the
                 odd
                 end
                 of
                 a
                 Sicilian
                 Bard
                 :
              
               
                 Fond
                 to
                 be
                 deem'd
                 a
                 god
                 ,
                 this
                 fool
                 (
                 it
                 seems
                 )
              
               
                 In
                 's
                 fit
                 leapt
                 headlong
                 into
                 
                 AE●…a's
                 Flames
                 .
              
               
               
                 Troth
                 ,
                 I
                 could
                 be
                 content
                 an
                 Act
                 might
                 pass
                 ,
              
               
                 Such
                 Poets
                 should
                 have
                 leave
                 ,
                 when
                 e're
                 they
                 please
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 die
                 ,
                 and
                 rid
                 us
                 of
                 our
                 Grievances
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 God's
                 name
                 let
                 'em
                 hang
                 ,
                 or
                 drown
                 ,
                 or
                 choose
              
               
                 What
                 other
                 way
                 they
                 will
                 themselves
                 dispose
                 ,
              
               
                 Why
                 should
                 we
                 life
                 against
                 their
                 wills
                 impose
                 ?
              
               
                 Might
                 that
                 same
                 fool
                 I
                 mention'd
                 ,
                 now
                 revive
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 would
                 not
                 be
                 reclaim'd
                 ,
                 I
                 dare
                 believe
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 soon
                 be
                 playing
                 his
                 old
                 freaks
                 again
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 still
                 the
                 same
                 capricious
                 hopes
                 retain
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 'T
                 is
                 hard
                 to
                 guess
                 ,
                 and
                 harder
                 to
                 alledg
              
               
                 Whether
                 for
                 Parricide
                 ,
                 or
                 Sacriledg
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 some
                 more
                 strange
                 ,
                 unknown
                 ,
                 and
                 horrid
                 crime
                 ,
              
               
                 Done
                 in
                 their
                 own
                 ,
                 or
                 their
                 Fore-fathers
                 time
                 ,
              
               
                 These
                 scribling
                 Wretches
                 have
                 been
                 damn'd
                 to
                 Rhime
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 certain
                 't
                 is
                 ,
                 for
                 such
                 a
                 crack-braind
                 Race
              
               
                 Bedlam
                 ,
                 or
                 Hogsdon
                 is
                 the
                 fittest
                 place
                 :
              
               
                 Without
                 their
                 Keepers
                 you
                 had
                 better
                 choose
              
               
                 To
                 meet
                 the
                 Lions
                 of
                 the
                 Tower
                 broke
                 loose
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Than
                 these
                 wild
                 savage
                 Rhymers
                 in
                 the
                 street
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 with
                 their
                 Verses
                 worry
                 all
                 they
                 meet
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 you
                 would
                 release
                 your self
                 ;
                 so
                 close
              
               
                 The
                 Leeches
                 cleave
                 ,
                 that
                 there
                 's
                 no
                 getting
                 loose
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Remorsless
                 they
                 to
                 no
                 entreaties
                 yield
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 you
                 are
                 with
                 inhumane
                 non-sense
                 kill'd
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               An
               Imitation
               of
               HORACE
               .
               BOOK
               I.
               SATYR
               IX
               .
            
             
               Written
               in
               June
               ,
               1681.
               
            
             
               
                 
                   Ibam
                   for●…è
                   viâ
                   sacrâ
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 AS
                 I
                 was
                 walking
                 in
                 the
                 Mall
                 of
                 late
                 ,
              
               
                 Alone
                 ,
                 and
                 musing
                 on
                 I
                 know
                 not
                 what
                 ;
              
               
                 Comes
                 a
                 familiar
                 Fop
                 ,
                 whom
                 hardly
                 I
              
               
                 Knew
                 by
                 his
                 name
                 ,
                 and
                 rudely
                 seizes
                 me
                 :
              
               
                 
                   Dear
                   Sir
                   ,
                   I
                   'm
                   mighty
                   glad
                   to
                   meet
                   with
                   you
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   pray
                   ,
                   how
                   have
                   you
                   done
                   this
                   Age
                   ,
                   or
                   two
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   "
                   Well
                   I
                   thank
                   God
                
                 (
                 said
                 I
                 )
                 
                   as
                   times
                   are
                   now
                
                 :
              
               
                 
                   "
                   I
                   wish
                   the
                   same
                   to
                   you
                   .
                
                 And
                 so
                 pass'd
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 Hoping
                 with
                 this
                 the
                 Coxcomb
                 would
                 be
                 gone
                 .
              
               
               
                 But
                 when
                 I
                 saw
                 I
                 could
                 not
                 thus
                 get
                 free
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 ask'd
                 ,
                 what
                 business
                 else
                 he
                 had
                 with
                 me
                 ?
              
               
                 Sir
                 (
                 answered
                 he
                 )
                 
                   If
                   Learning
                   ,
                   Parts
                   ,
                   or
                   Sense
                
              
               
                 
                   Merit
                   your
                   friendship
                   ;
                   I
                   have
                   just
                   pretence
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   "
                   I
                   honour
                   you
                
                 (
                 said
                 I
                 )
                 
                   upon
                   that
                   score
                
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   "
                   And
                   shall
                   be
                   glad
                   to
                   serve
                   you
                   to
                   my
                   power
                   .
                
              
               
                 Mean
                 time
                 ,
                 wild
                 to
                 get
                 loose
                 ,
                 I
                 try
                 all
                 ways
              
               
                 To
                 shake
                 him
                 off
                 :
                 Sometimes
                 I
                 walk
                 apace
                 ,
              
               
                 Sometimes
                 stand
                 still
                 :
                 I
                 frown
                 ,
                 I
                 chafe
                 ,
                 I
                 fret
                 ,
              
               
                 Shrug
                 ,
                 turn
                 my
                 back
                 ,
                 as
                 in
                 the
                 Baigno
                 ,
                 sweat
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 shew
                 all
                 kind
                 of
                 signs
                 to
                 make
                 him
                 guess
              
               
                 At
                 my
                 impatience
                 ,
                 and
                 uneasiness
                 .
              
               
                 
                   "
                   Happy
                   the
                   solk
                   in
                
                 Newgate
                 !
                 (
                 whisper'd
                 I
                 )
              
               
                 
                   "
                   Who
                   ,
                   tho
                   in
                   Chains
                   are
                   from
                   this
                   torment
                   free
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   "
                   Wou'd
                   I
                   were
                   like
                   rough
                
                 Manly
                 
                   in
                   the
                   Play
                
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   "
                   To
                   send
                   Impertinents
                   with
                   kicks
                   away
                   .
                   !
                
              
            
             
               
                 He
                 all
                 the
                 while
                 baits
                 me
                 with
                 tedious
                 chat
                 ,
              
               
                 Speaks
                 much
                 about
                 the
                 drought
                 ,
                 and
                 how
                 the
                 rate
              
               
                 Of
                 Hay
                 is
                 rais'd
                 ,
                 and
                 what
                 it
                 now
                 goes
                 at
                 :
              
               
                 Tells
                 me
                 of
                 a
                 new
                 Comet
                 at
                 the
                 Hague
                 ,
              
               
                 Portending
                 God
                 knows
                 what
                 ,
                 a
                 Dearth
                 ,
                 or
                 Plague
                 :
              
               
               
                 Names
                 every
                 Wench
                 ,
                 that
                 passes
                 through
                 the
                 Park
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 much
                 she
                 is
                 allow'd
                 ,
                 and
                 who
                 the
                 Spark
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 keeps
                 her
                 :
                 points
                 ,
                 who
                 lately
                 got
                 a
                 Clap
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 who
                 at
                 the
                 Groom-Porters
                 had
                 ill
                 hap
              
               
                 Three
                 nights
                 ago
                 in
                 play
                 with
                 such
                 a
                 Lord
                 :
              
               
                 When
                 he
                 observ'd
                 ,
                 I
                 minded
                 not
                 a
                 word
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 did
                 no
                 answer
                 to
                 his
                 trash
                 afford
                 ;
              
               
                 
                   Sir
                   ,
                   I
                   perceive
                   you
                   stand
                   on
                   Thorns
                
                 (
                 said
                 he
                 )
              
               
                 
                   And
                   fain
                   would
                   part
                   :
                   but
                   ,
                   faith
                   ,
                   it
                   must
                   not
                   be
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   Come
                   ,
                   let
                   us
                   take
                   a
                   Bottle
                   .
                
                 (
                 I
                 cried
                 )
                 
                   "
                   No
                
                 ;
              
               
                 
                   "
                   Sir
                   ,
                   I
                   am
                   in
                   a
                   Course
                   ,
                   and
                   dare
                   not
                   now
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   tell
                   me
                   whether
                   you
                   desire
                   to
                   go
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   'll
                   wait
                   upon
                   you
                   .
                   "
                   Oh!
                   Sir
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   too
                   far
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   "
                   I
                   visit
                   cross
                   the
                   Water
                   :
                   therefore
                   spare
                
              
               
                 
                   "
                   Your
                   needless
                   trouble
                   .
                   Trouble
                   !
                   Sir
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   none
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   more
                   by
                   half
                   to
                   leave
                   you
                   here
                   alone
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   have
                   no
                   present
                   business
                   to
                   attend
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   At
                   least
                   which
                   I
                   'll
                   not
                   quit
                   for
                   such
                   a
                   Friend
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   Tell
                   me
                   not
                   of
                   the
                   distance
                   :
                   for
                   I
                   vow
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   'll
                   cut
                   the
                   Line
                   ,
                   double
                   the
                   Cape
                   for
                   you
                   ,
                
              
               
               
                 
                   Good
                   faith
                   ,
                   I
                   will
                   not
                   leave
                   you
                   :
                   make
                   no
                   words
                
                 ;
              
               
                 
                   Go
                   you
                   to
                
                 Lambeth
                 ?
                 
                   Is
                   it
                   to
                   my
                
                 Lords
                 ?
              
               
                 
                   His
                   Steward
                   I
                   most
                   intimately
                   know
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Have
                   often
                   drunk
                   with
                   his
                   Comptroller
                   too
                   .
                
              
               
                 By
                 this
                 I
                 found
                 my
                 Wheadle
                 would
                 not
                 pass
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 rather
                 serv'd
                 my
                 suff'rings
                 to
                 increase
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 seeing
                 't
                 was
                 in
                 vain
                 to
                 vex
                 ,
                 or
                 fret
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 patiently
                 submitted
                 to
                 my
                 Fate
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 
                   Strait
                   he
                   begins
                   again
                
                 :
                 Sir
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 knew
              
               
                 My
                 worth
                 but
                 half
                 so
                 throughly
                 as
                 I
                 do
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 'm
                 sure
                 ,
                 you
                 would
                 not
                 value
                 any
                 Friend
              
               
                 You
                 have
                 ,
                 like
                 me
                 :
                 but
                 that
                 I
                 won't
                 commend
              
               
                 My self
                 ,
                 and
                 my
                 own
                 Talents
                 ;
                 I
                 might
                 tell
              
               
                 How
                 many
                 ways
                 to
                 wonder
                 I
                 excel
                 .
              
               
                 None
                 has
                 a
                 greater
                 gift
                 in
                 Poetry
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 writes
                 more
                 Verses
                 with
                 more
                 ease
                 than
                 I
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 'm
                 grown
                 the
                 envy
                 of
                 the
                 men
                 of
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 kill'd
                 ev'n
                 Rochester
                 with
                 grief
                 ,
                 and
                 spight
                 :
              
               
                 Next
                 for
                 the
                 Dancing
                 part
                 I
                 all
                 surpass
                 ,
              
               
                 St.
                 Andrew
                 never
                 mov'd
                 with
                 such
                 a
                 grace
                 :
              
               
               
                 And'tis
                 well
                 known
                 ,
                 when
                 e're
                 I
                 sing
                 ,
                 or
                 set
                 ,
              
               
                 Humphreys
                 ,
                 nor
                 Blow
                 could
                 ever
                 match
                 me
                 yet
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 
                   Here
                   I
                   got
                   room
                   to
                   interrupt
                   :
                
                 "
                 Have
                 you
              
               
                 "
                 A
                 Mother
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 or
                 Kindred
                 living
                 now
                 ?
              
               
                 Not
                 one
                 :
                 they
                 are
                 all
                 dead
                 .
                 "
                 Troth
                 ,
                 so
                 I
                 guest
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 The
                 happier
                 they
                 
                   (
                   said
                   I
                
                 )
                 who
                 are
                 at
                 rest
                 .
              
               
                 "
                 Poor
                 I
                 am
                 only
                 left
                 unmurder'd
                 yet
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Haste
                 ,
                 I
                 beseech
                 you
                 ,
                 and
                 dispatch
                 me
                 quite
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 For
                 I
                 am
                 well
                 convinc'd
                 ,
                 my
                 time
                 is
                 come
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 When
                 I
                 was
                 young
                 ,
                 a
                 Gypsie
                 told
                 my
                 doom
                 :
              
               
                 This
                 Lad
                 
                   (
                   said
                   she
                   ,
                   and
                   look'd
                   upon
                   my
                   hand
                   )
                
              
               
                 Shall
                 not
                 by
                 Sword
                 ,
                 or
                 Poyson
                 come
                 to
                 's
                 end
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 by
                 the
                 Fever
                 ,
                 Dropsie
                 ,
                 Gout
                 ,
                 or
                 Stone
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 he
                 shall
                 die
                 by
                 an
                 eternal
                 Tongue
                 :
              
               
                 Therefore
                 ,
                 when
                 he
                 's
                 grown
                 up
                 ,
                 if
                 he
                 be
                 wise
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 him
                 avoid
                 great
                 Talkers
                 ,
                 I
                 advise
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 By
                 this
                 time
                 we
                 were
                 got
                 to
                 Westminster
                 ;
              
               
                 Where
                 he
                 by
                 chance
                 a
                 Trial
                 had
                 to
                 hear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 if
                 he
                 were
                 not
                 there
                 ,
                 his
                 Cause
                 must
                 fall
                 :
              
               
                 
                   Sir
                   ,
                   if
                   you
                   love
                   me
                   ,
                   step
                   into
                   the
                   Hall
                
              
               
               
                 For
                 one
                 half
                 hour
                 ,
                 "
                 The
                 Devil
                 take
                 me
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   "
                   (
                   Said
                   I
                
                 )
                 if
                 I
                 know
                 any
                 thing
                 of
                 Law
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Besides
                 I
                 told
                 you
                 whither
                 I
                 'm
                 to
                 go
                 .
              
               
                 Hereat
                 he
                 made
                 a
                 stand
                 ,
                 pull'd
                 down
                 his
                 Hat
              
               
                 Over
                 his
                 eyes
                 ,
                 and
                 mus'd
                 in
                 deep
                 debate
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 I
                 'm
                 in
                 a
                 straight
                 
                   (
                   said
                   he
                
                 )
                 what
                 I
                 shall
                 do
                 :
              
               
                 Whether
                 forsake
                 my
                 business
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 or
                 you
                 .
              
               
                 "
                 Me
                 by
                 all
                 means
                 
                   (
                   say
                   I
                
                 )
                 No
                 
                   (
                   says
                   my
                   Sot
                
                 )
              
               
                 I
                 fear
                 you
                 'l
                 take
                 it
                 ill
                 ,
                 If
                 I
                 should
                 do
                 't
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 'm
                 sure
                 ,
                 you
                 will.
                 "
                 Not
                 I
                 ,
                 by
                 all
                 that
                 's
                 good
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 I
                 've
                 more
                 breeding
                 ,
                 than
                 to
                 be
                 so
                 rude
                 .
              
               
                 "
                 Pray
                 ,
                 don't
                 neglect
                 your
                 own
                 concerns
                 for
                 me
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Your
                 Cause
                 ,
                 good
                 Sir
                 !
                 My
                 Cause
                 be
                 damu'd
                 
                   (
                   says
                   he
                
                 )
              
               
                 I
                 value
                 't
                 less
                 than
                 your
                 dear
                 Company
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 this
                 he
                 came
                 up
                 to
                 me
                 ,
                 and
                 would
                 lead
              
               
                 The
                 way
                 ;
                 I
                 sneaking
                 after
                 hung
                 my
                 head
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Next
                 he
                 begins
                 to
                 plague
                 me
                 with
                 the
                 Plot
                 ,
              
               
                 Asks
                 ,
                 whether
                 I
                 were
                 known
                 to
                 Oats
                 or
                 not
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 Not
                 I
                 ,
                 '
                 thank
                 Heaven
                 !
                 I
                 no.
                 Priest
                 have
                 been
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Have
                 never
                 Doway
                 ,
                 nor
                 St.
                 Omers
                 seen
                 ,
              
               
               
                 What
                 think
                 you
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ;
                 will
                 they
                 Fitz-Harris
                 try
                 ?
              
               
                 Will
                 he
                 die
                 ,
                 think
                 you
                 ?
                 Yes
                 ,
                 most
                 certainly
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 mean
                 ,
                 be
                 hang'd
                 .
                 "
                 Would
                 thou
                 wert
                 so
                 
                   (
                   wish'd
                   I.
                
                 )
              
               
                 Religion
                 came
                 in
                 next
                 ;
                 tho
                 he
                 'd
                 no
                 more
              
               
                 Than
                 the
                 Freneb
                 King
                 ,
                 his
                 Punk
                 ,
                 or
                 Confessor
                 .
              
               
                 Oh!
                 the
                 sad
                 times
                 ,
                 if
                 once
                 the
                 King
                 should
                 die
                 !
              
               
                 Sir
                 ,
                 are
                 you
                 not
                 afraid
                 of
                 Popery
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 No
                 more
                 than
                 my
                 Superiors
                 :
                 why
                 should
                 I
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 I
                 've
                 no
                 Estate
                 in
                 Ally
                 Lands
                 to
                 lose
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Fire
                 ,
                 and
                 Faggot
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 how
                 like
                 you
                 these
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 Come
                 Inquisition
                 ,
                 any
                 thing
                 
                   (
                   thought
                   I
                
                 )
              
               
                 "
                 So
                 Heav'n
                 would
                 bless
                 me
                 to
                 get
                 rid
                 of
                 thee
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 But
                 't
                 is
                 some
                 comfort
                 ,
                 that
                 my
                 Hell
                 is
                 here
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 I
                 need
                 no
                 punishment
                 hereafter
                 fear
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Scarce
                 had
                 I
                 thought
                 ,
                 but
                 he
                 falls
                 on
                 anew
              
               
                 How
                 stands
                 it
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 betwixt
                 his
                 Grace
                 ,
                 and
                 you
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 Sir
                 ,
                 he
                 's
                 a
                 man
                 of
                 sense
                 above
                 the
                 Crowd
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 shuns
                 the
                 Converse
                 of
                 a
                 Multitude
                 .
              
               
                 Ay
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 
                   (
                   Says
                   he
                
                 )
                 you
                 're
                 happy
                 ,
                 who
                 are
                 near
              
               
                 His
                 Grace
                 ,
                 and
                 have
                 the
                 favour
                 of
                 his
                 ear
                 :
              
               
               
                 But
                 let
                 me
                 tell
                 you
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 'l
                 recommend
              
               
                 This
                 person
                 here
                 ,
                 your
                 point
                 will
                 soon
                 be
                 gain'd
                 .
              
               
                 Gad
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 die
                 ,
                 if
                 my
                 own
                 single
                 Wit
              
               
                 Don't
                 Fob
                 his
                 Minions
                 ,
                 and
                 displace
                 'em
                 quite
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 make
                 your self
                 his
                 only
                 Favourite
                 .
              
               
                 "
                 No
                 ,
                 you
                 are
                 out
                 abundantly
                 
                   (
                   said
                   I
                
                 )
              
               
                 "
                 We
                 live
                 not
                 ,
                 as
                 you
                 think
                 :
                 no
                 Family
              
               
                 "
                 Throughout
                 the
                 whole
                 three
                 Kingdoms
                 is
                 more
                 free
              
               
                 "
                 From
                 those
                 ill
                 Customs
                 ,
                 which
                 are
                 us'd
                 to
                 swarm
              
               
                 "
                 In
                 great
                 mens
                 houses
                 ;
                 none
                 e're
                 does
                 me
                 harm
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Because
                 more
                 Learned
                 ,
                 or
                 more
                 Rich
                 ,
                 than
                 I
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 But
                 each
                 man
                 keeps
                 his
                 Place
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 Degree
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 mighty
                 strange
                 
                   (
                   says
                   he
                
                 )
                 what
                 you
                 relate
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 But
                 nothing
                 truer
                 ,
                 take
                 my
                 word
                 for
                 that
                 .
              
               
                 You
                 make
                 me
                 long
                 to
                 be
                 admitted
                 too
              
               
                 Amongst
                 his
                 Creatures
                 :
                 Sir
                 ,
                 I
                 beg
                 ,
                 that
                 you
              
               
                 Will
                 stand
                 my
                 Friend
                 :
                 Your
                 Interest
                 is
                 such
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 may
                 prevail
                 ,
                 I
                 'm
                 sure
                 ,
                 you
                 can
                 do
                 much
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 's
                 one
                 ,
                 that
                 may
                 be
                 won
                 upon
                 ,
                 I
                 've
                 heard
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho
                 at
                 the
                 first
                 approach
                 access
                 be
                 hard
                 .
              
               
               
                 I
                 'll
                 spare
                 no
                 trouble
                 of
                 my
                 own
                 ,
                 or
                 Friends
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 cost
                 in
                 Fees
                 ,
                 and
                 Bribes
                 to
                 gain
                 my
                 ends
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 seek
                 all
                 opportunities
                 to
                 meet
              
               
                 With
                 him
                 ,
                 accost
                 him
                 in
                 the
                 very
                 street
                 :
              
               
                 Hang
                 on
                 his
                 Coach
                 ,
                 and
                 wait
                 upon
                 him
                 home
                 ,
              
               
                 Fawn
                 ,
                 Scrape
                 and
                 Cringe
                 to
                 him
                 ,
                 nay
                 ,
                 to
                 his
                 Groom
                 .
              
               
                 Faith
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 this
                 must
                 be
                 done
                 ,
                 If
                 we
                 'll
                 be
                 great
                 :
              
               
                 Preferment
                 comes
                 not
                 at
                 a
                 cheaper
                 rate
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 While
                 at
                 this
                 Savage
                 rate
                 he
                 worried
                 me
                 ;
              
               
                 By
                 chance
                 a
                 Doctor
                 ,
                 my
                 dear
                 Friend
                 came
                 by
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 knew
                 the
                 Fellow's
                 humour
                 passing
                 well
                 :
              
               
                 Glad
                 of
                 the
                 sight
                 ,
                 I
                 joyn
                 him
                 ;
                 we
                 stand
                 still
                 :
              
               
                 Whence
                 came
                 you
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ?
                 and
                 whither
                 go
                 you
                 now
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 such
                 like
                 questions
                 pass'd
                 betwixt
                 us
                 two
                 :
              
               
                 Strait
                 I
                 begin
                 to
                 pull
                 him
                 by
                 the
                 sleeve
                 .
              
               
                 Nod
                 ,
                 wink
                 upon
                 him
                 ,
                 touch
                 my
                 Nose
                 ,
                 and
                 give
              
               
                 A
                 thousand
                 hints
                 ,
                 to
                 let
                 him
                 know
                 ,
                 that
                 I
              
               
                 Needed
                 his
                 help
                 for
                 my
                 delivery
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 ,
                 naughty
                 Wag
                 ,
                 with
                 an
                 Arch
                 fleering
                 smile
              
               
                 Seems
                 ignorant
                 of
                 what
                 I
                 mean
                 the
                 while
                 :
              
               
               
                 
                   I
                   grow
                   stark
                   wild
                   with
                   rage
                   .
                
                 "
                 Sir
                 ,
                 said
                 not
                 you
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 You
                 'd
                 somewhat
                 to
                 discourse
                 ,
                 not
                 long
                 ago
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 With
                 me
                 in
                 private
                 ?
                 I
                 remember
                 't
                 well
                 :
              
               
                 Some
                 other
                 time
                 ,
                 be
                 sure
                 ,
                 I
                 will
                 not
                 fail
                 :
              
               
                 Now
                 I
                 am
                 in
                 great
                 haste
                 upon
                 my
                 word
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 Messenger
                 came
                 for
                 me
                 from
                 a
                 Lord
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 's
                 in
                 a
                 bad
                 condition
                 ,
                 like
                 to
                 die
                 .
              
               
                 "
                 Oh!
                 Sir
                 ,
                 he
                 can't
                 be
                 in
                 a
                 worse
                 ,
                 than
                 I
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Therefore
                 for
                 God's
                 sake
                 do
                 not
                 stir
                 from
                 hence
                 .
              
               
                 Sweet
                 Sir
                 !
                 your
                 pardon
                 :
                 't
                 is
                 of
                 consequence
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 hope
                 you
                 're
                 kinder
                 than
                 to
                 pross
                 my
                 stay
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 may
                 be
                 Heav'n
                 knows
                 what
                 out
                 of
                 my
                 way
                 .
              
               
                 
                   This
                   said
                   ,
                   he
                   left
                   me
                   to
                   my
                   murderer
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   Seeing
                   no
                   hopes
                   of
                   my
                   relief
                   appear
                   :
                
              
               
                 "
                 Confounded
                 be
                 the
                 Stars
                 
                   (
                   said
                   I
                
                 )
                 that
                 sway'd
              
               
                 "
                 This
                 fatal
                 day
                 !
                 would
                 I
                 had
                 kept
                 my
                 Bed
              
               
                 "
                 With
                 sickness
                 ,
                 rather
                 than
                 been
                 visited
              
               
                 "
                 With
                 this
                 worse
                 P●…gue
                 !
                 what
                 ill
                 have
                 I
                 e're
                 done
              
               
                 "
                 To
                 pull
                 this
                 eur●…e
                 ,
                 this
                 heavy
                 Judgment
                 down
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 
                   While
                   I
                   was
                   thus
                   lamenting
                   my
                   ill
                   hap
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Comos
                   aid
                   at
                   length
                   :
                   a
                   brace
                   of
                   Bailiffs
                   clap
                
              
               
               
                 
                   The
                   Rascal
                   on
                   the
                   back
                
                 :
                 "
                 Here
                 take
                 your
                 Fees
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Kind
                 Gentlemen
                 
                   (
                   said
                   I
                
                 )
                 for
                 my
                 release
                 .
              
               
                 
                   He
                   would
                   have
                   had
                   me
                   Bail.
                
                 "
                 Excuse
                 me
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 I've
                 made
                 a
                 Vow
                 ne're
                 to
                 be
                 Surety
                 more
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 My
                 Father
                 was
                 undone
                 by
                 't
                 here●…ofore
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thus
                 I
                 got
                 off
                 ,
                 and
                 bless'd
                 the
                 Fates
                 that
                 he
              
               
                 Was
                 Pris'ner
                 made
                 ,
                 I
                 set
                 at
                 liberty
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Paraphrase
               upon
               HORACE
               .
               BOOK
               I.
               ODE
               XXXI
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Quid
                   dedicatum
                   poscit
                   Apollinem
                
                 
                   Vates
                   ?
                   &c.
                   —
                
              
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 WHat
                 does
                 the
                 Poet
                 's
                 modest
                 Wish
                 require
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 Boon
                 does
                 he
                 of
                 gracious
                 Heav'n
                 desire
                 ?
              
               
                 Not
                 the
                 large
                 Corps
                 of
                 
                 Esham's
                 goodly
                 Soil
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 tire
                 the
                 Mower's
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Reaper's
                 toil
                 ;
              
               
                 Not
                 the
                 soft
                 Flocks
                 ,
                 on
                 hilly
                 Cotswold
                 fed
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 Lemster
                 Fields
                 with
                 living
                 Fleeces
                 clad
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 does
                 not
                 ask
                 the
                 Grounds
                 ,
                 where
                 gentle
                 Thames
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 Severn
                 spread
                 their
                 fat'ning
                 Streams
                 .
              
               
               
                 Where
                 they
                 with
                 wanton
                 windings
                 play
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 eat
                 their
                 widen'd
                 Banks
                 insensibly
                 away
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 does
                 not
                 ask
                 the
                 Wealth
                 of
                 Lombard-street
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 Consciences
                 ,
                 and
                 Souls
                 are
                 pawn'd
                 to
                 get
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 those
                 exhaustless
                 Mines
                 of
                 Gold
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 Guinny
                 and
                 Peru
                 in
                 their
                 rich
                 bosoms
                 hold
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 Let
                 those
                 that
                 live
                 in
                 the
                 Canary
                 Isles
                 ,
              
               
                 On
                 which
                 indulgent
                 Nature
                 ever
                 smiles
                 ,
              
               
                 Take
                 pleasure
                 in
                 their
                 plenteous
                 Vintages
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 the
                 juicy
                 Grape
                 its
                 racy
                 Liquor
                 press
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 wealthy
                 Merchants
                 ,
                 when
                 they
                 Dine
                 ,
              
               
                 Run
                 o're
                 their
                 costly
                 names
                 of
                 Wine
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 Chests
                 of
                 Florence
                 ,
                 and
                 their
                 Mont-Alchine
                 .
              
               
                 Their
                 
                   Mants
                   ,
                   Champagns
                   ,
                   Chablees
                   ,
                   Frontiniacks
                
                 tell
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 Aums
                 of
                 Hock
                 ,
                 of
                 Backrag
                 and
                 Moselle
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 envies
                 not
                 their
                 Luxury
              
               
                 Which
                 they
                 with
                 so
                 much
                 pains
                 ,
                 and
                 danger
                 buy
                 :
              
               
               
                 For
                 which
                 so
                 many
                 Storms
                 ,
                 and
                 Wrecks
                 they
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 which
                 they
                 pass
                 the
                 Streights
                 so
                 oft
                 each
                 year
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 scape
                 so
                 narrowly
                 the
                 Bondage
                 of
                 Argier
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 He
                 wants
                 no
                 Cyprus
                 Birds
                 ,
                 nor
                 Ortola●…s
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 Daintics
                 fetch'd
                 from
                 far
                 to
                 please
                 his
                 Sense
                 ,
              
               
                 Cheap
                 wholsom
                 Herbs
                 content
                 his
                 frugal
                 Board
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 food
                 of
                 unfaln
                 Innocence
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 the
                 mean'st
                 Village
                 Garden
                 does
                 afford
                 :
              
               
                 Grant
                 him
                 ;
                 kind
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 the
                 sum
                 of
                 his
                 desires
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 Nature
                 ,
                 not
                 what
                 Luxury
                 requires
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 only
                 does
                 a
                 Competency
                 claim
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 when
                 he
                 has
                 it
                 ,
                 wit
                 to
                 use
                 the
                 same
                 :
              
               
                 Grant
                 him
                 sound
                 Health
                 ,
                 impair'd
                 by
                 no
                 Disease
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 by
                 his
                 own
                 Excess
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 him
                 in
                 strength
                 of
                 Mind
                 ,
                 and
                 Body
                 live
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 not
                 his
                 Reason
                 ,
                 nor
                 his
                 Sense
                 survive
                 :
              
               
               
                 His
                 Age
                 (
                 if
                 Age
                 he
                 e're
                 must
                 live
                 to
                 see
                 )
              
               
                 Let
                 it
                 from
                 want
                 ,
                 Contempt
                 ,
                 and
                 Care
                 be
                 free
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 not
                 from
                 Mirth
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 delights
                 of
                 Poetry
                 ,
              
               
                 Grant
                 him
                 but
                 this
                 ,
                 he
                 's
                 amply
                 satisfi'd
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 scorns
                 whatever
                 Fate
                 can
                 give
                 beside
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Paraphrase
               upon
               HORACE
               .
               BOOK
               II.
               ODE
               XIV
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Eheu
                   fugaces
                   ,
                   Posthume
                   ,
                   Posthume
                   ,
                
                 
                   Labuntur
                   anni
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 ALas
                 !
                 dear
                 Friend
                 ,
                 alas
                 !
                 time
                 hastes
                 away
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 is
                 it
                 in
                 our
                 pow'r
                 to
                 bribe
                 its
                 stay
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 rolling
                 years
                 with
                 constant
                 motion
                 run
                 ,
              
               
                 Lo
                 !
                 while
                 I
                 speak
                 ,
                 the
                 present
                 minute
                 's
                 gone
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 following
                 hours
                 urge
                 the
                 foregoing
                 on
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 not
                 thy
                 Wealth
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 not
                 thy
                 Power
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 not
                 thy
                 Piety
                 can
                 thee
                 secure
                 :
              
               
                 They
                 're
                 all
                 too
                 feeble
                 to
                 withstand
              
               
                 Grey
                 Hairs
                 ,
                 approaching
                 Age
                 ,
                 and
                 thy
                 avoidless
                 end
                 .
              
               
               
                 When
                 once
                 thy
                 fatal
                 Glass
                 is
                 run
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 once
                 thy
                 utmost
                 Thread
                 is
                 spun
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 will
                 then
                 be
                 fruitless
                 to
                 expect
                 Reprieve
                 :
              
               
                 Could'st
                 thou
                 ten
                 thousand
                 Kingdoms
                 give
              
               
                 In
                 purchase
                 for
                 each
                 hour
                 of
                 longer
                 life
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 would
                 not
                 buy
                 one
                 gasp
                 of
                 breath
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 move
                 one
                 jot
                 inexorable
                 Death
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 All
                 the
                 vast
                 stock
                 of
                 humane
                 Progeny
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 now
                 like
                 swarms
                 of
                 Insects
                 ●…wl
              
               
                 Upon
                 the
                 Surface
                 of
                 Earth's
                 spacious
                 Ball
                 ,
              
               
                 Must
                 quit
                 this
                 Hillock
                 of
                 Mortality
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 its
                 Bowels
                 buried
                 lie
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 mightiest
                 King
                 ,
                 and
                 proudest
                 Potentate
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 spight
                 of
                 all
                 his
                 Pomp
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 his
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 Must
                 pay
                 this
                 necessary
                 Tribute
                 unto
                 Fate
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 busie
                 ,
                 restless
                 Monarch
                 of
                 the
                 times
                 ,
                 which
                 now
              
               
                 Keeps
                 such
                 a
                 pother
                 ,
                 and
                 so
                 much
                 ado
              
               
                 To
                 fill
                 Gazettes
                 alive
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 after
                 in
                 some
                 lying
                 Annal
                 to
                 survive
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Ev'n
                 He
                 ,
                 ev'n
                 that
                 great
                 mortal
                 Man
                 must
                 die
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 stink
                 ,
                 and
                 rot
                 as
                 well
                 as
                 thou
                 ,
                 and
                 I
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 well
                 as
                 the
                 poor
                 tatter'd
                 Wretch
                 ,
                 that
                 begs
                 his
                 bread
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 is
                 with
                 scraps
                 out
                 of
                 the
                 common
                 Basket
                 sed
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 from
                 dangers
                 of
                 the
                 bloudy
                 Field
                 we
                 keep
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 we
                 escape
              
               
                 The
                 sultry
                 Line
                 ,
                 and
                 stormy
                 Cape
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 treacheries
                 of
                 the
                 faithless
                 Deep
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 for
                 health
                 to
                 forein
                 Countries
                 we
                 repair
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 change
                 our
                 English
                 for
                 Mompellier
                 Air
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 hope
                 to
                 leave
                 our
                 fears
                 of
                 dying
                 there
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 with
                 costly
                 far
                 fetch'd
                 Drugs
                 we
                 strive
              
               
                 To
                 keep
                 the
                 wasting
                 vital
                 Lamp
                 alive
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 on
                 Doctors
                 feeble
                 Art
                 rely
                 ;
              
               
                 Against
                 resistless
                 Death
                 there
                 is
                 no
                 remedy
                 :
              
               
                 Both
                 we
                 ,
                 and
                 they
                 for
                 all
                 their
                 skill
                 must
                 die
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fill
                 alike
                 the
                 Bedrols
                 of
                 Mortality
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 Thou
                 must
                 ,
                 thou
                 must
                 resign
                 to
                 Fate
                 ,
                 my
                 Friend
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 leave
                 thy
                 House
                 ,
                 thy
                 Wife
                 ,
                 and
                 Family
                 behind
                 :
              
               
                 Thou
                 must
                 thy
                 fair
                 ,
                 and
                 goodly
                 Mannors
                 leave
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 these
                 thy
                 Trees
                 thou
                 shalt
                 not
                 with
                 thee
                 take
                 ,
              
               
                 Save
                 just
                 as
                 much
                 as
                 will
                 thy
                 Coffin
                 make
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 wilt
                 thou
                 be
                 allow'd
                 of
                 all
                 thy
                 Land
                 ,
                 to
                 have
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 the
                 small
                 pittance
                 of
                 a
                 six-foot
                 Grave
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 shall
                 thy
                 prodigal
                 young
                 Heir
              
               
                 Lavish
                 the
                 Wealth
                 ,
                 which
                 thou
                 for
                 many
                 a
                 year
              
               
                 Hast
                 hoarded
                 up
                 with
                 so
                 much
                 pains
                 and
                 care
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 shall
                 he
                 drain
                 thy
                 Cellars
                 of
                 their
                 Stores
                 ,
              
               
                 Kept
                 sacred
                 now
                 as
                 vaults
                 of
                 buried
                 Ancestors
                 :
              
               
                 Shall
                 set
                 th'
                 enlarged
                 Butts
                 at
                 liberty
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 there
                 close
                 Pris'ners
                 under
                 durance
                 lie
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 wash
                 these
                 stately
                 Floors
                 with
                 better
                 Wine
              
               
                 Than
                 that
                 of
                 consecrated
                 Prelates
                 when
                 they
                 dine
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               The
               PRAISE
               of
               HOMER
               .
               ODE
               .
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 HAil
                 God
                 of
                 Verse
                 !
                 pardon
                 that
                 thus
                 I
                 take
                 in
                 vain
              
               
                 Thy
                 sacred
                 ,
                 everlasting
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 unhallow'd
                 Lines
                 blaspheme
                 :
              
               
                 Pardon
                 that
                 with
                 strange
                 Fire
                 thy
                 Altars
                 I
                 profane
                 .
              
               
                 Hail
                 thou
                 !
                 to
                 whom
                 we
                 mortal
                 Bards
                 our
                 Faith
                 submit
                 ,
              
               
                 Whom
                 we
                 acknowledg
                 our
                 sole
                 Text
                 ,
                 and
                 holy
                 Writ
                 :
              
               
                 None
                 other
                 Judg
                 infallible
                 we
                 own
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Thee
                 ,
                 who
                 art
                 the
                 Canon
                 of
                 authentick
                 Wit
                 alone
                 .
              
               
               
                 Thou
                 art
                 the
                 unexhausted
                 Ocean
                 ,
                 whence
              
               
                 Sprung
                 first
                 ,
                 and
                 still
                 do
                 flow
                 th'
                 eternal
                 Rills
                 of
                 sense
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 none
                 but
                 Thee
                 our
                 Art
                 Divine
                 we
                 owe
                 ;
              
               
                 From
                 whom
                 it
                 had
                 its
                 Rise
                 ,
                 and
                 full
                 Perfection
                 too
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 art
                 the
                 mighty
                 Bank
                 ,
                 that
                 ever
                 do'st
                 supply
              
               
                 Throughout
                 the
                 world
                 the
                 whole
                 Poetick
                 Company
                 :
              
               
                 With
                 thy
                 vast
                 stock
                 alone
                 they
                 traffick
                 for
                 a
                 name
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 send
                 their
                 glorious
                 Ventures
                 out
                 to
                 all
                 the
                 Coasts
                 of
                 Fame
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 How
                 trulier
                 blind
                 was
                 dull
                 Antiquity
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 fasten'd
                 that
                 unjust
                 Reproach
                 on
                 Thee
                 ?
              
               
                 Who
                 can
                 the
                 sensless
                 Tale
                 believe
                 ?
              
               
                 Who
                 can
                 to
                 the
                 false
                 Legend
                 credit
                 give
                 ?
              
               
                 Or
                 think
                 thou
                 wantedst
                 sight
                 ,
                 by
                 whom
                 all
                 others
                 see
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 Land
                 ,
                 or
                 Region
                 ,
                 how
                 remote
                 soe're
                 ,
              
               
                 Does
                 not
                 so
                 well
                 describ'd
                 in
                 thy
                 great
                 Draughts
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
               
                 That
                 each
                 thy
                 native
                 Country
                 seems
                 to
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 each
                 t'
                 have
                 been
                 survey'd
                 ,
                 and
                 measur'd
                 out
                 By
                 thee
                 ?
              
               
                 Whatever
                 Earth
                 does
                 in
                 her
                 pregnant
                 Bowels
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 on
                 her
                 fruitful
                 Surface
                 wear
                 ;
              
               
                 What
                 e're
                 the
                 spacious
                 Fields
                 of
                 Air
                 contain
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 far
                 extended
                 Territories
                 of
                 the
                 Main
                 ;
              
               
                 Is
                 by
                 thy
                 skilful
                 Pencil
                 so
                 exactly
                 shown
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 scarce
                 discern
                 where
                 thou
                 ,
                 or
                 Nature
                 best
                 has
                 drawn
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 is
                 thy
                 quick
                 all-piercing
                 Eye
              
               
                 Or
                 check'd
                 ,
                 or
                 bounded
                 here
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 farther
                 does
                 surpass
                 ,
                 and
                 farther
                 does
                 descry
                 :
              
               
                 Beyond
                 the
                 Travels
                 of
                 the
                 Sun
                 ,
                 and
                 Year
                 .
              
               
                 Beyond
                 this
                 glorious
                 Scene
                 of
                 starry
                 Tapestry
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 the
                 vast
                 Purliews
                 of
                 the
                 Sky
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 boundless
                 waste
                 of
                 Nature
                 lies
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Voyages
                 thou
                 mak'st
                 ,
                 and
                 bold
                 Discoveries
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 there
                 the
                 Gods
                 in
                 Parliament
                 debate
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 Votes
                 ,
                 or
                 Acts
                 i'
                 th'
                 Heav'nly
                 Houses
                 pass
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 Thee
                 so
                 well
                 communicated
                 was
                 ;
              
               
               
                 As
                 if
                 thou'dst
                 been
                 of
                 that
                 Cabal
                 of
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 Thou
                 hadst
                 been
                 sworn
                 the
                 Privy-Counsellor
                 of
                 Fate
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 What
                 Chief
                 ,
                 who
                 does
                 thy
                 Warrior's
                 great
                 Exploits
                 survey
                 ,
              
               
                 Will
                 not
                 aspire
                 to
                 Deeds
                 as
                 great
                 as
                 they
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 generous
                 Readers
                 would
                 he
                 not
                 inspire
              
               
                 With
                 the
                 same
                 gallant
                 Heat
                 ,
                 the
                 same
                 ambitious
                 Fire
                 ?
              
               
                 Methinks
                 from
                 
                 Ida's
                 top
                 with
                 noble
                 Joy
                 I
                 view
              
               
                 The
                 warlike
                 Squadrons
                 by
                 his
                 daring
                 Conduct
                 led
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 see
                 th'
                 immortal
                 Host
                 engaging
                 on
                 his
                 side
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 him
                 the
                 blushing
                 Gods
                 out-do
                 .
              
               
                 Where
                 e're
                 he
                 does
                 his
                 dreadful
                 Standards
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 Horror
                 stalks
                 in
                 the
                 Van
                 ,
                 and
                 Slaughter
                 in
                 the
                 Rere
                 .
              
               
                 Whole
                 Swarths
                 of
                 Enemies
                 his
                 Sword
                 does
                 mow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Limbs
                 of
                 mangled
                 Chiefs
                 his
                 passage
                 strow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 flouds
                 of
                 reeking
                 Gore
                 the
                 Field
                 o'reslow
                 :
              
               
               
                 While
                 Heavn's
                 dread
                 Monarch
                 from
                 his
                 Throne
                 of
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 high
                 concern
                 upon
                 the
                 Fight
                 looks
                 down
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 wrinkles
                 his
                 Majestick
                 Brow
                 into
                 a
                 Frown
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 see
                 bold
                 Man
                 ,
                 like
                 him
                 ,
                 distribute
                 Fate
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 While
                 the
                 great
                 Macedonian
                 Youth
                 in
                 Non-age
                 grew
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 yet
                 by
                 Charter
                 of
                 his
                 years
                 set
                 free
              
               
                 From
                 Guardians
                 ,
                 and
                 their
                 slavish
                 tyranny
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 Tutor
                 ,
                 but
                 the
                 Budg
                 Philosophers
                 he
                 knew
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 well
                 enough
                 the
                 grave
                 ,
                 and
                 useful
                 Tools
              
               
                 Might
                 serve
                 to
                 read
                 him
                 Lectures
                 ,
                 and
                 to
                 please
              
               
                 With
                 unintelligible
                 Jargon
                 of
                 the
                 Schools
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 airy
                 Terms
                 and
                 Notions
                 of
                 the
                 Colleges
                 :
              
               
                 They
                 might
                 the
                 Art
                 of
                 Prating
                 ,
                 and
                 of
                 Brawling
                 teach
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 some
                 insipid
                 Homilies
                 of
                 Vertue
                 preach
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 the
                 mighty
                 Pupil
                 had
                 outgrown
              
               
                 Their
                 musty
                 Discipline
                 ,
                 when
                 manlier
                 Thoughts
                 possess'd
              
               
                 His
                 generous
                 Princely
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Now
                 ripe
                 for
                 Empire
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 Crown
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fill'd
                 with
                 lust
                 of
                 Honour
                 ,
                 and
                 Renown
                 ;
              
               
                 He
                 then
                 learnt
                 to
                 contemn
              
               
                 The
                 despicable
                 things
                 ,
                 the
                 men
                 of
                 Flegm
                 :
              
               
                 Strait
                 he
                 to
                 the
                 dull
                 Pedants
                 gave
                 release
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 a
                 more
                 noble
                 Master
                 strait
                 took
                 place
                 :
              
               
                 Thou
                 ,
                 who
                 the
                 Grecian
                 Warriour
                 so
                 could'st
                 praise
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 might
                 in
                 him
                 just
                 envy
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 (
                 one
                 would
                 think
                 )
                 had
                 been
                 himself
                 too
                 high
              
               
                 To
                 envy
                 any
                 thing
                 of
                 all
                 Mortality
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 thou
                 that
                 taught'st
                 him
                 Lessons
                 lostier
                 far
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Art
                 of
                 Reigning
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Art
                 of
                 War
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 wondrous
                 was
                 the
                 Progress
                 ,
                 which
                 he
                 made
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 he
                 the
                 Acts
                 of
                 thy
                 great
                 Pattern
                 read
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 World
                 too
                 narrow
                 for
                 his
                 boundless
                 Conquests
                 grew
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 Conquer'd
                 one
                 ,
                 and
                 wish'd
                 ,
                 and
                 wept
                 for
                 new
                 :
              
               
                 From
                 thence
                 he
                 did
                 those
                 Miracles
                 produce
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Fought
                 ,
                 and
                 Vanquiih'd
                 by
                 the
                 Conduct
                 of
                 a
                 Muse.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 No
                 wonder
                 rival
                 Nations
                 quarrell'd
                 for
                 thy
                 Birth
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Prize
                 of
                 greater
                 and
                 of
                 higher
                 worth
              
               
                 Than
                 that
                 which
                 led
                 whole
                 Greece
                 ,
                 and
                 Asia
                 forth
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 that
                 ,
                 for
                 which
                 thy
                 mighty
                 Hero
                 fought
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Troy
                 with
                 ten
                 years
                 War
                 ,
                 and
                 its
                 Destruction
                 bought
                 .
              
               
                 Well
                 did
                 they
                 think
                 it
                 noble
                 to
                 have
                 bore
                 that
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 the
                 whole
                 world
                 would
                 with
                 ambition
                 claim
                 :
              
               
                 Well
                 did
                 they
                 Temples
                 raise
              
               
                 To
                 Thee
                 ,
                 at
                 whom
                 Nature
                 her self
                 stood
                 in
                 amaze
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 work
                 ,
                 she
                 never
                 tried
                 to
                 mend
                 ,
                 nor
                 cou'd
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 which
                 mistaking
                 Man
                 ,
                 by
                 chance
                 she
                 form'd
                 a
                 God.
              
               
                 How
                 gladly
                 would
                 our
                 willing
                 Isle
                 resign
              
               
                 Her
                 fabulous
                 Arthur
                 ,
                 and
                 her
                 boasted
                 Constantine
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 half
                 her
                 Worthies
                 of
                 the
                 Norman
                 Line
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 quite
                 the
                 honour
                 of
                 their
                 Births
                 to
                 be
                 ensur'd
                 to
                 Thine
                 ?
              
               
                 How
                 justly
                 might
                 it
                 the
                 wise
                 choice
                 approve
                 .
              
               
                 Prouder
                 in
                 this
                 than
                 Crete
                 to
                 have
                 brought
                 forth
                 Almighty
                 Jove
                 ?
              
            
             
               
               
                 6.
                 
              
               
                 Unhappy
                 we
                 ,
                 thy
                 British
                 Off
                 spring
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 strive
                 by
                 thy
                 great
                 Model
                 Monuments
                 to
                 rear
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 for
                 worthless
                 Fame
                 we
                 toil
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 's
                 pent
                 in
                 the
                 strait
                 limits
                 of
                 a
                 narrow
                 Isle
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 our
                 Force
                 ,
                 and
                 Art
                 we
                 spend
              
               
                 With
                 noble
                 labours
                 to
                 enrich
                 our
                 Land
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 none
                 beyond
                 our
                 Shores
                 vouchsafe
                 to
                 understand
                 .
              
               
                 Be
                 the
                 fair
                 structure
                 ne'r
                 so
                 well
                 design'd
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 parts
                 with
                 ne'r
                 so
                 much
                 proportion
                 joyn'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Yet
                 foreign
                 Bards
                 (
                 such
                 is
                 their
                 Pride
                 ,
                 or
                 Prejudice
                 )
              
               
                 All
                 the
                 choice
                 Wormanship
                 for
                 the
                 Materials
                 sake
                 despise
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 happier
                 thou
                 thy
                 Genius
                 didst
                 dispence
              
               
                 In
                 Language
                 universal
                 as
                 thy
                 sense
                 :
              
               
                 All
                 the
                 rich
                 Bullion
                 ,
                 which
                 thy
                 Soveraign
                 Stamp
                 does
                 wear
              
               
                 On
                 every
                 Coast
                 of
                 Wit
                 does
                 equal
                 value
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 Allow'd
                 by
                 all
                 ,
                 and
                 currant
                 every
                 where
                 .
              
               
               
                 No
                 Nation
                 yet
                 has
                 been
                 so
                 barbarous
                 found
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 thy
                 transcendent
                 Worth
                 was
                 not
                 renown'd
                 .
              
               
                 Throughout
                 the
                 World
                 thou
                 art
                 with
                 Wonder
                 read
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 ever
                 Learning
                 does
                 its
                 Commerce
                 spread
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 ever
                 Fame
                 with
                 all
                 her
                 Tongues
                 can
                 speak
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 ever
                 the
                 bright
                 God
                 of
                 Wit
                 does
                 his
                 vast
                 Journies
                 take
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 7.
                 
              
               
                 Happy
                 above
                 Mankind
                 that
                 envied
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 Fare
                 ordain'd
                 to
                 be
                 thy
                 glorious
                 Theme
                 :
              
               
                 What
                 greater
                 Gift
                 could
                 bounteous
                 Heaven
                 bestow
              
               
                 On
                 its
                 chief
                 Favourite
                 below
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 nobler
                 Trophy
                 could
                 his
                 high
                 Deserts
                 be
                 fit
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 these
                 thy
                 vast
                 erected
                 Pyramids
                 of
                 Wit
                 ?
              
               
                 Not
                 Statutes
                 cast
                 in
                 solid
                 Brass
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 those
                 ,
                 which
                 Art
                 in
                 breathing
                 Marble
                 does
                 express
                 ,
              
               
                 Can
                 boast
                 an
                 equal
                 Life
                 ,
                 or
                 lastingness
              
               
               
                 With
                 their
                 well-polish'd
                 Images
                 ,
                 which
                 claim
              
               
                 A
                 Nich
                 in
                 thy
                 Majestick
                 Mohuments
                 of
                 Fame
                 .
              
               
                 Here
                 their
                 embalm'd
                 incorruptible
                 memories
              
               
                 Can
                 proudest
                 Louvres
                 ,
                 and
                 Escurials
                 despise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 needless
                 helps
                 of
                 AEgypts
                 costly
                 Vanities
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 Blasts
                 of
                 Heaven
                 ,
                 or
                 Ruine
                 of
                 the
                 Spheres
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 all
                 the
                 washing
                 Tides
                 of
                 rolling
                 years
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 the
                 whole
                 Race
                 of
                 batt'ring
                 time
                 shall
                 e're
                 wear
                 out
              
               
                 The
                 great
                 Inscriptions
                 ,
                 which
                 thy
                 Hand
                 has
                 wrought
                 ,
              
               
                 Here
                 thou
                 ,
                 and
                 they
                 shall
                 live
                 ,
                 and
                 bear
                 an
                 endless
                 date
                 ,
              
               
                 Firm
                 ,
                 as
                 enroll'd
                 in
                 the
                 eternal
                 Register
                 of
                 Fate
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 ever
                 curst
                 be
                 that
                 mad
                 Emperour
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 And
                 curss'd
                 enough
                 he
                 is
                 be
                 sure
                 )
              
               
                 May
                 future
                 Poets
                 on
                 his
                 hated
                 Name
              
               
                 Shed
                 all
                 their
                 Gall
                 ,
                 and
                 foulest
                 Infamy
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 may
                 it
                 here
                 stand
                 branded
                 with
                 eternal
                 shame
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 thought
                 thy
                 Works
                 could
                 mortal
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sought
                 the
                 glorious
                 Fabrick
                 to
                 destroy
                 :
              
               
               
                 In
                 this
                 (
                 could
                 Fate
                 permit
                 it
                 to
                 be
                 done
                 )
              
               
                 His
                 damned
                 Successor
                 he
                 had
                 out-gone
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 Rome
                 and
                 all
                 its
                 Palaces
                 in
                 Ashes
                 laid
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 great
                 Ruins
                 with
                 a
                 savage
                 Joy
                 survey'd
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 bu●…ht
                 but
                 what
                 might
                 be
                 re-built
                 and
                 richer
                 made
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 had
                 the
                 impious
                 Wish
                 succeeded
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 had
                 raiz'd
                 what
                 Age
                 ,
                 nor
                 Art
                 could
                 e're
                 repair
                 .
              
               
                 Not
                 that
                 vast
                 universal
                 Flame
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 at
                 the
                 final
                 Doom
              
               
                 This
                 beauteous
                 Work
                 of
                 Nature
                 must
                 consume
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Heav'n
                 and
                 all
                 its
                 Glories
                 in
                 one
                 Urn
                 entomb
                 ,
              
               
                 Will
                 burn
                 a
                 nobler
                 ,
                 or
                 more
                 lasting
                 Frame
                 :
              
               
                 As
                 firm
                 ,
                 and
                 strong
                 as
                 that
                 it
                 shall
                 endure
                 ,
              
               
                 Through
                 all
                 the
                 Injuries
                 of
                 Time
                 secure
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 die
                 ,
                 till
                 the
                 whole
                 world
                 its
                 Funeral
                 Pile
                 become
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Two
               Pastorals
               out
               of
               the
               Greek
               .
            
             
               
                 BION
                 .
                 A
                 Pastoral
                 ,
                 in
                 Imitation
                 of
                 the
                 Greek
                 of
                 Moschus
                 ,
                 bewailing
                 the
                 Death
                 of
                 the
                 Earl
                 of
                 ROCHESTER
                 .
              
               
                 
                   MOurn
                   all
                   ye
                   Groves
                   ,
                   in
                   darker
                   shades
                   be
                   seen
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   Groans
                   be
                   heard
                   ,
                   where
                   gentle
                   Winds
                   have
                   been
                   :
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Albion
                   Rivers
                   ,
                   weep
                   your
                   Fountains
                   dry
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   ye
                   Plants
                   your
                   moisture
                   spend
                   ,
                   and
                   die
                   :
                
                 
                   Ye
                   melancholy
                   Flowers
                   ,
                   which
                   once
                   were
                   Men
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lament
                   ,
                   until
                   you
                   be
                   transform'd
                   agen
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   every
                   Rose
                   pale
                   as
                   the
                   Lilly
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Winter
                   Frost
                   seize
                   the
                   A●…emone
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   thou
                   ,
                   O
                   Hyacinth
                   ,
                   more
                   vigorous
                   grow
                
                 
                   In
                   mournful
                   Letters
                   thy
                   sad
                   glory
                   show
                   ,
                
                 
                   Enlarge
                   thy
                   grief
                   ,
                   and
                   flourish
                   in
                   thy
                   wo
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   Bion
                   ,
                   the
                   beloved
                   
                   Bion's
                   dead
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   voice
                   is
                   gone
                   ,
                   his
                   tuneful
                   breath
                   is
                   fled
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Come
                   all
                   ye
                   Muses
                   ,
                   come
                   ,
                   adorn
                   the
                   Shepherd's
                   Herse
                
                 
                   With
                   never-fading
                   Garlands
                   ,
                   never-dying
                   Verse
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mourn
                   ye
                   sweet
                   Nightingales
                   in
                   the
                   thick
                   Woods
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tell
                   the
                   sad
                   news
                   to
                   all
                   the
                   British
                   Floods
                   :
                
                 
                   See
                   it
                   to
                   Isis
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   C
                   ham
                   convey'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Thames
                   ,
                   to
                   Humber
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   utmost
                   Tweed
                   :
                
                 
                   Annd
                   bid
                   them
                   wast
                   the
                   bitter
                   tidings
                   on
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   
                   Bion's
                   dead
                   ,
                   how
                   the
                   lov'd
                   Swain
                   is
                   gone
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   him
                   all
                   the
                   Art
                   of
                   graceful
                   Song
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Come
                   all
                   ye
                   Muses
                   ,
                   come
                   ,
                   adorn
                   the
                   Shepherd's
                   Herse
                
                 
                   With
                   never-fading
                   Garlands
                   ,
                   never-dying
                   Verse
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Ye
                   gentle
                   Swans
                   ,
                   that
                   haunt
                   the
                   Brooks
                   ,
                   and
                   Springs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pine
                   with
                   sad
                   grief
                   ,
                   and
                   droop
                   your
                   sickly
                   Wings
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   In
                   doleful
                   notes
                   the
                   heavy
                   loss
                   bewail
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   you
                   sing
                   at
                   your
                   own
                   Funeral
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   you
                   sung
                   when
                   your
                   lov'd
                   Orpheus
                   fell
                   .
                
                 
                   Tell
                   it
                   it
                   to
                   all
                   the
                   Rivers
                   ,
                   Hills
                   ,
                   and
                   Plains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tell
                   it
                   to
                   all
                   the
                   British
                   Nymphs
                   and
                   Swains
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bid
                   them
                   too
                   the
                   dismal
                   tydings
                   spread
                
                 
                   Of
                   
                   Bion's
                   fate
                   ,
                   of
                   
                   England's
                   Orpheus
                   dead
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Come
                   all
                   ye
                   Muses
                   ,
                   come
                   ,
                   adorn
                   the
                   Shepherd's
                   Herse
                
                 
                   With
                   never-fading
                   Garlands
                   ,
                   never-dying
                   Verse
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   No
                   more
                   ,
                   alas
                   !
                   no
                   more
                   that
                   lovely
                   Swain
                
                 
                   Charms
                   with
                   his
                   tuneful
                   Pipe
                   the
                   wondring
                   Plain
                   :
                
                 
                   Ceast
                   are
                   those
                   Lays
                   ,
                   ceast
                   are
                   those
                   sprightly
                   airs
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   woo'd
                   our
                   Souls
                   into
                   our
                   ravish'd
                   Ears
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   which
                   the
                   list'ning
                   streams
                   forgot
                   to
                   run
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Trees
                   lean'd
                   their
                   attentive
                   branches
                   down
                   :
                
                 
                   While
                   the
                   glad
                   Hills
                   ,
                   loth
                   the
                   sweet
                   sounds
                   to
                   lose
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lengthen'd
                   in
                   Echoes
                   every
                   heav'nly
                   close
                   .
                
                 
                   Down
                   to
                   the
                   melancholy
                   Shades
                   he
                   's
                   gone
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   to
                   
                   Lethe's
                   Banks
                   reports
                   his
                   moan
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Nothing
                   is
                   heard
                   upon
                   the
                   Mountains
                   now
                
                 
                   But
                   pensive
                   Herds
                   that
                   for
                   their
                   Master
                   low
                   :
                
                 
                   Stragling
                   and
                   comfortless
                   about
                   they
                   rove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unmindful
                   of
                   their
                   Pasture
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Love.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Come
                   all
                   ye
                   Muses
                   ,
                   come
                   ,
                   adorn
                   the
                   Shepherd's
                   Herse
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   never-fading
                   Garlands
                   ,
                   never-dying
                   Verse
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   For
                   thee
                   ,
                   dear
                   Swain
                   ,
                   for
                   thee
                   ,
                   his
                   much
                   lov'd
                   Son
                   ,
                
                 
                   Does
                   Phoebus
                   Clouds
                   of
                   mourning
                   black
                   put
                   on
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   thee
                   the
                   Satyrs
                   and
                   the
                   rustick
                   Fauns
                
                 
                   Sigh
                   and
                   lament
                   through
                   all
                   the
                   Woods
                   and
                   Lawns
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   thee
                   the
                   Fairies
                   grieve
                   ,
                   and
                   cease
                   to
                   dance
                
                 
                   In
                   sportful
                   Rings
                   by
                   night
                   upon
                   the
                   Plains
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   water
                   Nymphs
                   alike
                   thy
                   absence
                   mourn
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   their
                   Springs
                   to
                   tears
                   and
                   sorrow
                   turn
                   :
                
                 
                   Sad
                   Eccho
                   too
                   does
                   in
                   deep
                   silence
                   moan
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   thou
                   art
                   mute
                   ,
                   since
                   thou
                   art
                   speechless
                   grown
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   finds
                   nought
                   worth
                   her
                   pains
                   to
                   imitate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   thy
                   sweet
                   breath
                   's
                   stopt
                   by
                   untimely
                   fate
                   :
                
                 
                   Trees
                   drop
                   their
                   Leaves
                   to
                   dress
                   thy
                   Funeral
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   their
                   Fruit
                   before
                   its
                   Autumn
                   fall
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Each
                   Flower
                   sades
                   ,
                   and
                   hangs
                   its
                   wither'd
                   head
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   scorns
                   to
                   thrive
                   ,
                   or
                   live
                   ,
                   now
                   thou
                   art
                   dead
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   bleating
                   Flocks
                   no
                   more
                   their
                   Udders
                   fill
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   painful
                   Bees
                   neglect
                   their
                   wonted
                   toil
                   :
                
                 
                   Alas
                   !
                   what
                   boots
                   it
                   now
                   their
                   Hives
                   to
                   store
                
                 
                   With
                   the
                   rich
                   spoils
                   of
                   every
                   plunder'd
                   Flower
                   ,
                
                 
                   when
                   thou
                   ,
                   that
                   wast
                   all
                   sweetness
                   ,
                   art
                   no
                   more
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   Come
                   ,
                   all
                   ye
                   Muses
                   ,
                   come
                   ,
                   adorn
                   the
                   Shepherd's
                   Herse
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   never-fading
                   Garlands
                   ,
                   never-dying
                   Verse
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Ne'r
                   did
                   the
                   Dolphins
                   on
                   the
                   lonely
                   Shore
                
                 
                   In
                   such
                   loud
                   plaints
                   utter
                   their
                   grief
                   before
                   :
                
                 
                   Never
                   in
                   such
                   sad
                   Notes
                   did
                   Philomel
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   relenting
                   Rocks
                   her
                   sorrow
                   tell
                   :
                
                 
                   Ne'r
                   on
                   the
                   Beech
                   did
                   poor
                   Alcyone
                
                 
                   So
                   weep
                   ,
                   when
                   she
                   her
                   floating
                   Lover
                   saw
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   that
                   dead
                   Lover
                   ,
                   to
                   a
                   Sea-fowl
                   turn'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Upon
                   those
                   Waves
                   ,
                   where
                   he
                   was
                   drown'd
                   ,
                   so
                   mourn'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   did
                   the
                   Bird
                   of
                   Memnon
                   with
                   such
                   grief
                
                 
                   Bedew
                   those
                   Ashes
                   ,
                   which
                   late
                   gave
                   him
                   life
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   As
                   they
                   did
                   now
                   with
                   vying
                   grief
                   bewail
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   they
                   did
                   all
                   lament
                   dear
                   
                   Bion's
                   fall
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Come
                   all
                   ye
                   Muses
                   ,
                   come
                   ,
                   adorn
                   the
                   Shepherd's
                   Herse
                
                 
                   With
                   never-fading
                   Garlands
                   ,
                   never-dying
                   Verse
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   In
                   every
                   Wood
                   ,
                   on
                   every
                   Tree
                   ,
                   and
                   Bush
                
                 
                   The
                   Lark
                   ,
                   the
                   Linnet
                   ,
                   Nightingale
                   ,
                   and
                   Thrush
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   feather'd
                   Choir
                   ,
                   that
                   us'd
                   to
                   throng
                
                 
                   In
                   list'ning
                   Flocks
                   to
                   learn
                   his
                   well-tun'd
                   Song
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   each
                   in
                   the
                   sad
                   Consort
                   bear
                   a
                   part
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   kind
                   Notes
                   repay
                   their
                   Teachers
                   Art
                   :
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Turtles
                   too
                   (
                   I
                   charge
                   you
                   )
                   here
                   assist
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   not
                   your
                   murmurs
                   in
                   the
                   crowd
                   be
                   mist
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   dear
                   Swain
                   do
                   not
                   ungrateful
                   prove
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   taught
                   you
                   how
                   to
                   sing
                   ,
                   and
                   how
                   to
                   love
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Come
                   all
                   ye
                   Muses
                   ,
                   come
                   ,
                   adorn
                   the
                   Shepherd's
                   Herse
                
                 
                   With
                   never-fading
                   Garlands
                   ,
                   never-dying
                   Verse
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Whom
                   hast
                   thou
                   left
                   behind
                   thee
                   ,
                   skilful
                   Swain
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   dares
                   aspire
                   to
                   reach
                   thy
                   matchless
                   strain
                   :
                   ▪
                
                 
                 
                   Who
                   is
                   there
                   after
                   thee
                   ,
                   that
                   dares
                   pretend
                
                 
                   Rashly
                   to
                   take
                   thy
                   warbling
                   Pipe
                   in
                   hand
                   ?
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Notes
                   remain
                   yet
                   fresh
                   in
                   every
                   ear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   give
                   us
                   all
                   delight
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   despair
                   :
                
                 
                   Pleas'd
                   Eccho
                   still
                   does
                   on
                   them
                   meditate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   the
                   whistling
                   Reeds
                   their
                   sounds
                   repeat
                   :
                
                 
                   Pan
                   only
                   e're
                   can
                   equal
                   thee
                   in
                   Song
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   task
                   does
                   only
                   to
                   great
                   Pan
                   belong
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   Pan
                   himself
                   perhaps
                   will
                   fear
                   to
                   try
                   ,
                
                 
                   Will
                   fear
                   perhaps
                   to
                   be
                   out-done
                   by
                   thee
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Come
                   all
                   ye
                   Muses
                   ,
                   come
                   ,
                   adorn
                   the
                   Shepherd's
                   Herse
                
                 
                   With
                   never-fading
                   Garlands
                   ,
                   never-dying
                   Verse
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Fair
                   Galatea
                   too
                   laments
                   thy
                   death
                   :
                
                 
                   Laments
                   the
                   ceasing
                   of
                   thy
                   tuneful
                   breath
                   :
                
                 
                   Ost
                   she
                   ,
                   kind
                   Nymph
                   ,
                   resorted
                   heretosore
                
                 
                   To
                   hear
                   thy
                   artful
                   measures
                   from
                   the
                   shore
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   harsh
                   like
                   the
                   rude
                   Cyclops
                   were
                   thy
                   lays
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   grating
                   sounds
                   did
                   her
                   soft
                   ears
                   displease
                   :
                
                 
                   Such
                   was
                   the
                   force
                   of
                   thy
                   enchanting
                   tongue
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   she
                   for
                   ever
                   could
                   have
                   heard
                   thy
                   Song
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   chid
                   the
                   hours
                   ,
                   that
                   did
                   so
                   swiftly
                   run
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thought
                   the
                   Sun
                   too
                   hasty
                   to
                   go
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   does
                   that
                   lovely
                   Nereid
                   for
                   thy
                   sake
                
                 
                   The
                   Sea
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   her
                   fellow
                   Nymphs
                   forsake
                   :
                
                 
                   Pensive
                   upon
                   the
                   Beach
                   ,
                   she
                   sits
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   kindly
                   tends
                   the
                   Flocks
                   from
                   which
                   thou'
                   rt
                   gone
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Come
                   all
                   ye
                   Muses
                   ,
                   come
                   ,
                   adorn
                   the
                   Shepherd's
                   Herse
                
                 
                   With
                   never-fading
                   Garlands
                   ,
                   never-dying
                   Verse
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   With
                   thee
                   ,
                   sweet
                   Bion
                   ,
                   all
                   the
                   grace
                   of
                   Song
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   Muses
                   boasted
                   Art
                   is
                   gone
                   :
                
                 
                   Mute
                   is
                   thy
                   Voice
                   ,
                   which
                   could
                   all
                   hearts
                   command
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   pow'r
                   no
                   Shepherdess
                   could
                   e're
                   withstand
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   the
                   soft
                   weeping
                   Loves
                   about
                   thee
                   moan
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   once
                   their
                   Mothers
                   darling
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   own
                   :
                
                 
                   Dearer
                   wast
                   thou
                   to
                   Venus
                   than
                   her
                   Loves
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   her
                   charm'd
                   Girdle
                   ,
                   than
                   her
                   faithful
                   Doves
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   the
                   last
                   gasping
                   Kisses
                   ,
                   which
                   in
                   death
                
                 
                   Adonis
                   gave
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   them
                   gave
                   his
                   breath
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   This
                   ,
                   Thames
                   ,
                   ah
                   !
                   this
                   is
                   now
                   the
                   second
                   loss
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   which
                   in
                   tears
                   thy
                   weeping
                   Current
                   flows
                   :
                
                 
                   Spencer
                   ,
                   the
                   Muses
                   glory
                   ,
                   went
                   before
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   pass'd
                   long
                   since
                   to
                   the
                   Elysian
                   shore
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   him
                   (
                   they
                   say
                   )
                   for
                   him
                   ,
                   thy
                   dear-lov'd
                   Son
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Waves
                   did
                   long
                   in
                   sobbing
                   murmurs
                   groan
                   ,
                
                 
                   Long
                   fill'd
                   the
                   Sea
                   with
                   their
                   complaint
                   ,
                   and
                   moan
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   ,
                   alas
                   !
                   thou
                   do'st
                   afresh
                   bewail
                   ,
                
                 
                   Another
                   Son
                   does
                   now
                   thy
                   sorrow
                   call
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   part
                   with
                   either
                   thou
                   alike
                   wast
                   loth
                   ,
                
                 
                   Both
                   dear
                   to
                   Thee
                   ,
                   dear
                   to
                   the
                   Fountains
                   both
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   largely
                   drank
                   the
                   Rills
                   of
                   sacred
                   Cham
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   this
                   no
                   less
                   of
                   Isis
                   nobler
                   stream
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   sung
                   of
                   Hero's
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   hardy
                   Knights
                
                 
                   Far-fam'd
                   in
                   Battels
                   ,
                   and
                   renown'd
                   Exploits
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   meddled
                   not
                   with
                   bloudy
                   Fights
                   ,
                   and
                   Wars
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pan
                   was
                   his
                   Song
                   ,
                   and
                   Shepherds
                   harmless
                   jars
                   ,
                
                 
                   Loves
                   peaceful
                   combats
                   ,
                   and
                   its
                   gentle
                   cares
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Love
                   ever
                   was
                   the
                   subject
                   of
                   his
                   Lays
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   his
                   soft
                   Lays
                   did
                   Venus
                   ever
                   please
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Come
                   all
                   ye
                   Muses
                   ,
                   come
                   adorn
                   the
                   Shepherd's
                   Herse
                
                 
                   With
                   never
                   fading
                   Garlands
                   ,
                   never-dying
                   Verse
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thou
                   ,
                   sacred
                   Bion
                   ,
                   art
                   lamented
                   more
                
                 
                   Than
                   all
                   our
                   tuneful
                   Bards
                   ,
                   that
                   dy'd
                   before
                   :
                
                 
                   Old
                   Chaucer
                   ,
                   who
                   first
                   taught
                   the
                   use
                   of
                   Verse
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   longer
                   has
                   the
                   tribute
                   of
                   our
                   tears
                   :
                
                 
                   Milton
                   ,
                   whose
                   Muse
                   with
                   such
                   a
                   daring
                   flight
                
                 
                   Led
                   out
                   the
                   warring
                   Seraphims
                   to
                   fight
                   :
                
                 
                   Blest
                   Cowley
                   too
                   ,
                   who
                   on
                   the
                   banks
                   of
                   Cham
                
                 
                   So
                   sweetly
                   sigh'd
                   his
                   wrongs
                   ,
                   and
                   told
                   his
                   flame
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   He
                   ,
                   whose
                   Song
                   rais'd
                   
                   Cooper's
                   Hill
                   so
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   made
                   its
                   glory
                   with
                   Parnassus
                   vie
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   soft
                   Orinda
                   ,
                   whose
                   bright
                   shining
                   name
                
                 
                   Stands
                   next
                   great
                   
                   Sappho's
                   in
                   the
                   ranks
                   of
                   fame
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   now
                   unwept
                   ,
                   and
                   unrelented
                   pass
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   our
                   grief
                   no
                   longer
                   share
                   a
                   place
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Bion
                   alone
                   does
                   all
                   our
                   tears
                   engross
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   tears
                   are
                   all
                   too
                   few
                   for
                   
                   Bion's
                   loss
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Come
                   all
                   ye
                   Muses
                   ,
                   come
                   ,
                   adorn
                   the
                   Shepherd's
                   Herse
                
                 
                   With
                   never-fading
                   Garlands
                   ,
                   never-dying
                   Verse
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thee
                   all
                   the
                   Herdsmen
                   mourn
                   in
                   gentlest
                   Lays
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rival
                   one
                   another
                   in
                   thy
                   praise
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   spreading
                   Letters
                   they
                   engrave
                   thy
                   Name
                
                 
                   On
                   every
                   Bark
                   ,
                   that
                   's
                   worthy
                   of
                   the
                   same
                   :
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Name
                   is
                   warbled
                   forth
                   by
                   every
                   tongue
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Name
                   the
                   Burthen
                   of
                   each
                   Shepherds
                   Song
                   ;
                
                 
                   Waller
                   ,
                   the
                   sweet'st
                   of
                   living
                   Bards
                   ,
                   prepares
                
                 
                   For
                   thee
                   his
                   tender'st
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   mournfull'st
                   airs
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   ,
                   the
                   meanest
                   of
                   the
                   British
                   Swains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Amongst
                   the
                   rest
                   offer
                   these
                   humble
                   strains
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   I
                   am
                   reckon'd
                   not
                   unblest
                   in
                   Song
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   what
                   I
                   ow
                   to
                   thy
                   all-teaching
                   tongue
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   of
                   thy
                   Art
                   ,
                   some
                   of
                   thy
                   tuneful
                   breath
                
                 
                   Thou
                   didst
                   by
                   Will
                   to
                   worthless
                   me
                   bequeath
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Others
                   thy
                   Flocks
                   ,
                   thy
                   Lands
                   ,
                   thy
                   Riches
                   have
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   me
                   thou
                   didst
                   thy
                   Pipe
                   ,
                   and
                   Skill
                   vouch●…afe
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Come
                   all
                   y●…
                   Muses
                   ,
                   come
                   ,
                   adorn
                   the
                   Shepherd's
                   H●…rse
                
                 
                   With
                   never-fading
                   Garlands
                   ,
                   never-dying
                   Verse
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Alas
                   by
                   what
                   ill
                   Fate
                   ,
                   to
                   man
                   unkind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Were
                   we
                   to
                   so
                   severe
                   a
                   lot
                   design'd
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   meanest
                   Flowers
                   which
                   the
                   Gardens
                   yield
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   vilest
                   Weeds
                   that
                   flourish
                   in
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   must
                   e're
                   long
                   lie
                   dead
                   in
                   Winter's
                   Snow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   spring
                   again
                   ,
                   again
                   more
                   vigorous
                   grow
                   :
                
                 
                   Yon
                   Sun
                   ,
                   and
                   this
                   bright
                   glory
                   of
                   the
                   day
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   night
                   is
                   hasting
                   now
                   to
                   snatch
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   rise
                   anew
                   more
                   shining
                   and
                   more
                   gay
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   wretched
                   we
                   must
                   harder
                   measure
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   great'st
                   ,
                   the
                   brav'st
                   ,
                   the
                   witt●…'st
                   of
                   mankind
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Death
                   has
                   once
                   put
                   out
                   their
                   light
                   .
                   in
                   vain
                
                 
                   Ever
                   expect
                   the
                   dawn
                   of
                   Life
                   again
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   the
                   dark
                   Grave
                   insensible
                   they
                   lie
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   sleep
                   our
                   endless
                   Eternity
                
                 
                 
                   There
                   tho●…
                   to
                   silence
                   ever
                   art
                   confin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   less
                   deserving
                   Swains
                   are
                   left
                   behind
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   please
                   the
                   Fates
                   to
                   deal
                   with
                   us
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   cull
                   out
                   thee
                   ,
                   and
                   let
                   dull
                   Moevius
                   go
                   :
                
                 
                   
                     Moevius
                     still
                  
                   lives
                   ;
                   still
                   let
                   him
                   live
                   for
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Pipe
                   shall
                   ne'r
                   my
                   envy
                   be
                   :
                
                 
                   None
                   e're
                   that
                   heard
                   thy
                   sweet
                   ,
                   thy
                   Artful
                   Tongue
                   ,
                
                 
                   Will
                   grate
                   their
                   ears
                   with
                   his
                   rough
                   untun'd
                   Song
                
              
               
                 
                   Come
                   ,
                   all
                   ye
                   Muses
                   ,
                   come
                   ,
                   adorn
                   the
                   Shepherd's
                   Herse
                
                 
                   With
                   never-fading
                   Garlands
                   ,
                   never-dying
                   Verse
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   fierce
                   Disease
                   ,
                   sent
                   by
                   ungentle
                   Death
                   ,
                
                 
                   Snatch'd
                   Bion
                   hence
                   ,
                   and
                   stop'd
                   his
                   hallow'd
                   breath
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   fatal
                   damp
                   put
                   out
                   that
                   heav'nly
                   fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   sacred
                   heat
                   which
                   did
                   his
                   breast
                   inspire
                   .
                
                 
                   Ah!
                   what
                   malignant
                   ill
                   could
                   boast
                   that
                   pow'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   his
                   sweet
                   voice's
                   Magick
                   could
                   not
                   cure
                   ?
                
                 
                   Ah
                   cruel
                   Fare
                   !
                   how
                   could'st
                   thou
                   chuse
                   but
                   spare
                   ?
                
                 
                   How
                   could'st
                   thou
                   exercise
                   thy
                   rigout
                   here
                   ?
                
                 
                   Would
                   thou
                   hadst
                   thrown
                   thy
                   Dart
                   at
                   worthless
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   this
                   dear
                   ,
                   this
                   valued
                   life
                   go
                   free
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Better
                   ten
                   thousand
                   meaner
                   Swains
                   had
                   dy'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   this
                   best
                   work
                   of
                   Nature
                   been
                   destroy'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Come
                   ,
                   all
                   ye
                   Muses
                   ,
                   come
                   ,
                   adorn
                   the
                   Shepherd's
                   Herse
                
                 
                   With
                   never-fading
                   Garlands
                   ,
                   never-dying
                   Verse
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Ah!
                   would
                   kind
                   Death
                   alike
                   had
                   sent
                   me
                   hence
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   grief
                   shall
                   do
                   the
                   work
                   ,
                   and
                   save
                   its
                   pains
                   :
                
                 
                   Grief
                   shall
                   accomplish
                   my
                   desired
                   doom
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   soon
                   dispatch
                   me
                   to
                   Elysium
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   ,
                   Bion
                   ,
                   would
                   I
                   be
                   ,
                   there
                   gladly
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   with
                   thy
                   voice
                   thou
                   charm'st
                   the
                   shades
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   Sing
                   ,
                   Shepherd
                   ,
                   sing
                   one
                   of
                   thy
                   strains
                   divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   may
                   melt
                   the
                   fierce
                   Elysian
                   Queen
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   once
                   her self
                   was
                   pleas'd
                   with
                   tuneful
                   strains
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sung
                   ,
                   and
                   danc'd
                   on
                   the
                   Sicilian
                   Plains
                   :
                
                 
                   Fear
                   not
                   ,
                   thy
                   Song
                   should
                   unsuccessful
                   prove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fear
                   not
                   ,
                   but
                   't
                   will
                   the
                   pitying
                   Goddess
                   move
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   once
                   was
                   won
                   by
                   Orpheus
                   heav'nly
                   Lays
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   gave
                   his
                   fair
                   Eurydice
                   release
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   thine
                   as
                   pow'rful
                   (
                   question
                   not
                   ,
                   dear
                   Swain
                   )
                
                 
                   Shall
                   bring
                   thee
                   back
                   to
                   these
                   glad
                   Hills
                   again
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Ev'n
                   I
                   my self
                   ,
                   did
                   I
                   at
                   all
                   excel
                   ,
                
                 
                   Would
                   try
                   the
                   utmost
                   of
                   my
                   voice
                   and
                   skill
                   ,
                
                 
                   Would
                   try
                   to
                   move
                   the
                   rigid
                   King
                   of
                   Hell.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Lamentation
                 for
                 ADONIS
                 .
                 Imitated
                 out
                 of
                 the
                 Greek
                 of
                 Bion
                 of
                 Smyrna
                 .
              
               
                 PASTORAL
                 .
              
               
                 
                   IMourn
                   Adonis
                   ,
                   fair
                   Adonis
                   dead
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   's
                   dead
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   that
                   's
                   lovely
                   ,
                   with
                   him
                   fled
                   :
                
                 
                   Come
                   all
                   ye
                   Loves
                   ,
                   come
                   hither
                   and
                   bemoan
                
                 
                   The
                   charming
                   sweet
                   Adonis
                   dead
                   and
                   gone
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   Rise
                   from
                   thy
                   Purple
                   Bed
                   ,
                   and
                   rich
                   Alcove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Throw
                   off
                   thy
                   gay
                   attire
                   ,
                   great
                   Queen
                   of
                   Love
                   :
                
                 
                   Henceforth
                   in
                   sad
                   and
                   mournful
                   weeds
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   marks
                   of
                   grief
                   ,
                   and
                   sorrow
                   wear
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   tear
                   thy
                   locks
                   ,
                   and
                   beat
                   thy
                   panting
                   breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   cry
                   ,
                   
                     My
                     dear
                  
                   Adonis
                   
                     is
                     deceast
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   mourn
                   Adonis
                   ,
                   the
                   soft
                   Loves
                   bemoan
                
                 
                   The
                   gentle
                   sweet
                   Adonis
                   dead
                   and
                   gone
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   On
                   the
                   cold
                   Mountain
                   lies
                   the
                   wretched
                   Youth
                   ,
                
                 
                   Kill'd
                   by
                   a
                   Savage
                   Boar's
                   unpitying
                   tooth
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   his
                   white
                   thigh
                   the
                   fatal
                   stroke
                   is
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   whiter
                   was
                   that
                   tooth
                   ,
                   that
                   gave
                   the
                   wound
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   wide
                   wound
                   fast
                   flows
                   the
                   streaming
                   gore
                
                 
                   And
                   stains
                   that
                   skin
                   which
                   was
                   all
                   snow
                   before
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   breath
                   with
                   quick
                   short
                   tremblings
                   comes
                   and
                   goes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Death
                   his
                   fainting
                   eyes
                   begins
                   to
                   close
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   his
                   pale
                   lips
                   the
                   ruddy
                   colour
                   's
                   fled
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fled
                   ,
                   and
                   has
                   left
                   his
                   kisses
                   cold
                   and
                   dead
                   :
                
                 
                   Yet
                   Venus
                   never
                   will
                   his
                   kisses
                   leave
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Goddess
                   ever
                   to
                   his
                   lips
                   will
                   cleave
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   kiss
                   of
                   her
                   dear
                   Youth
                   does
                   please
                   her
                   still
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   her
                   poor
                   Youth
                   does
                   not
                   the
                   pleasure
                   feel
                   :
                
                 
                   Dead
                   he
                   feels
                   not
                   her
                   love
                   ,
                   feels
                   not
                   her
                   grief
                   ,
                
                 
                   Feels
                   not
                   her
                   kiss
                   ,
                   which
                   might
                   ev'n
                   life
                   retrieve
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   I
                   mourn
                   Adonis
                   the
                   sad
                   Loves
                   bemoan
                
                 
                   The
                   comely
                   fair
                   Adonis
                   dead
                   and
                   gone
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Deep
                   in
                   his
                   Thigh
                   ,
                   deep
                   went
                   the
                   killing
                   smart
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   deeper
                   far
                   it
                   goes
                   in
                   Venus
                   heart
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   faithful
                   Dogs
                   about
                   the
                   Mountain
                   yell
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   hard
                   Fate
                   of
                   their
                   dead
                   Master
                   tell
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   troubled
                   Nymphs
                   alike
                   in
                   doleful
                   strains
                
                 
                   Proclaim
                   his
                   death
                   through
                   all
                   the
                   Fields
                   &
                   Plains
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   sad
                   Goddess
                   ,
                   most
                   of
                   all
                   forlorn
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   love
                   distracted
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   sorrow
                   torn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wild
                   in
                   her
                   look
                   ,
                   and
                   ruful
                   in
                   her
                   air
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Garments
                   rent
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   dishevel'd
                   hair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Through
                   Brakes
                   ,
                   through
                   Thickets
                   ,
                   and
                   through
                   pathless
                   ways
                   ,
                
                 
                   Through
                   Woods
                   ,
                   through
                   Haunts
                   ,
                   and
                   Dens
                   of
                   Savages
                   ,
                
                 
                   Undrest
                   ,
                   unshod
                   ,
                   careless
                   of
                   Honour
                   ,
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Danger
                   ,
                   flies
                   ,
                   and
                   calls
                   on
                   his
                   lov'd
                   name
                   .
                
                 
                   Rude
                   Brambles
                   ,
                   as
                   she
                   goes
                   ,
                   her
                   body
                   tear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   her
                   cut
                   feet
                   with
                   bloud
                   the
                   stones
                   besmear
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   She
                   thoughtless
                   of
                   the
                   unfelt
                   smart
                   flies
                   on
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fills
                   the
                   Woods
                   ,
                   and
                   Vallies
                   with
                   her
                   moan
                   ,
                
                 
                   Loudly
                   does
                   on
                   the
                   Stars
                   and
                   Fates
                   complain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   prays
                   them
                   give
                   Adonis
                   back
                   again
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   he
                   ,
                   alass
                   !
                   the
                   wretched
                   Youth
                   ,
                   alas
                   !
                
                 
                   Lies
                   cold
                   ,
                   and
                   stiff
                   ,
                   extended
                   on
                   the
                   grass
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   lies
                   he
                   steep'd
                   in
                   gore
                   ,
                   there
                   lies
                   he
                   drown'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   purple
                   streams
                   ,
                   that
                   gush
                   from
                   his
                   own
                   wound
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   All
                   the
                   soft
                   band
                   of
                   Loves
                   their
                   Mother
                   mourn
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   once
                   of
                   beauty
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   love
                   forlorn
                   .
                
                 
                   Venus
                   has
                   lost
                   her
                   Lover
                   ,
                   and
                   each
                   grace
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   sate
                   before
                   in
                   triumph
                   in
                   her
                   face
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   grief
                   chas'd
                   thence
                   ,
                   has
                   now
                   forsook
                   the
                   place
                   .
                
                 
                   That
                   day
                   which
                   snatch'd
                   Adonis
                   from
                   her
                   arms
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   day
                   bereft
                   the
                   Goddess
                   of
                   her
                   charms
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Woods
                   and
                   Trees
                   in
                   murmuring
                   sighs
                   bemoan
                
                 
                   The
                   fate
                   of
                   her
                   Adonis
                   dead
                   and
                   gone
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Rivers
                   too
                   ,
                   as
                   if
                   they
                   would
                   deplore
                
                 
                   His
                   death
                   ,
                   with
                   grief
                   swell
                   higher
                   than
                   before
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Flowers
                   weep
                   in
                   tears
                   of
                   dreary
                   dew
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   by
                   their
                   drooping
                   heads
                   their
                   sorrow
                   shew
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   most
                   the
                   Cyprian
                   Queen
                   with
                   shrieks
                   ,
                   and
                   groans
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fills
                   all
                   the
                   neighb'ring
                   Hills
                   ,
                   and
                   Vales
                   ,
                   and
                   Towns
                   :
                
                 
                   
                     The
                     poor
                  
                   Adonis
                   dead
                   !
                   is
                   all
                   her
                   cry
                   ,
                
                 
                   Adonis
                   dead
                   !
                   sad
                   Eccho
                   does
                   reply
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   What
                   cruel
                   heart
                   would
                   not
                   the
                   Queen
                   of
                   Love
                
                 
                   To
                   melting
                   tears
                   ,
                   and
                   soft
                   compassion
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   she
                   saw
                   how
                   her
                   wretched
                   Lover
                   fell
                   ,
                
                 
                   Saw
                   his
                   deep
                   wound
                   ,
                   saw
                   it
                   ineurable
                   ?
                
                 
                   Soon
                   as
                   her
                   eyes
                   his
                   bleeding
                   wounds
                   survey'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   eager
                   clips
                   she
                   did
                   his
                   Limbs
                   invade
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   these
                   soft
                   ,
                   tender
                   ,
                   mournful
                   things
                   she
                   said
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   "
                   Whither
                   ,
                   O
                   whither
                   fli'st
                   thou
                   ,
                   wretched
                   Boy
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Stay
                   my
                   Adonis
                   ,
                   stay
                   my
                   only
                   joy
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Ostay
                   ,
                   unhappy
                   Youth
                   ,
                   at
                   least
                   till
                   I
                
                 
                   "
                   With
                   one
                   kind
                   word
                   bespeak
                   thee
                   ,
                   e're
                   thou
                   die
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Till
                   I
                   once
                   more
                   embrace
                   thee
                   ,
                   till
                   I
                   seal
                
                 
                   "
                   Upon
                   thy
                   dying
                   lips
                   my
                   last
                   farewel
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   "
                   Look
                   up
                   one
                   minute
                   ,
                   give
                   one
                   parting
                   kiss
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   One
                   kiss
                   ,
                   dear
                   Youth
                   ,
                   to
                   dry
                   these
                   flowing
                   eyes
                   :
                
                 
                   "
                   One
                   kiss
                   as
                   thy
                   last
                   Legacy
                   I
                   'd
                   fain
                
                 
                   "
                   Preserve
                   ,
                   no
                   God
                   shall
                   take
                   it
                   off
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   "
                   Kiss
                   ,
                   while
                   I
                   watch
                   thy
                   swimming
                   eye-balls
                   roul
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Watch
                   thy
                   last
                   gasp
                   ,
                   and
                   catch
                   thy
                   springing
                   soul.
                
                 
                   "
                   I
                   'll
                   suck
                   it
                   in
                   ,
                   I
                   'll
                   hoard
                   it
                   in
                   my
                   heart
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   I
                   with
                   that
                   facred
                   pledg
                   will
                   never
                   part
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   But
                   thou
                   wilt
                   part
                   ,
                   but
                   thou
                   art
                   gone
                   ,
                   far
                   gone
                
                 
                   "
                   To
                   the
                   dark
                   shades
                   ,
                   and
                   leav'st
                   me
                   here
                   alone
                   .
                
                 
                   "
                   Thou
                   dy'st
                   ,
                   but
                   hopeless
                   I
                   must
                   suffer
                   life
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Must
                   pine
                   away
                   with
                   easless
                   endless
                   grief
                   .
                
                 
                   "
                   Why
                   was
                   I
                   born
                   a
                   Goddess
                   ?
                   why
                   was
                   I
                
                 
                   "
                   Made
                   such
                   a
                   wretch
                   to
                   want
                   the
                   pow'r
                   to
                   die
                   ?
                
                 
                   "
                   If
                   I
                   by
                   death
                   my
                   sorrows
                   might
                   redress
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   If
                   the
                   cold
                   Grave
                   could
                   to
                   my
                   pains
                   give
                   ease
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   I
                   'd
                   gladly
                   die
                   ,
                   I
                   'd
                   rather
                   nothing
                   be
                
                 
                   "
                   Than
                   thus
                   condemn'd
                   to
                   immortality
                   :
                
                 
                   "
                   In
                   that
                   vast
                   empty
                   void
                   ,
                   and
                   boundless
                   wast
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   We
                   mind
                   not
                   what
                   's
                   to
                   come
                   ,
                   nor
                   what
                   is
                   past
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   "
                   Of
                   life
                   ,
                   or
                   death
                   we
                   know
                   no
                   difference
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Nor
                   hopes
                   ,
                   nor
                   fears
                   at
                   all
                   affect
                   our
                   sense
                   :
                
                 
                   "
                   But
                   those
                   who
                   are
                   of
                   pleasure
                   once
                   bereft
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   And
                   must
                   survive
                   ,
                   are
                   most
                   unhappy
                   left
                   :
                
                 
                   "
                   To
                   ravenous
                   sorrow
                   they
                   are
                   left
                   a
                   prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Nor
                   can
                   they
                   ever
                   drive
                   despair
                   away
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   "
                   Take
                   ,
                   cruel
                   Proserpine
                   ,
                   take
                   my
                   lov'd
                   Boy
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Rich
                   with
                   my
                   spoils
                   ,
                   do
                   thou
                   my
                   loss
                   enjoy
                   .
                
                 
                   "
                   Take
                   him
                   relentless
                   Goddess
                   ,
                   for
                   thy
                   own
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Never
                   till
                   now
                   wast
                   thou
                   my
                   envy
                   grown
                   .
                
                 
                   "
                   Hard
                   Fate
                   !
                   that
                   thus
                   the
                   best
                   of
                   things
                   must
                   be
                
                 
                   "
                   Always
                   the
                   plunder
                   of
                   the
                   Grave
                   ,
                   and
                   thee
                   :
                
                 
                   "
                   The
                   Grave
                   ,
                   and
                   thou
                   now
                   all
                   my
                   hopes
                   engross
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   And
                   I
                   for
                   ever
                   must
                   Adonis
                   lose
                   .
                
                 
                   "
                   Thou'
                   rt
                   dead
                   ,
                   alas
                   !
                   alas
                   !
                   my
                   Youth
                   ,
                   thou'
                   rt
                   dead
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   And
                   with
                   thee
                   all
                   my
                   pleasures
                   too
                   are
                   fled
                   :
                
                 
                   "
                   They
                   're
                   all
                   like
                   fleeting
                   vanish'd
                   dreams
                   pass'd
                   o're
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   And
                   nought
                   but
                   the
                   remembrance
                   left
                   in
                   store
                
                 
                   "
                   Of
                   tasted
                   joys
                   ne're
                   to
                   be
                   tasted
                   more
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   "
                   With
                   thee
                   my
                   Cestos
                   ,
                   all
                   my
                   charms
                   are
                   gone
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Thy
                   Venus
                   must
                   thy
                   absence
                   ever
                   moan
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   And
                   spend
                   the
                   tedious
                   live-long
                   nights
                   alone
                   .
                
                 
                   "
                   Ah!
                   heedless
                   Boy
                   ,
                   why
                   would'st
                   thou
                   rashly
                   choose
                
                 
                   "
                   Thy
                   self
                   to
                   dang'rous
                   pleasures
                   to
                   expose
                   ?
                
                 
                   "
                   Why
                   would'st
                   thou
                   hunt
                   ?
                   why
                   would'st
                   thou
                   any
                   more
                
                 
                   "
                   Venture
                   with
                   Dogs
                   to
                   chase
                   the
                   foaming
                   Boar
                   ?
                
                 
                   "
                   Thou
                   wast
                   all
                   fair
                   to
                   mine
                   ,
                   to
                   humane
                   eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   But
                   not
                   (
                   alas
                   !
                   )
                   to
                   those
                   wild
                   Savages
                   .
                
                 
                   "
                   One
                   would
                   have
                   thought
                   thy
                   sweetness
                   might
                   have
                   charm'd
                
                 
                   "
                   The
                   roughest
                   kind
                   ,
                   the
                   fiercest
                   rage
                   disarm'd
                   :
                
                 
                   "
                   Mine
                   (
                   I
                   am
                   sure
                   )
                   it
                   could
                   ;
                   but
                   wo
                   is
                   thee
                   !
                
                 
                   "
                   All
                   wear
                   not
                   eyes
                   ,
                   all
                   wear
                   not
                   breasts
                   like
                   me
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   In
                   such
                   sad
                   words
                   the
                   Dame
                   her
                   grief
                   did
                   vent
                   ;
                
                 
                   While
                   the
                   Wing'd
                   Loves
                   kept
                   time
                   with
                   her
                   complaint
                   :
                
                 
                   As
                   many
                   drops
                   of
                   Bloud
                   as
                   from
                   the
                   wound
                
                 
                   Of
                   slain
                   Adonis
                   fell
                   upon
                   the
                   ground
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   So
                   many
                   tears
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   you
                   might
                   have
                   told
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   down
                   the
                   cheeks
                   of
                   weeping
                   Venus
                   roul'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Both
                   tears
                   ,
                   and
                   bloud
                   to
                   new
                   born
                   flow'rs
                   give
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hence
                   Roses
                   spring
                   ,
                   and
                   thence
                   Anemonies
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Cease
                   ,
                   Venus
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   Woods
                   to
                   mourn
                   thy
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   'st
                   vented
                   sighs
                   ,
                   thou
                   'st
                   lavish'd
                   tears
                   enough
                   :
                
                 
                   See!
                   Goddess
                   ,
                   where
                   a
                   glorious
                   bed
                   of
                   State
                
                 
                   Does
                   ready
                   for
                   thy
                   dear
                   Adonis
                   wait
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   bed
                   was
                   once
                   the
                   Scene
                   of
                   Love
                   ,
                   and
                   Joy
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   must
                   bear
                   the
                   wretched
                   ,
                   murder'd
                   Boy
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   lies
                   he
                   ,
                   like
                   a
                   pale
                   ,
                   and
                   wither'd
                   Flower
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   some
                   rude
                   hand
                   had
                   cropt
                   before
                   its
                   hour
                   :
                
                 
                   Yet
                   smiles
                   ,
                   and
                   beauties
                   still
                   live
                   in
                   his
                   face
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   death
                   can
                   never
                   frighten
                   from
                   their
                   place
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   let
                   him
                   lie
                   upon
                   that
                   conscious
                   bed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   you
                   loves
                   mysteries
                   so
                   oft
                   have
                   tried
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   you
                   've
                   enjoy'd
                   so
                   many
                   an
                   happy
                   night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Each
                   lengthen'd
                   into
                   ages
                   of
                   delight
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   let
                   him
                   lie
                   ,
                   there
                   heaps
                   of
                   Flowers
                   strow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Roses
                   and
                   Lillies
                   store
                   upon
                   him
                   throw
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   myrtle
                   Garlands
                   lavishly
                   bestow
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Pour
                   Myrth
                   ,
                   and
                   Balm
                   ,
                   and
                   costliest
                   Ointments
                   on
                   ,
                
                 
                   Flowers
                   are
                   faded
                   ,
                   Ointments
                   worthless
                   grown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   thy
                   Adonis
                   ,
                   now
                   thy
                   Youth
                   is
                   gone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   was
                   all
                   sweetnesses
                   compriz'd
                   in
                   one
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   In
                   Purple
                   wrapt
                   ,
                   Adonis
                   lies
                   in
                   state
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Troop
                   of
                   mourning
                   Loves
                   about
                   him
                   wait
                   :
                
                 
                   Each
                   does
                   some
                   mark
                   of
                   their
                   kind
                   sorrow
                   show
                   ,
                
                 
                   One
                   breaks
                   his
                   Shafts
                   ,
                   t'other
                   unstrings
                   his
                   Bow
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   third
                   upon
                   his
                   Quiver
                   wreaks
                   his
                   hate
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   the
                   sad
                   causes
                   of
                   his
                   hasty
                   fate
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   plucks
                   his
                   bloudy
                   garments
                   off
                   ,
                   that
                   brings
                
                 
                   Water
                   in
                   Vessels
                   from
                   the
                   neighb'ring
                   Springs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   wash
                   his
                   Wound
                   ,
                   some
                   fan
                   him
                   with
                   thei●…
                   Wings
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   All
                   equally
                   their
                   Mothers
                   loss
                   bemoan
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   moan
                   for
                   poor
                   Adonis
                   dead
                   and
                   gone
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Sad
                   Hymen
                   too
                   the
                   fatal
                   loss
                   does
                   mourn
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Tapers
                   all
                   to
                   Funeral
                   Tapers
                   turn
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   his
                   wither'd
                   Nuptial
                   Garlands
                   burn
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   His
                   gay
                   ,
                   and
                   airy
                   Songs
                   are
                   heard
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   mournful
                   Strains
                   ,
                   that
                   hopeless
                   love
                   deplore
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   do
                   the
                   Graces
                   fail
                   to
                   bear
                   a
                   part
                
                 
                   With
                   wretched
                   Venus
                   in
                   her
                   pain
                   and
                   smart
                   :
                
                 
                   
                     The
                     poor
                  
                   Adonis
                   dead
                   !
                   by
                   turns
                   they
                   cry
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   strive
                   in
                   grief
                   the
                   Goddess
                   to
                   out-vie
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Muses
                   too
                   in
                   softest
                   Lays
                   bewail
                
                 
                   The
                   hapless
                   Youth
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   fled
                   Soul
                   recal
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   all
                   in
                   vain
                   ;
                   —
                   ah
                   !
                   numbers
                   are
                   too
                   weak
                
                 
                   To
                   call
                   the
                   lost
                   ,
                   the
                   dead
                   Adonis
                   back
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   all
                   the
                   pow'rs
                   of
                   Verse
                   ,
                   or
                   charms
                   of
                   Love
                
                 
                   The
                   deaf
                   remorsless
                   Proserpine
                   can
                   move
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Cease
                   then
                   ,
                   sad
                   Queen
                   of
                   Love
                   ,
                   thy
                   plaints
                   give
                   o're
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   the
                   next
                   year
                   reserve
                   thy
                   grief
                   in
                   store
                   :
                
                 
                   Reserve
                   thy
                   Sighs
                   ,
                   and
                   tears
                   in
                   store
                   till
                   then
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   thou
                   must
                   sigh
                   ,
                   then
                   thou
                   must
                   weep
                   agen
                   .
                
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Paraphrase
               upon
               the
               137.
               
               Psalm
               .
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 Ver.
                 1.
                 
                 FAr
                 from
                 our
                 pleasant
                 native
                 Palestine
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 great
                 Euphrates
                 with
                 a
                 mighty
                 current
                 flows
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 does
                 in
                 watry
                 limits
                 Babylon
                 confine
                 ,
              
               
                 Curss'd
                 Babylon
                 !
                 the
                 cause
                 ,
                 and
                 author
                 of
                 our
                 woes
                 ;
              
               
                 There
                 on
                 the
                 Rivers
                 side
              
               
                 Sate
                 wretched
                 ,
                 Captive
                 we
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 sad
                 Tears
                 bewail'd
                 our
                 misery
                 .
              
               
                 Tears
                 ,
                 whose
                 vast
                 store
                 increas'd
                 the
                 neighb'ring
                 Tide
                 :
              
               
                 We
                 wept
                 ,
                 and
                 strait
                 our
                 grief
                 before
                 us
                 brought
              
               
                 A
                 thousand
                 distant
                 Objects
                 to
                 our
                 thought
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 oft
                 as
                 we
                 survey'd
                 the
                 gliding
                 Stream
                 ,
              
               
                 Lov'd
                 Jordan
                 did
                 our
                 sad
                 remembrance
                 claim
                 :
              
               
                 As
                 oft
                 as
                 we
                 th'
                 adjoyning
                 City
                 view'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Dear
                 Sions
                 razed
                 Walls
                 our
                 Grief
                 renew'd
                 :
              
               
               
                 We
                 thought
                 on
                 all
                 the
                 Pleasures
                 of
                 our
                 happy
                 Land
                 ,
              
               
                 Late
                 ravish'd
                 by
                 a
                 cruel
                 Conqu'rour's
                 hand
                 :
              
               
                 We
                 thought
                 on
                 every
                 piteous
                 ,
                 every
                 mournful
                 thing
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 might
                 access
                 to
                 our
                 enlarged
                 sorrows
                 bring
                 ;
              
               
                 Deep
                 silence
                 told
                 the
                 greatness
                 of
                 our
                 Grief
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 grief
                 too
                 great
                 by
                 Vent
                 to
                 find
                 relief
                 :
              
               
                 Our
                 Harps
                 as
                 mute
                 and
                 dumb
                 ,
                 as
                 we
                 ,
              
               
                 Hung
                 useless
                 ,
                 and
                 neglected
                 by
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 and
                 then
                 a
                 broken
                 String
                 would
                 lend
                 a
                 sigh
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 with
                 us
                 they
                 selt
                 a
                 sympathy
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 mourn'd
                 their
                 own
                 ,
                 and
                 our
                 Captivity
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 gentle
                 River
                 too
                 ,
                 as
                 if
                 compassionate
                 grown
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 't
                 would
                 its
                 Natives
                 cruelty
                 attone
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 it
                 pass'd
                 by
                 ,
                 in
                 murmurs
                 gave
                 a
                 pitying
                 Groan
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 There
                 the
                 proud
                 Conquerors
                 ,
                 who
                 gave
                 us
                 Chains
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 all
                 our
                 suff'rings
                 and
                 misfortunes
                 gave
                 ,
              
               
                 Did
                 with
                 rude
                 Insolence
                 our
                 Sorrows
                 brave
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 insulting
                 Raillery
                 thus
                 mock'd
                 our
                 Pains
                 ,
              
               
               
                 
                   Play
                   us
                
                 (
                 said
                 they
                 )
                 
                   some
                   brisk
                   ,
                   and
                   airy
                   strain
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   your
                   Ancestors
                   were
                   wont
                   to
                   hear
                
              
               
                 On
                 Shilo
                 
                   's
                   pleasant
                   Plain
                
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   Where
                   all
                   the
                   Virgins
                   met
                   in
                   Dances
                   once
                   a
                   year
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   Or
                   one
                   of
                   those
                
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   Which
                   your
                   illustrious
                
                 David
                 
                   did
                   compose
                
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   While
                   he
                   fill'd
                
                 Israel
                 
                   's
                   happy
                   Throne
                
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   Great
                   Soldier
                   ,
                   Poet
                   ,
                   and
                   Musician
                   all
                   in
                   one
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   Oft
                   (
                   have
                   we
                   heard
                   )
                   he
                   went
                   with
                   Harp
                   in
                   hand
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Captain
                   of
                   all
                   〈◊〉
                   harmonious
                   Band
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   vanquish'd
                   all
                   the
                   Quire
                   with
                   's
                   single
                   skill
                   alone
                   :
                
              
               
                 Forbid
                 it
                 Heav'n
                 !
                 sorbid
                 thou
                 great
                 thrice-hallow'd
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 should
                 thy
                 Sacred
                 Hymns
                 defame
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 them
                 with
                 impious
                 ears
                 profane
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 no
                 ,
                 inhumane
                 slaves
                 ,
                 is
                 this
                 a
                 time
              
               
                 (
                 Oh
                 cruel
                 ,
                 and
                 preposterous
                 demand
                 !
                 )
              
               
                 When
                 every
                 Joy
                 ,
                 and
                 every
                 Smile
                 's
                 a
                 crime
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Treason
                 to
                 our
                 poor
                 unhappy
                 native
                 Land
                 ?
              
               
                 Is
                 this
                 a
                 time
                 for
                 sprightly
                 Airs
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 every
                 look
                 the
                 Badg
                 of
                 sorrow
                 wears
                 ,
              
               
               
                 And
                 Livery
                 of
                 our
                 Miseries
                 ,
              
               
                 Sad
                 miseries
                 that
                 call
                 for
                 all
                 our
                 Breath
                 in
                 sighs
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 Tribute
                 of
                 our
                 eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 moisture
                 of
                 our
                 Veins
                 our
                 very
                 bloud
                 in
                 tears
                 ?
              
               
                 When
                 nought
                 can
                 claim
                 our
                 Thoughts
                 ,
                 Jerusalem
                 ,
                 but
                 thou
                 ,
              
               
                 Nought
                 ,
                 but
                 thy
                 sad
                 Destruction
                 ,
                 Fall
                 ,
                 and
                 Overthrow
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 Oh
                 dearest
                 City
                 !
                 late
                 our
                 Nations
                 justest
                 Pride
                 !
              
               
                 Envy
                 of
                 all
                 the
                 wond'ring
                 world
                 beside
                 !
              
               
                 Oh
                 sacred
                 Temple
                 ,
                 once
                 th'
                 Almighty's
                 bless'd
                 abode
                 ,
              
               
                 Now
                 quite
                 forsaken
                 by
                 our
                 angry
                 God!
              
               
                 Shall
                 ever
                 distant
                 time
                 ,
                 or
                 Place
              
               
                 Your
                 firm
                 Ideas
                 from
                 my
                 Soul
                 deface
                 ?
              
               
                 Shall
                 they
                 not
                 still
                 take
                 up
                 my
                 Breast
              
               
                 As
                 long
                 as
                 that
                 ,
                 and
                 Life
                 ,
                 and
                 I
                 shall
                 last
                 ?
              
               
               
                 Grant
                 Heav'n
                 (
                 nor
                 shall
                 my
                 Pray'rs
                 the
                 Curse
                 withstand
                 )
              
               
                 That
                 this
                 my
                 learned
                 ,
                 skilful
                 hand
              
               
                 (
                 Which
                 now
                 o're
                 all
                 the
                 tuneful
                 strings
                 can
                 boast
                 command
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 does
                 as
                 quick
                 ,
                 as
                 ready
                 ,
                 and
                 unerring
                 prove
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 nature
                 ,
                 when
                 it
                 would
                 its
                 joynts
                 or
                 fingers
                 move
                 )
              
               
                 Grant
                 it
                 forget
                 its
                 Art
                 and
                 feeling
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 I
                 forget
                 to
                 think
                 ,
                 to
                 wish
                 ,
                 to
                 pray
                 for
                 you
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 ever
                 tied
                 with
                 Dumbness
                 be
                 my
                 tongue
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 it
                 speaks
                 ought
                 that
                 shall
                 not
                 to
                 your
                 Praise
                 belong
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 that
                 be
                 not
                 the
                 constant
                 subject
                 of
                 my
                 Muse
                 ,
                 and
                 Song
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 Remember
                 ,
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 remember
                 Edom
                 on
                 that
                 day
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 like
                 sufferings
                 their
                 spight
                 repay
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 made
                 our
                 Miseries
                 their
                 cruel
                 Mirth
                 and
                 Scorn
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 laugh'd
                 to
                 see
                 our
                 flaming
                 City
                 burn
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 wish'd
                 it
                 might
                 to
                 Ashes
                 turn
                 :
              
               
               
                 
                   Raze
                   ,
                   raze
                   it
                
                 (
                 was
                 their
                 cursed
                 cry
                 )
              
               
                 
                   Raze
                   all
                   its
                   stately
                   Structures
                   down
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   lay
                   its
                   Palaces
                   ,
                   and
                   Temple
                   level
                   with
                   the
                   ground
                   ,
                
              
               
                 Till
                 Sion
                 
                   buried
                   in
                   his
                   dismal
                   Ruines
                   lie
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Forgot
                   alike
                   its
                   Place
                   ,
                   its
                   Name
                   ,
                   and
                   Memory
                   .
                
              
               
                 And
                 thou
                 proud
                 Babylon
                 !
                 just
                 Object
                 of
                 our
                 Hate
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 too
                 shalt
                 feel
                 the
                 sad
                 reverse
                 of
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho
                 thou
                 art
                 now
                 exalted
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 thy
                 lofty
                 head
                 o'retop'st
                 the
                 Sky
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 thou
                 would'st
                 the
                 Pow'rs
                 above
                 defie
                 ;
              
               
                 Thou
                 (
                 if
                 those
                 Pow'rs
                 (
                 and
                 sure
                 they
                 will
                 )
                 prove
                 just
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 my
                 Prophetick
                 Grief
                 can
                 ought
                 foresee
                 )
              
               
                 Ere
                 long
                 shalt
                 lay
                 that
                 lofty
                 head
                 in
                 dust
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 blush
                 in
                 Bloud
                 for
                 all
                 thy
                 present
                 Cruelty
                 :
              
               
                 How
                 ,
                 loudly
                 then
                 shall
                 we
                 retort
                 these
                 bitter
                 Taunts
                 !
              
               
                 How
                 gladly
                 to
                 the
                 Musick
                 of
                 thy
                 Fetters
                 dance
                 !
              
            
             
               
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 A
                 day
                 will
                 come
                 (
                 oh
                 might
                 I
                 see
                 't
                 !
                 )
                 e're
                 long
              
               
                 That
                 shall
                 revenge
                 our
                 mighty
                 wrong
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 bless'd
                 ,
                 for
                 ever
                 bless'd
                 be
                 he
              
               
                 Whoever
                 shall
                 return't
                 on
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 grave
                 it
                 deep
                 ,
                 and
                 pay
                 't
                 with
                 bloudy
                 Usury
                 :
              
               
                 May
                 neither
                 aged
                 Groans
                 ,
                 nor
                 Infant
                 Cries
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 pitious
                 Mothers
                 Tears
                 ,
                 nor
                 ravish'd
                 Virgins
                 Sighs
                 ,
              
               
                 Soften
                 thy
                 unrelenting
                 Enemies
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 them
                 as
                 thou
                 to
                 us
                 inexorable
                 prove
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 Age
                 nor
                 Sex
                 their
                 deaf
                 Compassion
                 move
                 ;
              
               
                 Rapes
                 ,
                 Murders
                 ,
                 Slaughters
                 ,
                 Funerals
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 thou
                 durst
                 attempt
                 within
                 our
                 Sions
                 Wall
                 ,
              
               
                 May'st
                 thou
                 endure
                 ,
                 and
                 more
                 ,
                 till
                 joyful
                 we
              
               
                 Confess
                 thy self
                 out-done
                 in
                 artful
                 cruelty
                 .
              
               
                 Bless'd
                 ,
                 yea
                 ,
                 thrice
                 blessed
                 be
                 that
                 barbarous
                 Hand
              
               
                 (
                 Oh
                 grief
                 ,
                 that
                 I
                 such
                 dire
                 Revenge
                 commend
                 !
                 )
              
               
                 Who
                 tears
                 out
                 Infants
                 from
                 their
                 Mothers
                 Womb
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 hurls
                 them
                 yet
                 unborn
                 unto
                 their
                 Tomb
                 :
              
               
               
                 Bless'd
                 he
                 who
                 plucks
                 them
                 from
                 their
                 Parents
                 Arms
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Sanctuary
                 from
                 all
                 common
                 harms
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 with
                 their
                 Skulls
                 ,
                 and
                 Bones
                 shall
                 pave
                 thy
                 Streets
                 all
                 o're
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fill
                 thy
                 glutted
                 Channels
                 with
                 their
                 scatter'd
                 Brains
                 and
                 Gore
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Paraphrase
               upon
               the
               HYMN
               of
               St.
               AMBROSE
               .
            
             
               ODE
               .
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 TO
                 Thee
                 ,
                 O
                 God
                 ,
                 we
                 thy
                 just
                 Praises
                 sing
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 Thee
                 we
                 Thy
                 great
                 Name
                 rehearse
                 :
              
               
                 We
                 are
                 Thy
                 Vassals
                 ,
                 and
                 this
                 humble
                 Tribute
                 bring
              
               
                 To
                 Thee
                 ,
                 acknowledg'd
                 only
                 Lord
                 and
                 King
                 ,
              
               
                 Acknowledg'd
                 sole
                 and
                 Sovereign
                 Monarch
                 of
                 the
                 Universe
                 .
              
               
                 All
                 parts
                 of
                 this
                 wide
                 Universe
                 adore
                 ,
              
               
                 Eternal
                 Father
                 ,
                 thy
                 Almighty
                 power
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Skies
                 ,
                 and
                 Stars
                 ,
                 Fire
                 ,
                 Air
                 ,
                 and
                 Earth
                 ,
                 and
                 Sea
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 all
                 their
                 numerous
                 nameless
                 Progeny
              
               
               
                 Confess
                 ,
                 and
                 their
                 due
                 Homage
                 pay
                 to
                 thee
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 why
                 ?
                 thou
                 spak'st
                 the
                 Word
                 ,
                 and
                 mad'st
                 them
                 all
                 from
                 Nothing
                 be
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 thee
                 all
                 Angels
                 ,
                 all
                 thy
                 glorious
                 Court
                 on
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 Seraph
                 and
                 Cherub
                 ,
                 the
                 Nobility
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 whatsoever
                 Spirits
                 be
              
               
                 Of
                 lesser
                 Honour
                 ,
                 less
                 Degree
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 Thee
                 in
                 heav'nly
                 Lays
              
               
                 They
                 sing
                 loud
                 Anthems
                 of
                 immortal
                 Praise
                 :
              
               
                 Still
                 Holy
                 ,
                 Holy
                 ,
                 Holy
                 Lord
                 of
                 Hosts
                 they
                 cry
                 ,
              
               
                 This
                 is
                 their
                 bus'ness
                 ,
                 this
                 their
                 sole
                 employ
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thus
                 they
                 spend
                 their
                 long
                 and
                 blest
                 Eternity
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 Farther
                 than
                 Natures
                 utmost
                 shores
                 and
                 limits
                 stretch
              
               
                 The
                 streams
                 of
                 thy
                 unbounded
                 Glory
                 reach
                 ;
              
               
                 Beyond
                 the
                 straits
                 of
                 scanty
                 Time
                 ,
                 and
                 Place
                 ,
              
               
                 Beyond
                 the
                 ebbs
                 and
                 flows
                 of
                 matter
                 's
                 narrow
                 Seas
              
               
                 They
                 reach
                 ,
                 and
                 fill
                 the
                 Ocean
                 of
                 Eternity
                 and
                 Space
                 .
              
               
               
                 Infus'd
                 like
                 some
                 vast
                 mighty
                 soul
                 ,
              
               
                 Thon
                 do'st
                 inform
                 and
                 actuate
                 this
                 spacious
                 whole
                 :
              
               
                 Thy
                 unseen
                 hand
                 does
                 the
                 well-joynted
                 Frame
                 sustain
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 else
                 would
                 to
                 its
                 primitive
                 Nothing
                 shrink
                 again
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 most
                 thou
                 do'st
                 thy
                 Majesty
                 display
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 bright
                 Realms
                 of
                 everlasting
                 Day
                 :
              
               
                 There
                 is
                 Thy
                 residence
                 ,
                 there
                 do'st
                 Thou
                 reign
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 on
                 a
                 State
                 of
                 dazling
                 Lustre
                 sit
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 shine
                 in
                 Robes
                 of
                 pure
                 refined
                 Light
                 ;
              
               
                 Where
                 Sun
                 's
                 coarse
                 Rays
                 are
                 but
                 a
                 Foil
                 and
                 Stain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 refuse
                 Stars
                 the
                 sweepings
                 of
                 thy
                 glorious
                 Train
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 There
                 all
                 Thy
                 Family
                 of
                 menial
                 Saints
                 ,
              
               
                 Huge
                 Colonies
                 of
                 bless'd
                 Inhabitants
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 Death
                 through
                 countless
                 Ages
                 has
                 transplanted
                 hence
                 ,
              
               
                 Now
                 on
                 Thy
                 Throne
                 for
                 ever
                 wait
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fill
                 the
                 large
                 Retinue
                 of
                 thy
                 heav'nly
                 State.
              
               
               
                 There
                 reverend
                 Prophets
                 stand
                 ,
                 a
                 pompous
                 goodly
                 show
                 .
              
               
                 Of
                 old
                 thy
                 Envoys
                 extraordinary
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 brought
                 thy
                 sacred
                 Embassies
                 of
                 Peace
                 and
                 War
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 to
                 th'
                 obedient
                 ,
                 this
                 the
                 rebel
                 world
                 below
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 them
                 the
                 mighty
                 Twelve
                 have
                 their
                 abode
                 ,
              
               
                 Companions
                 once
                 of
                 the
                 Incarnate
                 suff●…ring
                 God
                 ,
              
               
                 Partakers
                 now
                 of
                 all
                 his
                 Triumphs
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 they
                 on
                 earth
                 did
                 in
                 his
                 Miseries
                 share
                 .
              
               
                 Of
                 Martyrs
                 next
                 a
                 crown'd
                 and
                 glorious
                 Quire
                 ,
              
               
                 Illustrious
                 Heroes
                 ,
                 who
                 have
                 gain'd
              
               
                 Through
                 dangers
                 ,
                 and
                 Red
                 Seas
                 of
                 Bloud
                 the
                 Promis'd
                 Land
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 pass'd
                 through
                 Ordeal
                 Flames
                 to
                 the
                 Eternity
                 in
                 Fire
                 .
              
               
                 There
                 all
                 make
                 up
                 the
                 Consort
                 of
                 thy
                 Praise
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 Thee
                 they
                 sing
                 (
                 and
                 never
                 cease
                 )
              
               
                 Loud
                 Hymns
                 ,
                 and
                 Hallelujah's
                 of
                 Applause
                 :
              
               
                 An
                 Angel-Laureat
                 does
                 the
                 Sense
                 and
                 Strains
                 compose
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Sense
                 far
                 above
                 the
                 reach
                 of
                 mortal
                 Verse
                 ,
              
               
                 Strains
                 far
                 above
                 the
                 reach
                 of
                 mortal
                 ears
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 ,
                 a
                 Muse
                 unglorified
                 can
                 fancy
                 ,
                 or
                 rehearse
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 Nor
                 is
                 this
                 Consort
                 only
                 kept
                 above
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 is
                 it
                 to
                 the
                 Bless'd
                 alone
                 confin'd
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 Earth
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 thy
                 Faithful
                 here
                 are
                 joyn'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 strive
                 to
                 vie
                 with
                 them
                 in
                 Duty
                 and
                 in
                 Love
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 tho
                 they
                 cannot
                 equal
                 Notes
                 and
                 Measures
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
                 Strive
                 to
                 return
                 th'
                 imperfect
                 Ecchoes
                 of
                 thy
                 Praise
                 .
              
               
                 They
                 through
                 all
                 Nations
                 own
                 thy
                 glorious
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 every
                 where
                 the
                 great
                 Three-One
                 proclaim
                 ,
              
               
                 Thee
                 ,
                 Father
                 of
                 the
                 World
                 ,
                 and
                 Us
                 ,
                 and
                 Him
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 must
                 Mankind
                 ,
                 whom
                 Thou
                 didst
                 make
                 ,
                 Redeem
                 ,
              
               
                 Thee
                 ,
                 blessed
                 Saviour
                 ,
                 the
                 ador'd
                 ,
                 true
                 ,
                 only
                 Son
              
               
                 To
                 man
                 debas'd
                 ,
                 to
                 rescue
                 Man
                 undone
                 :
              
               
               
                 And
                 Thee
                 ,
                 Eternal
                 ,
                 Holy
                 Power
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 do'st
                 by
                 Grace
                 exalted
                 Man
                 restore
              
               
                 To
                 all
                 ,
                 he
                 lost
                 by
                 the
                 old
                 Fall
                 ,
                 and
                 Sin
                 before
                 :
              
               
                 You
                 bless'd
                 and
                 glorious
                 Trinity
                 ,
              
               
                 Riddle
                 to
                 baffled
                 Knowledg
                 and
                 Philosophy
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 cannot
                 conprehend
                 the
                 mighty
                 Mystery
              
               
                 Of
                 numerous
                 One
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 unnumber'd
                 Three
              
               
                 Vast
                 topless
                 Pile
                 of
                 Wonders
                 !
                 at
                 whose
                 sight
              
               
                 Reason
                 it self
                 turns
                 giddy
                 with
                 the
                 height
                 ,
              
               
                 Above
                 the
                 flutt'ring
                 pitch
                 of
                 humane
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 ,
                 but
                 the
                 strong
                 wings
                 of
                 Faith
                 ,
                 that
                 Eagle's
                 towring
                 flight
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 Bless'd
                 Jesu
                 !
                 how
                 shall
                 we
                 enough
                 adore
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 thy
                 unbounded
                 Love
                 ,
                 or
                 thy
                 unbounded
                 Pow'r
                 ?
              
               
                 Thou
                 art
                 the
                 Prince
                 of
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 thou
                 are
                 the
                 Almighty's
                 Heir
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 art
                 th'
                 Eternal
                 Off-spring
                 of
                 th'
                 Eternal
                 Sire
                 :
              
               
                 Hail
                 thou
                 the
                 Worlds
                 Redeemer
                 !
                 whom
                 to
                 free
              
               
                 From
                 bonds
                 of
                 Death
                 and
                 endless
                 misery
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Thou
                 thought'st
                 it
                 no
                 disdain
                 to
                 be
              
               
                 Inhabiter
                 in
                 low
                 mortality
                 :
              
               
                 Th'
                 Almighty
                 thought
                 it
                 no
                 disdain
              
               
                 To
                 dwell
                 in
                 the
                 pure
                 Virgins
                 spotless
                 Womb
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 did
                 the
                 boundless
                 Godhead
                 ,
                 and
                 whole
                 Heav'n
                 find
                 room
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 a
                 small
                 point
                 the
                 Circle
                 of
                 Infinity
                 contain
                 .
              
               
                 Hail
                 Ransom
                 of
                 Mankind
                 ,
                 all-great
                 ,
                 all-good
                 !
              
               
                 Who
                 didst
                 attone
                 us
                 with
                 thy
                 Bloud
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy self
                 the
                 Offering
                 ,
                 Altar
                 ,
                 Priest
                 ,
                 and
                 God
                 :
              
               
                 Thy self
                 didst
                 die
                 to
                 be
                 our
                 glorious
                 Bail
              
               
                 From
                 Death's
                 Arrests
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 eternal
                 Flaming
                 Jail
                 :
              
               
                 Thy self
                 thou
                 gav'st
                 th'
                 inestimable
                 Price
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 Purchase
                 and
                 Redeem
                 our
                 morgag'd
                 Heav'n
                 and
                 Happiness
                 .
              
               
                 Thither
                 ,
                 when
                 thy
                 great
                 Work
                 on
                 Earth
                 had
                 end
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 Death
                 it self
                 was
                 slain
                 and
                 dead
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Hell
                 with
                 all
                 its
                 Powers
                 captive
                 led
                 ;
              
               
                 Thou
                 didst
                 again
                 triumphantly
                 Ascend
                 :
              
               
               
                 There
                 do'st
                 Thou
                 now
                 by
                 Thy
                 great
                 Father
                 sit
                 on
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 equal
                 Glory
                 ,
                 equal
                 Majesty
                 ,
              
               
                 Joynt-Ruler
                 of
                 the
                 everlasting
                 Monarchy
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 6.
                 
              
               
                 Again
                 from
                 thence
                 thou
                 shalt
                 with
                 greater
                 triumph
                 come
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 the
                 last
                 Trumpet
                 sounds
                 the
                 general
                 Doom
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 (
                 lo
                 !
                 )
                 thou
                 com'st
                 ,
                 and
                 (
                 lo
                 !
                 )
                 the
                 direful
                 sound
                 does
                 make
              
               
                 Through
                 Deaths
                 wide
                 Realm
                 Mortality
                 awake
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 (
                 lo
                 )
                 they
                 all
                 appear
              
               
                 At
                 Thy
                 Dread
                 Bar
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 receive
                 th'
                 unalterable
                 Sentence
                 there
                 .
              
               
                 Affrighted
                 Nature
                 trembles
                 at
                 the
                 dismal
                 Day
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 shrinks
                 for
                 fear
                 ,
                 and
                 vanishes
                 away
                 :
              
               
                 Both
                 that
                 ,
                 and
                 Time
                 breath
                 out
                 their
                 last
                 ,
                 and
                 now
                 they
                 die
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 are
                 swallow'd
                 up
                 and
                 lost
                 in
                 vast
                 Eternity
                 .
              
               
               
                 Mercy
                 ,
                 O
                 mercy
                 ,
                 angry
                 God!
              
               
                 Stop
                 ,
                 stop
                 thy
                 flaming
                 Wrath
                 ,
                 too
                 fierce
                 to
                 be
                 withstood
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 quench
                 it
                 with
                 the
                 Deluge
                 of
                 thy
                 Bloud
                 ;
              
               
                 Thy
                 precious
                 Bloud
                 which
                 was
                 so
                 freely
                 spilt
              
               
                 To
                 wash
                 us
                 from
                 the
                 stains
                 of
                 Sin
                 and
                 Guilt
                 :
              
               
                 O
                 write
                 us
                 with
                 it
                 in
                 the
                 Book
                 of
                 Fate
              
               
                 Amongst
                 thy
                 Chosen
                 ,
                 and
                 Predestinate
                 ,
              
               
                 Free
                 Denizens
                 of
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 of
                 the
                 Immortal
                 State.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 7.
                 
              
               
                 Guide
                 us
                 ,
                 O
                 Saviour
                 !
                 guide
                 thy
                 Church
                 below
                 ,
              
               
                 Both
                 Way
                 ,
                 and
                 Star
                 ,
                 Compass
                 ,
                 and
                 Pilot
                 Thou
                 :
              
               
                 Do
                 thou
                 this
                 frail
                 and
                 t●…tt'ring
                 Vessel
                 steer
              
               
                 Through
                 Life's
                 tempestuous
                 Ocean
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 Through
                 all
                 the
                 tossing
                 Waves
                 of
                 Fear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 dang'rous
                 Rocks
                 of
                 black
                 Despair
                 .
              
               
                 Safe
                 under
                 Thee
                 we
                 shall
                 to
                 the
                 wish'd
                 Haven
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 reach
                 the
                 undiscover'd
                 Lands
                 of
                 Bliss
                 above
                 ,
              
               
                 Thus
                 low
                 (
                 behold
                 !
                 )
                 to
                 thy
                 great
                 Name
                 we
                 bow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thus
                 we
                 ever
                 wish
                 to
                 grow
                 :
              
               
               
                 Constant
                 ,
                 as
                 Time
                 does
                 thy
                 fix'd
                 Laws
                 obey
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 Thee
                 our
                 Worship
                 and
                 our
                 Thanks
                 we
                 pay
                 :
              
               
                 With
                 these
                 we
                 wake
                 the
                 chearful
                 Light
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 these
                 we
                 Sleep
                 ,
                 and
                 Rest
                 invite
                 ;
              
               
                 An●…
                 thus
                 we
                 spend
                 our
                 Breath
                 ,
                 and
                 thus
                 we
                 spend
                 our
                 Days
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 never
                 cease
                 to
                 Sing
                 ,
                 and
                 never
                 cease
                 to
                 Praise
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 8.
                 
              
               
                 While
                 thus
                 each
                 Breast
                 ,
                 and
                 Mouth
                 ,
                 and
                 Ear
              
               
                 Are
                 filled
                 with
                 thy
                 Praise
                 ,
                 and
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 Fear
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 never
                 Sin
                 get
                 room
                 ,
                 or
                 entrance
                 there
                 :
              
               
                 Vouchsafe
                 ,
                 O
                 Lord
                 ,
                 through
                 this
                 and
                 all
                 our
                 days
              
               
                 To
                 guard
                 us
                 with
                 Thy
                 pow'rful
                 Grace
                 :
              
               
                 Within
                 our
                 hearts
                 let
                 no
                 usurping
                 Lust
                 be
                 found
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 rebel
                 Passion
                 tumult
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 break
                 thy
                 Laws
                 ,
                 or
                 break
                 our
                 Peace
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 set
                 thy
                 Watch
                 of
                 Angels
                 on
                 the
                 Place
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 keep
                 the
                 Tempter
                 still
                 from
                 that
                 forbidden
                 ground
                 .
              
               
               
                 Ever
                 ,
                 O
                 Lord
                 ,
                 to
                 us
                 thy
                 mercies
                 grant
                 ,
              
               
                 Never
                 ,
                 O
                 Lord
                 ,
                 let
                 us
                 thy
                 mercies
                 want
                 ,
              
               
                 Ne're
                 want
                 Thy
                 Favour
                 ,
                 Bounty
                 ,
                 Liberality
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 let
                 them
                 ever
                 on
                 us
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Constant
                 as
                 our
                 own
                 Hope
                 and
                 Trust
                 on
                 Thee
                 :
              
               
                 On
                 Thee
                 we
                 all
                 our
                 Hope
                 and
                 Trust
                 repose
                 ;
              
               
                 O
                 never
                 leave
                 us
                 to
                 our
                 Foes
                 ,
              
               
                 Never
                 ,
                 O
                 Lord
                 ,
                 desert
                 our
                 Cause
                 :
              
               
                 Thus
                 aided
                 and
                 upheld
                 by
                 Thee
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 'll
                 fear
                 no
                 Danger
                 ,
                 Death
                 ,
                 nor
                 Misery
                 ;
              
               
                 Fearless
                 we
                 thus
                 will
                 stand
                 a
                 falling
                 world
              
               
                 With
                 crushing
                 Ruins
                 all
                 about
                 us
                 hurl'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 face
                 wide
                 gaping
                 Hell
                 ,
                 &
                 all
                 its
                 slighted
                 Pow'rs
                 defie
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               A
               Letter
               from
               the
               Country
               to
               a
               Friend
               in
               Town
               ,
               giving
               an
               Account
               of
               the
               Author's
               Inclinations
               to
               Poetry
               .
            
             
               Written
               in
               July
               ,
               1678.
               
            
             
               
                 AS
                 to
                 that
                 Poet
                 (
                 if
                 so
                 great
                 a
                 one
                 ,
                 as
                 he
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 suffer
                 in
                 comparison
                 with
                 me
                 )
              
               
                 When
                 heretofore
                 in
                 Scythian
                 exile
                 pent
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 which
                 he
                 to
                 ungrateful
                 Rome
                 was
                 sent
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 a
                 kind
                 Paper
                 from
                 his
                 Country
                 came
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 wore
                 subscrib'd
                 some
                 known
                 ,
                 and
                 faithful
                 Name
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 like
                 a
                 pow'rful
                 Cordial
                 ,
                 did
                 infuse
              
               
                 New
                 life
                 into
                 his
                 speechless
                 gasping
                 Muse
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 strait
                 his
                 Genius
                 ,
                 which
                 before
                 did
                 seem
              
               
                 Bound
                 up
                 in
                 Ice
                 ,
                 and
                 frozen
                 as
                 the
                 Clime
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 its
                 warm
                 force
                 ,
                 and
                 friendly
                 influence
                 thaw'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Dissolv'd
                 apace
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 soft
                 numbers
                 flow'd
                 :
              
               
               
                 Such
                 welcome
                 here
                 ,
                 dear
                 Sir
                 ,
                 your
                 Letter
                 had
              
               
                 With
                 me
                 shut
                 up
                 in
                 close
                 constraint
                 as
                 bad
                 :
              
               
                 Not
                 eager
                 Lovers
                 ,
                 held
                 in
                 long
                 suspence
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 warmer
                 Joy
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 more
                 tender
                 sense
              
               
                 Meet
                 those
                 kind
                 Lines
                 ,
                 which
                 all
                 their
                 wishes
                 bless
                 '
              
               
                 And
                 Sign
                 ,
                 and
                 Seal
                 deliver'd
                 Happiness
                 :
              
               
                 My
                 grateful
                 Thoughts
                 so
                 throng
                 to
                 get
                 abroad
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 over
                 run
                 each
                 other
                 in
                 the
                 crowd
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 you
                 with
                 hasty
                 flight
                 they
                 take
                 their
                 way
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 hardly
                 for
                 the
                 dress
                 of
                 words
                 will
                 stay
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Yet
                 pardon
                 ,
                 if
                 this
                 only
                 fault●…
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 while
                 you
                 praise
                 too
                 much
                 ,
                 you
                 are
                 less
                 kind
                 :
              
               
                 Consider
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 ill
                 and
                 dang'rous
                 thus
              
               
                 To
                 over-lay
                 a
                 young
                 and
                 tender
                 Muse
                 :
              
               
                 Praise
                 ,
                 the
                 fine
                 Diet
                 ,
                 which
                 we
                 're
                 apt
                 to
                 love
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 given
                 to
                 excess
                 ,
                 does
                 hurtful
                 prove
                 :
              
               
                 Where
                 it
                 does
                 weak
                 ,
                 distemper'd
                 Stomachs
                 mee●…
              
               
                 That
                 surfeits
                 ,
                 which
                 should
                 nourishment
                 create
                 .
              
               
                 Your
                 rich
                 Perfumes
                 such
                 fragrancy
                 dispense
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 sweetness
                 overcomes
                 ,
                 and
                 palls
                 my
                 sense
                 ;
              
               
               
                 On
                 my
                 weak
                 head
                 you
                 heap
                 so
                 many
                 Bays
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 sink
                 beneath
                 'em
                 ,
                 quite
                 oppress'd
                 with
                 Praise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 a
                 resembling
                 fate
                 with
                 him
                 receive
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 in
                 too
                 kind
                 a
                 triumph
                 found
                 his
                 Grave
                 ,
              
               
                 Smother'd
                 with
                 Garlands
                 ,
                 which
                 Applauders
                 gave
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 you
                 these
                 Praises
                 justlier
                 all
                 belong
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 alienating
                 which
                 ,
                 your self
                 you
                 wrong
                 :
              
               
                 Whom
                 better
                 can
                 such
                 commendations
                 fit
              
               
                 Than
                 you
                 ,
                 who
                 so
                 well
                 teach
                 and
                 practise
                 Wit
                 ?
              
               
                 Verse
                 ,
                 the
                 great
                 boast
                 of
                 drudging
                 Fools
                 ,
                 from
                 some
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 most
                 of
                 Scriblers
                 with
                 much
                 straining
                 come
                 :
              
               
                 They
                 void
                 'em
                 dribling
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 pain
                 they
                 write
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 they
                 had
                 a
                 Strangury
                 of
                 Wit
                 :
              
               
                 Your
                 Pen
                 uncall'd
                 they
                 readily
                 obey
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 scorn
                 your
                 Ink
                 should
                 flow
                 so
                 fast
                 as
                 they
                 :
              
               
                 Each
                 strain
                 of
                 yours
                 so
                 easie
                 does
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 such
                 a
                 graceful
                 negligence
                 does
                 wear
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 shews
                 you
                 have
                 none
                 ,
                 and
                 yet
                 want
                 no
                 care
                 .
              
               
                 None
                 of
                 your
                 serious
                 pains
                 or
                 time
                 they
                 cost
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 thrown
                 by
                 ,
                 you
                 can
                 afford
                 for
                 lost
                 :
              
               
               
                 If
                 such
                 the
                 fruits
                 of
                 your
                 loose
                 leisure
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 careless
                 minutes
                 yield
                 such
                 Poetry
                 ;
              
               
                 We
                 guess
                 what
                 proofs
                 your
                 Genius
                 would
                 impart
                 ,
              
               
                 Did
                 it
                 employ
                 you
                 ,
                 as
                 it
                 does
                 divert
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 happy
                 you
                 ,
                 more
                 prudent
                 ,
                 and
                 more
                 wise
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 better
                 aims
                 have
                 fix'd
                 your
                 noble
                 choice
                 .
              
               
                 While
                 silly
                 I
                 all
                 thriving
                 Arts
                 refuse
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 my
                 hopes
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 my
                 vigour
                 lose
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 service
                 on
                 that
                 worst
                 of
                 Jilts
                 ,
                 a
                 Muse
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 gainful
                 business
                 court
                 ignoble
                 ease
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 gay
                 Trisles
                 wast
                 my
                 ill-spent
                 days
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Little
                 I
                 thought
                 ,
                 my
                 dearest
                 Friend
                 ,
                 that
                 you
              
               
                 Would
                 thus
                 contribute
                 to
                 my
                 Ruine
                 too
                 :
              
               
                 O're-run
                 with
                 filthy
                 Poetry
                 ,
                 and
                 Rhyme
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 present
                 reigning
                 evil
                 of
                 the
                 time
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 lack'd
                 ,
                 and
                 (
                 well
                 I
                 did
                 my self
                 assure
                 )
              
               
                 From
                 your
                 kind
                 hand
                 I
                 should
                 receive
                 a
                 cure
                 :
              
               
                 When
                 (
                 lo
                 !
                 )
                 instead
                 of
                 healing
                 Remedies
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 cherish
                 ,
                 and
                 encourage
                 the
                 Disease
                 :
              
               
                 Inhumane
                 you
                 help
                 the
                 Distemper
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 was
                 before
                 but
                 too
                 inveterate
                 grown
                 .
              
               
               
                 As
                 a
                 kind
                 looker
                 on
                 ,
                 who
                 int'rest
                 shares
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho
                 not
                 in
                 's
                 stake
                 ,
                 yet
                 in
                 his
                 hopes
                 and
                 fears
                 ,
              
               
                 Would
                 to
                 his
                 Friend
                 a
                 pushing
                 Gamester
                 do
                 ,
              
               
                 Recall
                 his
                 Elbow
                 when
                 he
                 hastes
                 to
                 throw
                 ;
              
               
                 Such
                 a
                 wise
                 course
                 you
                 should
                 have
                 took
                 with
                 me
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 rash
                 and
                 vent'ring
                 fool
                 in
                 Poetry
                 .
              
               
                 Poets
                 are
                 Cullies
                 ,
                 whom
                 Rook
                 Fame
                 draws
                 in
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 wheadles
                 with
                 deluding
                 hopes
                 to
                 win
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 when
                 they
                 hit
                 ,
                 and
                 most
                 successful
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 scarce
                 come
                 off
                 with
                 a
                 bare
                 saving
                 share
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Oft
                 (
                 I
                 remember
                 )
                 did
                 wise
                 Friends
                 dissuade
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 bid
                 me
                 quit
                 the
                 trisling
                 barren
                 Trade
                 .
              
               
                 Oft
                 have
                 I
                 tried
                 (
                 Heav'n
                 knows
                 )
                 to
                 mortifie
              
               
                 This
                 vile
                 ,
                 and
                 wicked
                 lust
                 of
                 Poetry
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 still
                 unconquer'd
                 it
                 remains
                 within
                 ,
              
               
                 Fix'd
                 as
                 an
                 Habit
                 ,
                 or
                 some
                 darling
                 Sin.
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 I
                 better
                 studies
                 there
                 would
                 sow
                 ,
              
               
                 Often
                 I
                 've
                 tried
                 ,
                 but
                 none
                 will
                 thrive
                 ,
                 or
                 grow
                 :
              
               
                 All
                 my
                 best
                 thoughts
                 ,
                 when
                 I
                 'd
                 most
                 serious
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 never
                 from
                 its
                 foul
                 infection
                 free
                 :
              
               
               
                 Nay
                 (
                 God
                 forgive
                 me
                 )
                 when
                 I
                 say
                 my
                 Prayers
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 scarce
                 can
                 help
                 polluting
                 them
                 with
                 Verse
                 :
              
               
                 That
                 fabulous
                 Wretch
                 of
                 old
                 revers'd
                 I
                 seem
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 turn
                 whate're
                 I
                 touch
                 to
                 Dross
                 and
                 Rhyme
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Oft
                 to
                 divert
                 the
                 wild
                 Caprice
                 ,
                 I
                 try
              
               
                 If
                 Sovereign
                 Wisdom
                 and
                 Philosophy
              
               
                 Rightly
                 applied
                 ,
                 will
                 give
                 a
                 remedy
                 :
              
               
                 Strait
                 the
                 great
                 Stagyrite
                 I
                 take
                 in
                 hand
                 ,
              
               
                 Seek
                 Nature
                 ,
                 and
                 my Self
                 to
                 understand
                 :
              
               
                 Much
                 I
                 reflect
                 on
                 his
                 vast
                 Worth
                 and
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 much
                 my
                 low
                 ,
                 and
                 groveling
                 aims
                 condemn
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 quarrel
                 ,
                 that
                 my
                 ill-pack'd
                 Fate
                 should
                 be
              
               
                 This
                 vain
                 ,
                 this
                 worthless
                 thing
                 call'd
                 Poetry
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 I
                 find
                 this
                 unregarded
                 Toy
              
               
                 Could
                 his
                 important
                 Thoughts
                 ,
                 and
                 Pains
                 employ
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 reading
                 there
                 I
                 am
                 but
                 more
                 undone
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 meet
                 that
                 danger
                 ,
                 which
                 I
                 went
                 to
                 shun
                 .
              
               
                 Oft
                 when
                 ill
                 Humour
                 ,
                 Shagrin
                 ,
                 Discontent
              
               
                 Give
                 leisure
                 my
                 wild
                 Follies
                 to
                 resent
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 thus
                 against
                 my self
                 my
                 Passion
                 vent
                 .
              
               
               
                 "
                 Enough
                 ,
                 mad
                 rhiming
                 Sot
                 ,
                 enough
                 for
                 shame
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Give
                 o're
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 thy
                 Quills
                 to
                 Tooth-picks
                 Damn
                 ;
              
               
                 "
                 Didst
                 ever
                 thou
                 the
                 Altar
                 rob
                 ,
                 or
                 worse
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Kill
                 the
                 Priest
                 there
                 ,
                 and
                 Maids
                 receiving
                 force
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 What
                 else
                 could
                 merit
                 this
                 so
                 heavy
                 Curse
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 The
                 greatest
                 Curse
                 ,
                 I
                 can
                 ,
                 I
                 wish
                 on
                 him
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 If
                 there
                 be
                 any
                 greater
                 than
                 to
                 rhime
                 )
              
               
                 "
                 Who
                 first
                 did
                 of
                 the
                 lewd
                 invention
                 think
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 First
                 made
                 two
                 lines
                 with
                 sounds
                 resembling
                 clink
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 ,
                 swerving
                 from
                 the
                 easie
                 paths
                 of
                 Prose
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Fetters
                 ,
                 and
                 Chains
                 did
                 on
                 free
                 Sense
                 impose
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Curss'd
                 too
                 be
                 all
                 the
                 fools
                 ,
                 who
                 since
                 have
                 went
              
               
                 "
                 Misled
                 in
                 steps
                 of
                 that
                 ill
                 President
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Want
                 be
                 entail'd
                 their
                 lot
                 :
                 —
                 and
                 on
                 I
                 go
                 ;
              
               
                 Wreaking
                 my
                 spight
                 on
                 all
                 the
                 jingling
                 Crew
                 :
              
               
                 Scarce
                 the
                 beloved
                 Cowley
                 scapes
                 ,
                 tho
                 I
              
               
                 Might
                 sooner
                 my
                 own
                 curses
                 fear
                 ,
                 than
                 he
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 thus
                 resolv'd
                 against
                 the
                 scribling
                 vein
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 deeply
                 swear
                 never
                 to
                 write
                 again
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 But
                 when
                 bad
                 Company
                 and
                 Wine
                 conspire
              
               
                 To
                 kindle
                 ,
                 and
                 renew
                 the
                 foolish
                 Fire
                 ,
              
               
                 Straitways
                 relaps'd
                 ,
                 I
                 feel
                 the
                 raving
                 fit
              
               
                 Return
                 ,
                 and
                 strait
                 I
                 all
                 my
                 Oaths
                 forget
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Spirit
                 ,
                 which
                 I
                 thought
                 cast
                 out
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 Enters
                 again
                 with
                 stronger
                 force
                 ,
                 and
                 power
                 ,
              
               
                 Worse
                 than
                 at
                 first
                 ,
                 and
                 tyrannizes
                 more
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 sober
                 good
                 advice
                 will
                 then
                 prevail
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 from
                 the
                 raging
                 Frenzy
                 me
                 recal
                 :
              
               
                 Cool
                 Reason's
                 dictates
                 me
                 no
                 more
                 can
                 move
              
               
                 Than
                 men
                 in
                 Drink
                 ,
                 in
                 Bedlam
                 ,
                 or
                 in
                 Love
                 :
              
               
                 Deaf
                 to
                 all
                 means
                 which
                 might
                 most
                 proper
                 seem
              
               
                 Towards
                 my
                 cure
                 ,
                 I
                 run
                 stark
                 mad
                 in
                 Rhime
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 sad
                 poor
                 haunted
                 wretch
                 ,
                 whom
                 nothing
                 less
              
               
                 Than
                 Prayers
                 of
                 the
                 Church
                 can
                 dispossess
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sometimes
                 ,
                 after
                 a
                 tedious
                 day
                 half
                 spent
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 Fancy
                 long
                 has
                 hunted
                 on
                 cold
                 Scent
                 ,
              
               
                 Tir'd
                 in
                 the
                 dull
                 ,
                 and
                 fruitless
                 chase
                 of
                 Thought
                 ,
              
               
                 Despairing
                 I
                 grow
                 weary
                 ,
                 and
                 give
                 out
                 :
              
               
                 As
                 a
                 dry
                 Lecher
                 pump'd
                 of
                 all
                 my
                 store
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 loath
                 the
                 thing
                 ,
                 'cause
                 I
                 can
                 do
                 't
                 no
                 more
                 :
              
               
               
                 But
                 ,
                 when
                 I
                 once
                 begin
                 to
                 find
                 again
                 ,
              
               
                 Recruits
                 of
                 matter
                 in
                 my
                 pregnant
                 Brain
                 ,
              
               
                 Again
                 more
                 eager
                 I
                 the
                 haunt
                 pursue
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 fresh
                 vigour
                 the
                 lov'd
                 sport
                 renew
                 :
              
               
                 Tickled
                 with
                 some
                 strange
                 pleasure
                 ,
                 which
                 I
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 think
                 a
                 secresie
                 to
                 all
                 mankind
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 please
                 my self
                 with
                 the
                 vain
                 ,
                 false
                 delight
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 count
                 none
                 happy
                 ,
                 but
                 the
                 Fops
                 that
                 write
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 'T
                 is
                 endless
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 to
                 tell
                 the
                 many
                 ways
                 ,
              
               
                 Wherein
                 my
                 poor
                 deluded
                 self
                 I
                 please
                 :
              
               
                 How
                 ,
                 when
                 the
                 Fancy
                 lab'ring
                 for
                 a
                 Birth
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 unfelt
                 Throws
                 brings
                 its
                 rude
                 issue
                 forth
                 :
              
               
                 How
                 after
                 ,
                 when
                 imperfect
                 shapeless
                 Thought
              
               
                 Is
                 by
                 the
                 Judgment
                 into
                 Fashion
                 wrought
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 at
                 first
                 search
                 I
                 traverse
                 o're
                 my
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 Nought
                 but
                 a
                 dark
                 ,
                 and
                 empty
                 Void
                 I
                 find
                 :
              
               
                 Some
                 little
                 hints
                 at
                 length
                 ,
                 like
                 sparks
                 ,
                 break
                 thence
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 glimm'ring
                 Thoughts
                 just
                 dawning
                 into
                 sense
                 :
              
               
                 Cōfus'd
                 a
                 while
                 the
                 mixt
                 Idea's
                 lie
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 nought
                 of
                 mark
                 to
                 be
                 discover'd
                 by
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Like
                 colours
                 undistinguish'd
                 in
                 the
                 night
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 the
                 dusk
                 Images
                 ,
                 mov'd
                 to
                 the
                 light
                 ,
              
               
                 Teach
                 the
                 discerning
                 Faculty
                 to
                 chuse
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 it
                 had
                 best
                 adopt
                 ,
                 and
                 which
                 refuse
                 .
              
               
                 Here
                 rougher
                 strokes
                 ,
                 touch'd
                 with
                 a
                 careless
                 dash
                 ,
              
               
                 Resemble
                 the
                 first
                 sitting
                 of
                 a
                 face
                 :
              
               
                 There
                 finish'd
                 draughts
                 in
                 form
                 more
                 full
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 their
                 justness
                 ask
                 no
                 further
                 care
                 .
              
               
                 Mean
                 while
                 with
                 inward
                 joy
                 I
                 proud
                 am
                 grown
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 see
                 the
                 work
                 successfully
                 go
                 on
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 prize
                 my self
                 in
                 a
                 creating
                 power
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 could
                 make
                 something
                 ,
                 what
                 was
                 nought
                 before
                 ▪
              
            
             
               
                 Sometimes
                 a
                 stiff
                 ,
                 unwieldy
                 thought
                 I
                 meet
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 to
                 my
                 Laws
                 will
                 scarce
                 be
                 made
                 submit
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 when
                 ,
                 after
                 expence
                 of
                 pains
                 and
                 time
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 manag'd
                 well
                 ,
                 and
                 taught
                 to
                 yoke
                 in
                 Rhime
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 triumph
                 more
                 ,
                 than
                 joyful
                 Warriours
                 wou'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Had
                 they
                 some
                 stout
                 ,
                 and
                 hardy
                 Foe
                 subdu'd
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 idly
                 think
                 ,
                 less
                 goes
                 to
                 their
                 Command
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 makes
                 arm'd
                 Troops
                 in
                 well-plac'd
                 order
                 stand
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Than
                 to
                 the
                 conduct
                 of
                 my
                 words
                 ,
                 when
                 they
              
               
                 March
                 in
                 due
                 ranks
                 ,
                 are
                 set
                 in
                 just
                 array
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sometimes
                 on
                 wings
                 of
                 Thought
                 I
                 seem
                 on
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 men
                 in
                 sleep
                 ,
                 though
                 motionless
                 they
                 lie
                 ,
              
               
                 Fledg'd
                 by
                 a
                 Dream
                 ,
                 believe
                 they
                 mount
                 and
                 fly
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 Witches
                 some
                 enchanted
                 Wand
                 bestride
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 think
                 they
                 through
                 the
                 airy
                 Regions
                 ride
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Fancy
                 is
                 both
                 Traveller
                 ,
                 Way
                 ,
                 and
                 Guide
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 strait
                 I
                 grow
                 a
                 strange
                 exalted
                 thing
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 equal
                 in
                 conceit
                 ,
                 at
                 least
                 a
                 King
                 :
              
               
                 As
                 the
                 poor
                 Drunkard
                 ,
                 when
                 Wine
                 stums
                 his
                 brains
                 ,
              
               
                 Anointed
                 with
                 that
                 Liquor
                 ,
                 thinks
                 he
                 reigns
                 .
              
               
                 Bewitch'd
                 by
                 these
                 Delusions
                 't
                 is
                 I
                 write
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 The
                 tricks
                 some
                 pleasant
                 Devil
                 plays
                 in
                 spight
                 )
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 I
                 'm
                 in
                 the
                 freakish
                 Trance
                 ,
                 which
                 I
              
               
                 Fond
                 silly
                 Wretch
                 ,
                 mistake
                 for
                 Extasie
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 find
                 all
                 former
                 Resolutions
                 vain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thus
                 recant
                 them
                 ,
                 and
                 make
                 new
                 again
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 "
                 What
                 was
                 't
                 ,
                 Irashly
                 vow'd
                 ▪
                 shall
                 ever
                 I
              
               
                 "
                 Quit
                 my
                 beloved
                 Mistris
                 ,
                 Poetry
                 ?
              
               
               
                 "
                 Thou
                 sweet
                 beguiler
                 of
                 my
                 lonely
                 hours
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Which
                 thus
                 glide
                 unperceiv'd
                 with
                 silent
                 course
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Thou
                 gentle
                 Spell
                 ,
                 which
                 undisturb'd
                 do'st
                 keep
              
               
                 "
                 My
                 Breast
                 ,
                 and
                 charm
                 intruding
                 care
                 asleep
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 They
                 say
                 ,
                 thou'
                 rt
                 poor
                 ,
                 and
                 unendow'd
                 ,
                 what
                 tho
                 ?
              
               
                 "
                 For
                 thee
                 I
                 this
                 vain
                 ,
                 worthless
                 world
                 sorgo
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Let
                 Wealth
                 ,
                 and
                 Honour
                 be
                 for
                 Fortunes
                 Slaves
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 The
                 Alms
                 of
                 Fools
                 ,
                 and
                 Prize
                 of
                 crafty
                 Knaves
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 To
                 me
                 thou
                 art
                 ,
                 whate're
                 th'
                 ambitious
                 crave
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 all
                 that
                 greedy
                 Misers
                 want
                 ,
                 or
                 have
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 In
                 Youth
                 ,
                 or
                 Age
                 ,
                 in
                 Travel
                 ,
                 or
                 at
                 Home
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Here
                 ,
                 or
                 in
                 Town
                 ,
                 at
                 London
                 ,
                 or
                 at
                 Rome
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Rich
                 ,
                 or
                 a
                 Beggar
                 ,
                 free
                 ,
                 or
                 in
                 the
                 Fleet
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Whate're
                 my
                 Fate
                 is
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 my
                 Fate
                 to
                 write
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thus
                 I
                 have
                 made
                 my
                 shrifted
                 Muse
                 consess
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 secret
                 Feebless
                 ,
                 and
                 her
                 Weaknesses
                 :
              
               
                 All
                 her
                 hid
                 Faults
                 she
                 sets
                 expos'd
                 to
                 view
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 hopes
                 a
                 gentle
                 Confessor
                 in
                 you
                 :
              
               
               
                 She
                 hopes
                 an
                 easie
                 pardon
                 for
                 her
                 sin
                 ,
              
               
                 Since
                 't
                 is
                 but
                 what
                 she
                 is
                 not
                 wilful
                 in
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 yet
                 has
                 scandalous
                 nor
                 open
                 been
                 .
              
               
                 Try
                 if
                 your
                 ghostly
                 counsel
                 can
                 reclaim
              
               
                 The
                 heedless
                 wanton
                 from
                 her
                 guilt
                 and
                 shame
                 :
              
               
                 At
                 least
                 be
                 not
                 ungenerous
                 to
                 reproach
              
               
                 That
                 wretched
                 frailty
                 ,
                 which
                 you
                 've
                 help'd
                 debauch
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 'T
                 is
                 now
                 high
                 time
                 to
                 end
                 ,
                 for
                 fear
                 I
                 grow
              
               
                 More
                 tedious
                 than
                 old
                 Doaters
                 ,
                 when
                 they
                 woo
                 .
              
               
                 Than
                 travel'd
                 Fops
                 ,
                 when
                 far
                 fetch'd
                 lies
                 they
                 prate
                 .
              
               
                 Or
                 flatt'ring
                 Poets
                 ,
                 when
                 they
                 dedicate
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 dull
                 forgiveness
                 I
                 presume
                 to
                 crave
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 vainly
                 for
                 my
                 tiresom
                 length
                 ask
                 leave
              
               
                 Lest
                 I
                 ,
                 as
                 often
                 formal
                 Coxcombs
                 use
                 .
              
               
                 Prolong
                 that
                 very
                 fault
                 ,
                 I
                 would
                 excuse
              
               
                 May
                 this
                 the
                 same
                 kind
                 welcome
                 find
                 with
                 you
              
               
                 As
                 yours
                 did
                 here
                 ,
                 and
                 ever
                 shall
                 ;
                 Adieu
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Upon
               a
               Printer
               that
               exposed
               him
               by
               Printing
               a
               Piece
               of
               his
               grosly
               mangled
               ,
               and
               faulty
               .
            
             
               
                 DUll
                 ,
                 and
                 unthinking
                 !
                 hadst
                 thou
                 none
                 but
                 me
              
               
                 To
                 plague
                 ,
                 and
                 urge
                 to
                 thine
                 own
                 Infamy
                 ?
              
               
                 Had
                 I
                 some
                 tame
                 and
                 sneaking
                 Author
                 been
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Muse
                 to
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 softness
                 did
                 incline
                 ,
              
               
                 Some
                 small
                 Adventurer
                 in
                 Song
                 ,
                 that
                 whines
              
               
                 Chloris
                 and
                 Phyllis
                 out
                 in
                 charming
                 lines
                 ,
              
               
                 Fit
                 to
                 divert
                 mine
                 Hostess
                 ,
                 and
                 mislead
              
               
                 The
                 heart
                 of
                 some
                 poor
                 tawdry
                 Waiting
                 Maid
                 ;
              
               
                 Perhaps
                 I
                 might
                 have
                 then
                 forgiven
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thou
                 hadst
                 scap'd
                 from
                 my
                 resentments
                 free
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 I
                 whom
                 spleen
                 ,
                 and
                 manly
                 rage
                 inspire
                 ,
              
               
                 Brook
                 no
                 affront
                 ,
                 at
                 each
                 offence
                 take
                 fire
                 :
              
               
                 Born
                 to
                 chastise
                 the
                 Vices
                 of
                 the
                 Age
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 Pulpits
                 dare
                 not
                 ,
                 nor
                 the
                 very
                 Stage
                 :
              
               
                 Sworn
                 to
                 lash
                 Knaves
                 of
                 all
                 degrees
                 ,
                 and
                 spare
              
               
                 None
                 of
                 the
                 kind
                 ,
                 however
                 great
                 they
                 are
                 :
              
               
                 
                 Satyr's
                 my
                 only
                 Province
                 ,
                 and
                 delight
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 whose
                 dear
                 sake
                 alone
                 I
                 've
                 vow'd
                 to
                 write
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 this
                 I
                 seek
                 occasions
                 ,
                 court
                 Abuse
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 shew
                 my
                 Parts
                 ,
                 and
                 signalize
                 my
                 Muse
                 :
              
               
                 Fond
                 of
                 a
                 Quarrel
                 ,
                 as
                 young
                 Bullies
                 are
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 their
                 Mettle
                 ,
                 and
                 their
                 Skill
                 appear
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 didst
                 thou
                 think
                 I
                 would
                 a
                 wrong
                 acquit
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 touch'd
                 my
                 tender'st
                 part
                 of
                 Honour
                 ,
                 Wit
                 ?
              
               
               
                 No
                 ,
                 Villain
                 ,
                 may
                 my
                 Sins
                 ne're
                 pardon'd
                 be
              
               
                 By
                 Heav'n
                 it self
                 ,
                 if
                 e're
                 I
                 pardon
                 thee
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Members
                 from
                 breach
                 of
                 Privilege
                 deter
              
               
                 By
                 threatning
                 Topham
                 and
                 a
                 Messenger
                 :
              
               
                 Scroggs
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Brothers
                 of
                 the
                 Coif
                 oppose
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 force
                 and
                 dint
                 of
                 Statutes
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Laws
                 :
              
               
                 Strumpets
                 of
                 Billingsgate
                 redress
                 their
                 wrongs
              
               
                 By
                 the
                 sole
                 noise
                 ,
                 and
                 foulness
                 of
                 their
                 Tongues
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 I
                 go
                 always
                 arm'd
                 for
                 my
                 defence
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 punish
                 ,
                 and
                 revenge
                 an
                 insolence
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 wear
                 my
                 Pen
                 ,
                 as
                 others
                 do
                 their
                 Sword
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 each
                 affronting
                 Sot
                 ,
                 I
                 meet
                 ,
                 the
                 word
              
               
                 Is
                 Satisfaction
                 :
                 strait
                 to
                 Thrusts
                 I
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 pointed
                 Satyr
                 runs
                 him
                 through
                 and
                 through
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Perhaps
                 thou
                 hop'dst
                 that
                 thy
                 obscurity
              
               
                 Should
                 be
                 thy
                 safeguard
                 ,
                 and
                 secure
                 thee
                 free
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 wretch
                 ,
                 I
                 mean
                 from
                 thence
                 to
                 fetch
                 thee
                 out
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 sentence'd
                 Felons
                 ,
                 to
                 be
                 drag'd
                 about
                 :
              
               
                 Torn
                 ,
                 mangled
                 ,
                 and
                 expos'd
                 to
                 scorn
                 ,
                 and
                 shame
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 mean
                 to
                 hang
                 ,
                 and
                 Gibbet
                 up
                 thy
                 Name
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 thou
                 to
                 live
                 in
                 Satyr
                 so
                 much
                 thirst
                 ,
              
               
                 Enjoy
                 thy
                 wish
                 ,
                 and
                 Fame
                 ,
                 till
                 envy
                 burst
                 ,
              
               
                 Renown'd
                 ,
                 as
                 he
                 ,
                 whom
                 banish'd
                 Ovid
                 curst
                 :
              
               
                 Or
                 he
                 ,
                 whom
                 old
                 Archilochus
                 so
                 stung
              
               
                 In
                 Verse
                 ,
                 that
                 he
                 for
                 shame
                 ,
                 and
                 madness
                 hung
                 :
              
               
                 Deathless
                 in
                 infamy
                 ,
                 do
                 thou
                 so
                 live
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 le●…my
                 Rage
                 ,
                 like
                 his
                 ,
                 to
                 Halters
                 drive
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thou
                 thoughtst
                 perhaps
                 my
                 Gall
                 was
                 spent
                 and
                 gone
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Venom
                 drain'd
                 ,
                 and
                 Ia
                 stingless
                 Drone
                 :
              
               
                 Thou
                 thoughtst
                 I
                 had
                 no
                 Curses
                 left
                 in
                 store
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 to
                 thy
                 sorrow
                 know
                 ,
                 and
                 find
                 I
                 've
                 more
                 ,
              
               
               
                 More
                 ,
                 and
                 more
                 dreadful
                 yet
                 ,
                 able
                 to
                 scare
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 Hell
                 ,
                 and
                 urge
                 to
                 Daggers
                 ,
                 and
                 Despair
                 :
              
               
                 Such
                 thou
                 shalt
                 feel
                 ,
                 are
                 still
                 reserv'd
                 by
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 vex
                 and
                 force
                 thee
                 to
                 thy
                 Destiny
                 :
              
               
                 Since
                 thou
                 hast
                 brav'd
                 my
                 vengeance
                 thus
                 ;
                 prepare
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 tremble
                 from
                 my
                 Pen
                 thy
                 Doom
                 to
                 hear
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thou
                 ,
                 who
                 with
                 spurious
                 Nonsense
                 durst
                 profane
              
               
                 The
                 genuine
                 issue
                 of
                 a
                 Poets
                 Brain
                 ,
              
               
                 May'st
                 thou
                 hereafter
                 never
                 deal
                 in
                 Verse
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 hoarse
                 Bell-men
                 in
                 their
                 Walks
                 rehearse
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 Smithfield
                 Audience
                 sung
                 on
                 Crickets
                 hears
                 :
              
               
                 May'st
                 thou
                 print
                 
                   H
                   —
                
                 ,
                 or
                 some
                 duller
                 Ass
                 ,
              
               
                 Jordan
                 ,
                 or
                 Him
                 ,
                 that
                 wrote
                 
                   Dutch
                   Hudibrass
                
                 :
              
               
                 Or
                 next
                 vile
                 Scribler
                 of
                 the
                 House
                 ,
                 whose
                 Play
              
               
                 Will
                 scarce
                 for
                 Candles
                 ,
                 and
                 their
                 snuffing
                 pay
                 :
              
               
                 May
                 you
                 each
                 other
                 Curse
                 ;
                 thy self
                 undone
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 he
                 the
                 laughing-stock
                 of
                 all
                 the
                 Town
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 May'st
                 thou
                 ne're
                 rise
                 to
                 History
                 ,
                 but
                 what
              
               
                 Poor
                 Grubstreet
                 Peny
                 Chroniclers
                 relate
                 ,
              
               
                 Memoirs
                 of
                 Tyburn
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 mournful
                 State
              
               
                 Of
                 Cut-purses
                 in
                 Holborn
                 Cavalcade
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 thou
                 thy self
                 be
                 the
                 same
                 subject
                 made
                 .
              
               
                 Compell'd
                 by
                 want
                 ,
                 may'st
                 thou
                 Print
                 Popery
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 which
                 be
                 the
                 Carts
                 Arse
                 ,
                 and
                 Pillory
                 ,
              
               
                 Turnips
                 ,
                 and
                 rotten
                 Eggs
                 thy
                 destiny
                 .
              
               
                 Maul'd
                 worse
                 than
                 
                   Reading
                   ,
                   Christian
                
                 ,
                 or
                 Cellier
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 thou
                 daub'd
                 o're
                 with
                 loathsom
                 filth
                 ,
                 appear
              
               
                 Like
                 Brat
                 of
                 some
                 vile
                 Drab
                 in
                 Privy
                 found
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 there
                 has
                 lain
                 three
                 months
                 in
                 Ordure
                 drown'd
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Plague
                 of
                 Poets
                 ,
                 Rags
                 ,
                 and
                 Poverty
                 ,
              
               
                 Debts
                 ,
                 Writs
                 ,
                 Arrests
                 ,
                 and
                 Serjeants
                 light
                 on
                 thee
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 others
                 bound
                 ,
                 may'st
                 thou
                 to
                 Durance
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 Condemn'd
                 to
                 Scraps
                 ,
                 and
                 begging
                 with
                 a
                 Shoo
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 may'st
                 thou
                 never
                 from
                 the
                 Jail
                 get
                 free
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 thou
                 swear
                 out
                 thy self
                 by
                 Perjury
                 :
              
               
                 Forlorn
                 ,
                 abandon'd
                 ,
                 pitiless
                 ,
                 and
                 poor
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 a
                 pawn'd
                 Cully
                 ,
                 or
                 a
                 mortgag'd
                 Whore
                 ,
              
               
                 May'st
                 thou
                 an
                 Halter
                 want
                 for
                 thy
                 Redress
                 ,
              
               
                 Forc'd
                 to
                 steal
                 Hemp
                 to
                 end
                 thy
                 miseries
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 damn
                 thy self
                 to
                 balk
                 the
                 Hangmans
                 Fees.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 And
                 may
                 no
                 faucy
                 Fool
                 have
                 better
                 Fate
              
               
                 That
                 dares
                 pull
                 down
                 the
                 Vengeance
                 of
                 my
                 Hate
                 .
              
            
             
               FINIS
               .
            
          
        
      
       
         
           
             
             
             
             
               POEMS
               ,
               AND
               Translations
               .
            
             
               By
               the
               AUTHOR
               of
               
                 The
                 Satyrs
                 upon
                 the
                 Jesuits
              
               .
            
             
               LONDON
               ,
               Printed
               for
               
                 Jos.
                 Hindmarsh
              
               ,
               Bookseller
               to
               his
               Royal
               Highness
               ,
               at
               the
               Black
               Bull
               in
               Cornhill
               ,
               1684.
               
            
          
           
             
             
             
               Advertisement
               .
            
             
               THE
               Author
               of
               the
               following
               Pieces
               must
               be
               excused
               for
               their
               being
               hudled
               out
               so
               confusedly
               .
               They
               are
               Printed
               just
               as
               he
               finished
               them
               off
               ,
               and
               some
               things
               there
               are
               which
               he
               designed
               not
               ever
               to
               expose
               ,
               but
               was
               fain
               to
               do
               it
               ,
               to
               keep
               the
               Press
               at
               work
               ,
               when
               it
               was
               once
               set
               a
               going
               .
               If
               it
               be
               their
               Fate
               to
               perish
               ,
               and
               go
               the
               way
               of
               all
               mortal
               Rhimes
               ,
               't
               is
               no
               great
               matter
               in
               what
               method
               they
               have
               been
               placed
               ,
               no
               more
               than
               whether
               
                 Ode
                 ,
                 Elegy
              
               ,
               or
               Satyr
               have
               the
               honour
               of
               Wiping
               first
               .
               But
               if
               they
               ,
               and
               what
               he
               has
               formerly
               made
               Publick
               ,
               be
               so
               happy
               as
               to
               live
               ,
               and
               come
               forth
               in
               an
               Edition
               all
               together
               ;
               perhaps
               he
               may
               then
               think
               them
               worth
               the
               sorting
               in
               better
               Order
               .
               By
               that
               time
               belike
               he
               means
               to
               have
               ready
               a
               very
               Sparkish
               Dedication
               ,
               if
               he
               can
               but
               get
               himself
               known
               to
               some
               Great
               Man
               ,
               that
               
               will
               give
               a
               good
               parcel
               of
               Guinnies
               for
               being
               handsomly
               flatter'd
               .
               Then
               likewise
               the
               Reader
               (
               for
               his
               farther
               comfort
               )
               may
               expect
               to
               see
               him
               appear
               with
               all
               the
               Pomp
               and
               Trappings
               of
               an
               Author
               ;
               his
               Head
               in
               the
               Front
               very
               finely
               cut
               ,
               together
               with
               the
               Year
               of
               his
               Age
               ,
               Commendatory
               Verses
               in
               abundance
               ,
               and
               all
               the
               Hands
               of
               the
               Poets
               of
               the
               Quorum
               to
               confirm
               his
               Book
               ,
               and
               pass
               it
               for
               Authentick
               .
               This
               at
               present
               is
               content
               to
               come
               abroad
               naked
               ,
               Undedicated
               ,
               and
               unprefaced
               ,
               without
               one
               kind
               Word
               to
               shelter
               it
               from
               Censure
               ;
               and
               so
               let
               the
               Criticks
               take
               it
               amongst
               them
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               THE
               TABLE
               .
            
             
               
                 MOnfieur
                 
                 Boileau's
                 Satyr
                 upon
                 Man
                 ,
                 imitated
                 ,
                 Page
                 1
              
               
                 
                 Juvenal's
                 thirteenth
                 Satyr
                 ,
                 imitated
                 25
              
               
                 
                 David's
                 Lamentation
                 for
                 the
                 Death
                 of
                 Saul
                 and
                 Jonathan
                 ,
                 paraphras'd
                 .
                 Ode
                 49
              
               
                 The
                 Ode
                 of
                 Aristotle
                 in
                 Athenaeus
                 ,
                 paraphrased
                 66
              
               
                 Upon
                 the
                 Works
                 of
                 
                   Ben.
                   Johnson
                
                 .
                 Ode
                 69
              
               
                 The
                 ninth
                 Ode
                 of
                 the
                 third
                 Book
                 of
                 Horace
                 ,
                 imitated
                 87
              
               
                 Upon
                 a
                 Lady
                 ,
                 who
                 by
                 overturning
                 of
                 a
                 Coach
                 had
                 her
                 Coats
                 behind
                 flung
                 up
                 ,
                 and
                 what
                 was
                 under
                 shewn
                 to
                 the
                 view
                 of
                 the
                 Company
                 90
              
               
                 Catullus
                 ,
                 Epigram
                 7.
                 imitated
                 97
              
               
                 The
                 fourth
                 Elegy
                 of
                 the
                 second
                 Book
                 of
                 
                 Ovid's
                 Amours
                 ,
                 imitated
                 99
              
               
                 The
                 fifth
                 Elegy
                 of
                 the
                 same
                 Book
                 ,
                 imitated
                 104
              
               
                 The
                 tenth
                 Elegy
                 of
                 the
                 same
                 Book
                 ,
                 imitated
                 110
              
               
                 A
                 Fragment
                 of
                 Petronius
                 ,
                 paraphrased
                 114
              
               
                 An
                 Ode
                 of
                 Anacreon
                 ,
                 paraphrased
                 116
              
               
                 An
                 Allusion
                 to
                 Martial
                 ,
                 Book
                 1.
                 
                 Epigr.
                 118.
                 120
              
               
                 The
                 Dream
                 ,
                 an
                 Elegy
                 122
              
               
                 A
                 Satyr
                 ,
                 touching
                 Nobility
                 .
                 Out
                 of
                 French
                 127
              
               
                 
                 A
                 Satyr
                 ,
                 addressed
                 to
                 a
                 Friend
                 that
                 is
                 about
                 to
                 leave
                 the
                 University
                 and
                 come
                 abroad
                 in
                 the
                 world
                 137
              
               
                 Presenting
                 a
                 Book
                 to
                 Cosmelia
                 .
                 Elegy
                 149
              
               
                 The
                 Parting
                 .
                 Elegy
                 153
              
               
                 Complaining
                 of
                 Absence
                 .
                 Elegy
                 156
              
               
                 Promising
                 a
                 Visit.
                 Elegy
                 158
              
               
                 The
                 careless
                 Good
                 Fellow
                 .
                 Song
                 160
              
               
                 A
                 Satyr
                 concerning
                 Poetry
                 164
              
               
                 The
                 third
                 Satyr
                 of
                 Juvenal
                 ,
                 imitated
                 180
              
               
                 A
                 Dithyrambick
                 .
                 The
                 Drunkards
                 Speech
                 in
                 a
                 Mask
                 206
              
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
               THE
               EIGHTH
               SATYR
               OF
               Monsieur
               BOILEAU
               ,
               Imitated
               .
            
             
               Written
               in
               October
               ,
               1682.
               
            
             
               
                 The
                 POET
                 brings
                 himself
                 in
                 ,
                 as
                 discoursing
                 with
                 a
                 Doctor
                 of
                 the
                 University
                 upon
                 the
                 Subject
                 ensuing
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 OF
                 all
                 the
                 Creatures
                 in
                 the
                 world
                 that
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Beast
                 ,
                 Fish
                 ,
                 or
                 Fowl
                 ,
                 that
                 go
                 ,
                 or
                 swim
                 ,
                 or
                 fly
              
               
                 Throughout
                 the
                 Globe
                 from
                 London
                 to
                 Japan
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 arrant'st
                 Fool
                 in
                 my
                 opinion's
                 Man.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 What
                 ?
                 
                   (
                   strait
                   I
                   'm
                   taken
                   up
                
                 )
                 an
                 Ant
                 ,
                 a
                 Fly
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 tiny
                 Mite
                 ,
                 which
                 we
                 can
                 hardly
                 see
              
               
               
                 Without
                 a
                 Perspective
                 ,
                 a
                 silly
                 Ass
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 freakish
                 Ape
                 ?
                 Dare
                 you
                 affirm
                 ,
                 that
                 these
              
               
                 Have
                 greater
                 sense
                 than
                 Man
                 ?
                 
                   Ay
                   ,
                   questionless
                
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Doctor
                   ,
                   I
                   find
                   you
                   're
                   shock'd
                   at
                   this
                   discourse
                   :
                
              
               
                 Man
                 is
                 
                   (
                   you
                   cry
                
                 )
                 Lord
                 of
                 the
                 Universe
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 him
                 was
                 this
                 fair
                 frame
                 of
                 Nature
                 made
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 Creatures
                 for
                 his
                 use
                 ,
                 and
                 aid
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 him
                 alone
                 of
                 all
                 the
                 living
                 kind
                 ,
              
               
                 Has
                 bounteous
                 Heav'n
                 the
                 reas'ning
                 gift
                 assign'd
                 .
              
               
                 
                   True
                   Sir
                   ,
                   that
                   Reason
                   ever
                   was
                   his
                   lot
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   thence
                   I
                   argue
                   Man
                   the
                   greater
                   Sot.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 This
                 idle
                 talk
                 ,
                 
                   (
                   say
                   you
                
                 )
                 and
                 rambling
                 stuff
              
               
                 May
                 pass
                 in
                 Satyr
                 ,
                 and
                 take
                 well
                 enough
              
               
                 With
                 Sceptick
                 Fools
                 ,
                 who
                 are
                 dispos'd
                 to
                 jeer
              
               
                 At
                 serious
                 things
                 :
                 but
                 you
                 must
                 make
                 't
                 appear
              
               
                 By
                 solid
                 proof
                 .
                 
                   Believe
                   me
                   ,
                   Sir
                   ,
                   I
                   'll
                   do
                   't
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   Take
                   you
                   the
                   Desk
                   ,
                   and
                   let
                   's
                   dispute
                   it
                   out
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   by
                   your
                   favour
                   ,
                   tell
                   me
                   first
                   of
                   all
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   What
                   't
                   is
                   ,
                   which
                   you
                   grave
                   Doctors
                   Wisdom
                   call
                   ?
                
              
               
               
                 
                   You
                   answer
                
                 :
                 'T
                 is
                 an
                 evenness
                 of
                 Soul
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 steddy
                 temper
                 ,
                 which
                 no
                 cares
                 controul
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 passions
                 ru●…le
                 ,
                 nor
                 desires
                 inflame
                 ,
              
               
                 Still
                 constant
                 to
                 its
                 self
                 ,
                 and
                 still
                 the
                 same
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 does
                 in
                 all
                 its
                 slow
                 Resolves
                 advance
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 graver
                 steps
                 ,
                 than
                 Benchers
                 ,
                 when
                 they
                 dance
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Most
                   true
                   ;
                   yet
                   is
                   not
                   this
                   ,
                   I
                   dare
                   maintain
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Less
                   us'd
                   by
                   any
                   ,
                   than
                   the
                   Fool
                   ,
                   call'd
                   Man.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 wiser
                 Emmet
                 ,
                 quoted
                 just
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Summer
                 time
                 ranges
                 the
                 Fallows
                 o're
              
               
                 With
                 pains
                 ,
                 and
                 labour
                 ,
                 to
                 lay
                 in
                 his
                 store
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 the
                 blust'ring
                 North
                 with
                 ruffling
                 blasts
              
               
                 Saddens
                 the
                 year
                 ,
                 and
                 Nature
                 overcasts
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 prudent
                 Insect
                 ,
                 hid
                 in
                 privacy
                 ,
              
               
                 Enjoys
                 the
                 fruits
                 of
                 his
                 past
                 industry
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 Ant
                 of
                 sense
                 was
                 e're
                 so
                 awkard
                 seen
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 drudg
                 in
                 Winter
                 ,
                 loiter
                 in
                 the
                 Spring
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 sillier
                 man
                 ,
                 in
                 his
                 mistaken
                 way
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 Reason
                 ,
                 his
                 false
                 guide
                 ,
                 is
                 led
                 astray
                 :
              
               
               
                 Tost
                 by
                 a
                 thousand
                 gusts
                 of
                 wavering
                 doubt
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 restless
                 mind
                 still
                 rolls
                 from
                 thought
                 to
                 thought
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 each
                 resolve
                 unsteady
                 ,
                 and
                 unfixt
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 he
                 one
                 day
                 loaths
                 ,
                 desires
                 the
                 next
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 
                   Shall
                   I
                   ,
                   so
                   fam'd
                   for
                   many
                   a
                   tuant
                   jest
                
              
               
                 
                   On
                   wiving
                   ,
                   now
                   go
                   take
                   a
                   jilt
                   at
                   last
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   Shall
                   I
                   turn
                   Husband
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   station
                   choose
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Amongst
                   the
                   reverend
                   Martyrs
                   of
                   the
                   Noose
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   No
                   ,
                   there
                   are
                   fools
                   enough
                   besides
                   in
                   Town
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   surnish
                   work
                   for
                   Satyr
                   ,
                   and
                   Lampoon
                   :
                
              
               
                 Few
                 months
                 before
                 cried
                 the
                 unthinking
                 Sot
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 quickly
                 after
                 ,
                 hamper'd
                 in
                 the
                 knot
                 ,
              
               
                 Was
                 quoted
                 for
                 an
                 instance
                 by
                 the
                 rest
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 bore
                 his
                 Fate
                 ,
                 as
                 tamely
                 as
                 the
                 best
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thought
                 ,
                 that
                 Heav'n
                 from
                 some
                 miraculous
                 side
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 him
                 alone
                 had
                 drawn
                 a
                 faithful
                 Bride
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 This
                 is
                 our
                 image
                 just
                 :
                 such
                 is
                 that
                 vain
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 foolish
                 ,
                 fickle
                 ,
                 motly
                 Creature
                 ,
                 Man
                 :
              
               
               
                 More
                 changing
                 than
                 a
                 Weathercock
                 ,
                 his
                 Head
              
               
                 N●…'r
                 wakes
                 with
                 the
                 same
                 thoughts
                 ,
                 he
                 went
                 to
                 bed
                 ,
              
               
                 Irksome
                 to
                 all
                 beside
                 ,
                 and
                 ill
                 at
                 ease
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 neither
                 others
                 ,
                 nor
                 himself
                 can
                 please
                 :
              
               
                 Each
                 minute
                 round
                 his
                 whirling
                 humours
                 run
                 ,
              
               
                 Now
                 he
                 's
                 a
                 Trooper
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 Priest
                 anon
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 day
                 in
                 Buff
                 ,
                 to
                 morrow
                 in
                 a
                 Gown
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Yet
                 ,
                 pleas'd
                 with
                 idle
                 whimsies
                 of
                 his
                 brain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 puft
                 with
                 pride
                 ,
                 this
                 haughty
                 thing
                 would
                 fain
              
               
                 Be
                 thought
                 himself
                 the
                 only
                 stay
                 ,
                 and
                 prop
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 holds
                 the
                 mighty
                 frame
                 of
                 Nature
                 up
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Skies
                 and
                 Stars
                 his
                 properties
                 must
                 seem
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 turn-spit
                 Angels
                 tread
                 the
                 Spheres
                 for
                 him
                 :
              
               
                 Of
                 all
                 the
                 Creatures
                 he
                 's
                 the
                 Lord
                 (
                 he
                 cries
                 )
              
               
                 More
                 absolute
                 ,
                 than
                 the
                 French
                 King
                 of
                 his
                 .
              
               
                 
                   And
                   who
                   is
                   there
                
                 (
                 say
                 you
                 )
                 
                   that
                   dares
                   deny
                
              
               
                 
                   So
                   own'd
                   a
                   truth
                
                 ?
                 That
                 may
                 be
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 do
                 I.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 But
                 to
                 omit
                 the
                 controversie
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 Whether
                 ,
                 if
                 met
                 ,
                 the
                 Passenger
                 and
                 Bear
                 ,
              
               
                 This
                 or
                 the
                 other
                 stands
                 in
                 greater
                 fear
                 .
              
               
                 Or
                 if
                 an
                 Act
                 of
                 Parliament
                 should
                 pass
              
               
                 That
                 all
                 the
                 Irish
                 Wolves
                 should
                 quit
                 the
                 place
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 'd
                 strait
                 obey
                 the
                 Statutes
                 high
                 command
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 at
                 a
                 minutes
                 warning
                 rid
                 the
                 Land
                 :
              
               
                 This
                 boasted
                 Monarch
                 of
                 the
                 world
                 ,
                 that
                 aw●
              
               
                 The
                 Creatures
                 here
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 his
                 beck
                 gives
                 Laws
                 ;
              
               
                 This
                 titular
                 King
                 ,
                 who
                 th●s
                 pretends
                 to
                 be
              
               
                 The
                 Lord
                 of
                 all
                 ,
                 how
                 many
                 Lords
                 has
                 he
                 ?
              
               
                 The
                 lust
                 of
                 Money
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 lust
                 of
                 Power
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 Hate
                 ,
                 and
                 twenty
                 passions
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 Hold
                 him
                 their
                 slave
                 ,
                 and
                 chain
                 him
                 to
                 the
                 Oar.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 
                   Scarce
                   has
                   soft
                   sleep
                   in
                   silence
                   clos'd
                   his
                   eyes
                   ,
                
              
               
                 Up
                 !
                 
                   (
                   strait
                   says
                   Avarice
                
                 )
                 't
                 is
                 time
                 to
                 rise
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Not
                   yet
                   :
                   one
                   minute
                   longer
                   .
                
                 Up
                 !
                 
                   (
                   she
                   cries
                
                 )
              
               
                 
                   Th'
                   Exchange
                   ,
                   and
                   Shops
                   are
                   hardly
                   open
                   yet
                   .
                
              
               
                 No
                 matter
                 :
                 Rise
                 !
                 
                   But
                   after
                   all
                   ,
                   for
                   what
                   ?
                
              
               
               
                 D'
                 ye
                 ask
                 ▪
                 go
                 ,
                 cut
                 the
                 Line
                 ,
                 double
                 the
                 Cape
                 ,
              
               
                 Traverse
                 from
                 end
                 to
                 end
                 the
                 spacious
                 deep
                 :
              
               
                 Search
                 both
                 the
                 
                   Indies
                   ,
                   Bantam
                
                 ,
                 and
                 Japan
                 :
              
               
                 Fetch
                 Sugars
                 from
                 Barbadoes
                 ,
                 Wines
                 from
                 Spain
                 .
              
               
                 
                   What
                   needs
                   all
                   this
                   ?
                   I
                   've
                   wealth
                   enough
                   in
                   store
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   thank
                   the
                   Fates
                   ,
                   nor
                   care
                   for
                   adding
                   more
                   .
                
              
               
                 You
                 cannot
                 have
                 too
                 much
                 ,
                 this
                 point
                 to
                 gain
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 must
                 no
                 Crime
                 ,
                 no
                 Perjury
                 refrain
                 ,
              
               
                 Hunger
                 you
                 must
                 endure
                 ,
                 Hardship
                 ,
                 and
                 Want
                 ,
              
               
                 Amidst
                 full
                 Barns
                 keep
                 an
                 eternal
                 Lent
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 tho
                 you
                 've
                 more
                 than
                 
                   B
                   —
                   m
                
                 has
                 spent
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 
                   C
                   —
                   n
                
                 got
                 ,
                 like
                 stingy
                 
                   B
                   —
                   el
                
                 save
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 grudg
                 your self
                 the
                 charges
                 of
                 a
                 Grave
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 small
                 Ransom
                 of
                 a
                 single
                 Groat
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 Sword
                 ,
                 or
                 Halter
                 to
                 redeem
                 your
                 Throat
                 .
              
               
                 
                   And
                   pray
                   ,
                   why
                   all
                   this
                   sparing
                   ?
                
                 Don't
                 you
                 know
                 ?
              
               
                 Only
                 t'
                 enrich
                 a
                 spendthrift
                 Heir
                 ,
                 or
                 so
                 :
              
               
                 Who
                 shall
                 ,
                 when
                 you
                 are
                 timely
                 dead
                 ,
                 and
                 gone
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 his
                 gilt
                 Coach
                 ,
                 and
                 Six
                 amuse
                 the
                 Town
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Keep
                 his
                 gay
                 brace
                 of
                 Punks
                 ,
                 and
                 vainly
                 give
              
               
                 More
                 for
                 a
                 night
                 ,
                 than
                 you
                 to
                 fine
                 for
                 Shrieve
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 you
                 lose
                 time
                 !
                 the
                 Wind
                 ,
                 and
                 Vessel
                 waits
                 ,
              
               
                 Quick
                 ,
                 let
                 's
                 aboard
                 !
                 Hey
                 for
                 the
                 Downs
                 ,
                 and
                 Streights
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Or
                 ,
                 if
                 all-powerful
                 Money
                 fail
                 of
                 charms
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 tempt
                 the
                 wretch
                 ,
                 and
                 push
                 him
                 on
                 to
                 harms
                 :
              
               
                 With
                 a
                 strong
                 hand
                 does
                 fierce
                 Ambition
                 seize
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 drag
                 him
                 forth
                 from
                 soft
                 repose
                 and
                 ease
                 :
              
               
                 Amidst
                 ten
                 thousand
                 dangers
                 spurs
                 him
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 loss
                 of
                 Bloud
                 and
                 Limbs
                 to
                 hunt
                 renown
                 .
              
               
                 Who
                 for
                 reward
                 of
                 many
                 a
                 wound
                 and
                 maim
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 paid
                 with
                 nought
                 but
                 wooden
                 Legs
                 ,
                 and
                 Fame
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 poor
                 comfort
                 of
                 a
                 grinning
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 stand
                 recorded
                 in
                 the
                 next
                 Gazette
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 
                   But
                   hold
                
                 (
                 cries
                 one
                 )
                 
                   your
                   paltry
                   gibing
                   wit
                
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   Or
                   learn
                   henceforth
                   to
                   aim
                   it
                   more
                   aright
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   If
                   this
                   be
                   any
                   ;
                   't
                   is
                   a
                   glorious
                   fault
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Which
                   through
                   all
                   Ages
                   has
                   been
                   ever
                   thought
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Hero's
                   virtue
                   ,
                   and
                   chief
                   excellence
                   :
                
              
               
               
                 
                   Pray
                   ,
                   what
                   was
                
                 Alexander
                 
                   in
                   your
                   sense
                
                 ?
              
               
                 
                   A
                   Fool
                   belike
                
                 .
                 Yes
                 ,
                 faith
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 much
                 the
                 same
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 crack
                 brain'd
                 Huff
                 ,
                 that
                 set
                 the
                 world
                 on
                 flame
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 Lunatick
                 broke
                 loose
                 ,
                 who
                 in
                 his
                 fit
              
               
                 Fell
                 foul
                 on
                 all
                 ,
                 invaded
                 all
                 ,
                 he
                 met
                 :
              
               
                 Who
                 ,
                 Lord
                 of
                 the
                 whole
                 Globe
                 ,
                 yet
                 not
                 content
                 ,
              
               
                 Lack'd
                 elbow-room
                 ,
                 and
                 seem'd
                 too
                 closely
                 pent
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 madness
                 was
                 't
                 ,
                 that
                 ,
                 born
                 to
                 a
                 fair
                 Throne
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 he
                 might
                 rule
                 with
                 Justice
                 ,
                 and
                 Renown
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 a
                 wild
                 Robber
                 ,
                 he
                 should
                 choose
                 to
                 roam
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 pitied
                 wretch
                 ,
                 with
                 neither
                 house
                 ,
                 nor
                 home
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 hurling
                 War
                 ,
                 and
                 Slaughter
                 up
                 and
                 down
                 ,
              
               
                 Through
                 the
                 wide
                 world
                 make
                 his
                 vast
                 folly
                 known
                 ?
              
               
                 Happy
                 for
                 ten
                 good
                 reasons
                 had
                 it
                 been
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 Macedon
                 had
                 had
                 a
                 Bedlam
                 then
                 :
              
               
                 That
                 there
                 with
                 Keepers
                 under
                 close
                 restraint
              
               
                 He
                 might
                 have
                 been
                 from
                 frantick
                 mischief
                 pent
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 that
                 we
                 mayn't
                 in
                 long
                 digressions
                 now
              
               
                 Discourse
                 all
                 Rainolds
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Passions
                 through
                 ,
              
            
             
               
               
                 And
                 ranging
                 them
                 in
                 method
                 stiff
                 ,
                 and
                 grave
                 ,
              
               
                 Rhime
                 on
                 by
                 Chapter
                 ,
                 and
                 by
                 Paragraph
                 ;
              
               
                 Let
                 's
                 quit
                 the
                 present
                 Topick
                 of
                 dispute
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 More
                 and
                 Cudworth
                 to
                 enlarge
                 about
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 take
                 a
                 view
                 of
                 man
                 in
                 his
                 best
                 light
                 ,
              
               
                 Wherein
                 he
                 seems
                 to
                 most
                 advantage
                 set
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 'T
                 is
                 he
                 alone
                 
                   (
                   you
                   'l
                   say
                
                 )
                 't
                 is
                 happy
                 he
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 's
                 fram'd
                 by
                 Nature
                 for
                 Society
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 only
                 dwells
                 in
                 Towns
                 ,
                 is
                 only
                 seen
              
               
                 With
                 Manners
                 and
                 Civility
                 to
                 shine
                 ;
              
               
                 Does
                 only
                 Magistrates
                 ,
                 and
                 Rulers
                 choose
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 live
                 secur'd
                 by
                 Government
                 ,
                 and
                 Laws
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 'T
                 is
                 granted
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ;
                 but
                 yet
                 without
                 all
                 these
                 ,
              
               
                 Without
                 your
                 boasted
                 Laws
                 ,
                 and
                 Policies
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 fear
                 of
                 Judges
                 ,
                 or
                 of
                 Justices
                 ;
              
               
                 Who
                 ever
                 saw
                 the
                 Wolves
                 ,
                 that
                 he
                 can
                 say
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 more
                 inhumane
                 Us
                 ,
                 so
                 bent
                 on
                 prey
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 rob
                 their
                 fellow
                 Wolves
                 upon
                 the
                 way
                 ?
              
               
                 Who
                 ever
                 saw
                 Church
                 and
                 Fanatick
                 Bear
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 savage
                 Mankind
                 one
                 another
                 tear
                 ?
              
               
               
                 What
                 Tyger
                 e're
                 ,
                 aspiring
                 to
                 be
                 great
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Plots
                 and
                 Factions
                 did
                 embroil
                 the
                 State
                 ?
              
               
                 Or
                 when
                 was
                 't
                 heard
                 upon
                 the
                 Libian
                 Plains
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 the
                 stern
                 Monarch
                 of
                 the
                 Desert
                 reigns
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Whig
                 and
                 Tory
                 Lions
                 in
                 wild
                 jars
              
               
                 Madly
                 engag'd
                 for
                 choice
                 of
                 Shrieves
                 and
                 May'rs
                 ?
              
               
                 The
                 fiercest
                 Creatures
                 ,
                 we
                 in
                 Nature
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 Respect
                 their
                 figure
                 still
                 in
                 the
                 same
                 kind
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 others
                 rough
                 ,
                 to
                 these
                 they
                 gentle
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 live
                 from
                 Noise
                 ,
                 from
                 Feuds
                 ,
                 from
                 Actions
                 free
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 No
                 Eagle
                 does
                 upon
                 his
                 Peerage
                 sue
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 strive
                 some
                 meaner
                 Eagle
                 to
                 undo
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 Fox
                 was
                 e're
                 suborn'd
                 by
                 spite
                 ,
                 or
                 hire
                 ,
              
               
                 Against
                 his
                 brother
                 Fox
                 his
                 life
                 to
                 swear
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 any
                 Hind
                 ,
                 for
                 Impotence
                 at
                 Rut
                 ,
              
               
                 Did
                 e're
                 the
                 Stag
                 into
                 the
                 Arches
                 put
                 ;
              
               
                 Where
                 a
                 grave
                 Dean
                 the
                 weighty
                 Case
                 might
                 state
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 makes
                 in
                 Law
                 a
                 carnal
                 Job
                 complete
                 :
              
               
                 They
                 fear
                 no
                 dreadful
                 
                   Quo
                   Warranto
                
                 Writ
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 shake
                 their
                 ancient
                 privilege
                 and
                 right
                 :
              
               
               
                 No
                 Courts
                 of
                 Sessions
                 ,
                 or
                 Assize
                 are
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 
                   Common-Pleas
                   ,
                   Kings-Bench
                
                 ,
                 or
                 Chancery-Bar
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 happier
                 they
                 ,
                 by
                 Natures
                 Charter
                 free
                 ,
              
               
                 Secure
                 ,
                 and
                 safe
                 in
                 mutual
                 peace
                 agree
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 know
                 no
                 other
                 Law
                 ,
                 but
                 Equity
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   Man
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   Man
                   alone
                   ,
                   that
                   worst
                   of
                   Brutes
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Who
                   first
                   brought
                   up
                   the
                   trade
                   of
                   cutting
                   Throats
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Did
                   Honour
                   first
                   ,
                   that
                   barbarous
                   term
                   ,
                   devise
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Unknown
                   to
                   all
                   the
                   gentler
                   Savages
                
                 ;
              
               
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   as
                   't
                   were
                   not
                   enough
                   t'
                   have
                   fetch'd
                   from
                   Hell
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Powder
                   ,
                   and
                   Guns
                   ,
                   with
                   all
                   the
                   arts
                   to
                   kill
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Farther
                   to
                   plague
                   the
                   World
                   ,
                   he
                   must
                   ingross
                
              
               
                 
                   Huge
                   Codes
                   ,
                   and
                   bulky
                   Pandects
                   of
                   the
                   Laws
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   With
                   Doctors
                   Glosses
                   to
                   perplex
                   the
                   Cause
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Where
                   darken'd
                   Equity
                   is
                   kept
                   from
                   light
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Under
                   vast
                   Reams
                   of
                   non
                   sense
                   buried
                   quite
                   .
                
              
               
                 Gently
                 ,
                 good
                 Sir
                 !
                 
                   (
                   cry
                   you
                
                 )
                 why
                 all
                 this
                 rant
                 ?
              
               
                 Man
                 has
                 his
                 freaks
                 ,
                 and
                 passions
                 ;
                 that
                 we
                 grant
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 has
                 his
                 frailties
                 ,
                 and
                 blind
                 sides
                 ;
                 who
                 doubts
                 ?
              
               
                 But
                 his
                 least
                 Virtues
                 balance
                 all
                 his
                 Faults
                 .
              
               
               
                 Pray
                 ,
                 was
                 it
                 not
                 this
                 bold
                 ,
                 this
                 thinking
                 Man
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 measur'd
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 and
                 taught
                 the
                 Stars
                 to
                 scan
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 boundless
                 wit
                 ,
                 with
                 soaring
                 wings
                 durst
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 Beyond
                 the
                 flaming
                 borders
                 of
                 the
                 sky
                 ;
              
               
                 Turn'd
                 Nature
                 o're
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 a
                 piercing
                 view
              
               
                 Each
                 cranny
                 search'd
                 ,
                 and
                 look'd
                 her
                 through
                 and
                 through
                 :
              
               
                 Which
                 of
                 the
                 Brutes
                 have
                 Universities
                 ?
              
               
                 When
                 was
                 it
                 heard
                 ,
                 that
                 they
                 e're
                 took
                 Degrees
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 were
                 Professors
                 of
                 the
                 Faculties
                 ?
              
               
                 By
                 Law
                 ,
                 or
                 Physick
                 were
                 they
                 ever
                 known
              
               
                 To
                 merit
                 Velvet
                 ,
                 or
                 a
                 Scarlet
                 Gown
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 No
                 questionless
                 ;
                 nor
                 did
                 we
                 ever
                 read
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 Quacks
                 with
                 them
                 ,
                 that
                 were
                 Licentiates
                 made
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 Patent
                 to
                 profess
                 the
                 poys'ning
                 Trade
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 Doctors
                 in
                 the
                 Desk
                 there
                 hold
                 dispute
              
               
                 About
                 Black-pudding
                 ,
                 while
                 the
                 wond'ring
                 Rout
              
               
                 Listen
                 to
                 hear
                 the
                 knotty
                 Truth
                 made
                 out
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 Virtuoso's
                 teach
                 deep
                 mysteries
              
               
                 Of
                 Arts
                 for
                 pumping
                 Air
                 ,
                 and
                 smothering
                 Flies
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 
                   But
                   not
                   to
                   urge
                   the
                   matter
                   farther
                   now
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   search
                   it
                   to
                   the
                   depth
                   ,
                   what
                   't
                   is
                   to
                   know
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   whether
                   we
                   know
                   any
                   thing
                   or
                   no.
                
              
               
                 
                   Answer
                   me
                   only
                   this
                   ,
                   What
                   man
                   is
                   there
                
              
               
                 
                   In
                   this
                   vile
                   thankless
                   Age
                   ,
                   wherein
                   we
                   are
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Who
                   does
                   by
                   Sense
                   and
                   Learning
                   value
                   bear
                   ?
                
              
               
                 Would'st
                 thou
                 get
                 Honour
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 fair
                 Estate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 have
                 the
                 looks
                 and
                 favours
                 of
                 the
                 Great
                 ?
              
               
                 
                   Cries
                   an
                   old
                   Father
                   to
                   his
                   blooming
                   Son
                   ,
                
              
               
                 Take
                 the
                 right
                 course
                 ,
                 be
                 rul'd
                 by
                 me
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 done
                 .
              
               
                 Leave
                 mouldy
                 Authors
                 to
                 the
                 reading
                 Fools
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 poring
                 crowds
                 in
                 Colleges
                 and
                 Schools
                 :
              
               
                 How
                 much
                 is
                 threescore
                 Nobles
                 ?
                 
                   Twenty
                   pound
                
                 .
              
               
                 Well
                 said
                 ;
                 my
                 Son
                 ,
                 the
                 Answer
                 's
                 most
                 profound
                 :
              
               
                 Go
                 ,
                 thou
                 know'st
                 all
                 that
                 's
                 requisite
                 to
                 know
                 ;
              
               
                 What
                 Wealth
                 on
                 thee
                 ,
                 what
                 Honours
                 haste
                 to
                 flow
                 !
              
               
                 In
                 these
                 high
                 Sciences
                 thy self
                 employ
                 ,
              
               
                 Instead
                 of
                 Plato
                 ,
                 take
                 thy
                 Hodder
                 ,
                 Boy
                 .
              
               
                 Learn
                 there
                 the
                 art
                 to
                 audit
                 an
                 Account
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 what
                 the
                 Kings
                 Revenue
                 does
                 amount
                 :
              
               
               
                 How
                 much
                 the
                 Customs
                 ,
                 and
                 Excise
                 bring
                 in
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 what
                 the
                 Managers
                 each
                 year
                 purloin
                 .
              
               
                 Get
                 a
                 case-harden'd
                 Conscience
                 ,
                 Irish
                 proof
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 nought
                 of
                 pity
                 ,
                 sense
                 ,
                 or
                 shame
                 can
                 move
                 :
              
               
                 Turn
                 
                   Algerine
                   ,
                   Barbarian
                   ,
                   Turk
                
                 ,
                 or
                 Jew
                 ,
              
               
                 Unjust
                 ,
                 inhumane
                 ,
                 treacherous
                 ,
                 base
                 ,
                 untrue
                 ;
              
               
                 Ne'r
                 stick
                 at
                 wrong
                 ;
                 hang
                 Widows
                 sighs
                 and
                 tears
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 cant
                 of
                 Priests
                 to
                 frighten
                 Usurers
                 :
              
               
                 Boggle
                 at
                 nothing
                 to
                 encrease
                 thy
                 Store
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 Orphans
                 Spoils
                 ,
                 nor
                 plunder
                 of
                 the
                 Poor
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 scorning
                 paltry
                 rules
                 of
                 Honesty
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 surer
                 methods
                 raise
                 thy
                 Fortune
                 high
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Then
                 shoals
                 of
                 Poets
                 ,
                 Pedants
                 ,
                 Orators
                 ,
              
               
                 Doctors
                 ,
                 Divines
                 ,
                 Astrologers
                 ,
                 and
                 Lawyers
                 ,
              
               
                 Authors
                 of
                 every
                 sort
                 ,
                 and
                 every
                 size
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 thee
                 their
                 Works
                 ,
                 and
                 Labours
                 shall
                 address
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 pompous
                 Lines
                 their
                 Dedications
                 fill
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 learnedly
                 in
                 Greek
                 and
                 Latine
                 tell
              
               
                 Lies
                 to
                 thy
                 face
                 ,
                 that
                 thou
                 hast
                 deep
                 insight
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 art
                 a
                 mighty
                 Judg
                 of
                 what
                 they
                 write
                 .
              
               
               
                 He
                 that
                 is
                 rich
                 ,
                 is
                 every
                 thing
                 ,
                 that
                 is
                 ,
              
               
                 Without
                 one
                 grain
                 of
                 Wisdom
                 he
                 is
                 wise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 knowing
                 nought
                 ,
                 knows
                 all
                 the
                 Sciences
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 's
                 witty
                 ,
                 gallant
                 ,
                 virtuous
                 ,
                 generous
                 ,
                 stout
                 ,
              
               
                 Well-born
                 ,
                 well-bred
                 ,
                 well-shap'd
                 ,
                 well-drest
                 ,
                 what
                 not
                 ?
              
               
                 Lov'd
                 by
                 the
                 Great
                 ,
                 and
                 courted
                 by
                 the
                 Fair
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 none
                 that
                 e're
                 had
                 Riches
                 ,
                 found
                 despair
                 :
              
               
                 Gold
                 to
                 the
                 loathsom'st
                 object
                 gives
                 a
                 grace
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sets
                 it
                 off
                 ,
                 and
                 makes
                 ev'n
                 Bovey
                 please
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 tatter'd
                 Poverty
                 they
                 all
                 despise
                 ,
              
               
                 Love
                 stands
                 aloof
                 ,
                 and
                 from
                 the
                 Scare-crow
                 flies
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thus
                 a
                 stanch
                 Miser
                 to
                 his
                 hopeful
                 Brat
              
               
                 Chalks
                 out
                 the
                 way
                 that
                 leads
                 to
                 an
                 Estate
                 ;
              
               
                 Whose
                 knowledg
                 oft
                 with
                 utmost
                 stretch
                 of
                 Brain
              
               
                 No
                 high'r
                 than
                 this
                 vast
                 secret
                 can
                 attain
                 ,
              
               
                 Five
                 and
                 four's
                 nine
                 ,
                 take
                 two
                 ,
                 and
                 seven
                 remain
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 Go
                 ,
                 Doctor
                 ,
                 after
                 this
                 ,
                 and
                 rack
                 your
                 Brains
                 ,
              
               
                 Unravel
                 Scripture
                 with
                 industrious
                 pains
                 :
              
               
                 On
                 musty
                 Fathers
                 waste
                 your
                 fruitless
                 hours
                 ,
              
               
                 Correct
                 the
                 Criticks
                 ,
                 and
                 Expositors
                 :
              
               
               
                 Out-vie
                 great
                 
                   Stilling
                   fleet
                
                 in
                 some
                 vast
                 Tome
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 there
                 confound
                 both
                 Bellarmine
                 and
                 Rome
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 glean
                 the
                 Rabbies
                 of
                 their
                 learned
                 store
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 find
                 what
                 Father
                 Simon
                 has
                 past
                 o're
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 at
                 the
                 last
                 some
                 bulky
                 piece
                 compile
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 lay
                 out
                 all
                 your
                 time
                 ,
                 and
                 pains
                 ,
                 and
                 skill
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 't
                 is
                 done
                 and
                 finish'd
                 for
                 the
                 Press
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 some
                 great
                 name
                 the
                 mighty
                 Work
                 address
                 :
              
               
                 Who
                 for
                 a
                 full
                 reward
                 of
                 all
                 your
                 toil
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 pay
                 you
                 with
                 a
                 gracious
                 nod
                 or
                 smile
                 :
              
               
                 Just
                 recompence
                 of
                 life
                 too
                 vainly
                 spent
                 !
              
               
                 An
                 empty
                 
                   Thank
                   you
                   Sir
                
                 ,
                 and
                 Complement
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 ,
                 if
                 to
                 higher
                 Honours
                 you
                 pretend
                 ,
              
               
                 Take
                 the
                 advice
                 and
                 counsel
                 of
                 a
                 Friend
                 ;
              
               
                 Here
                 quit
                 the
                 Desk
                 ,
                 and
                 throw
                 your
                 Scarlet
                 by
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 some
                 gainful
                 course
                 your self
                 apply
                 .
              
               
                 Go
                 ,
                 practise
                 with
                 some
                 Banker
                 how
                 to
                 cheat
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 's
                 choice
                 in
                 Town
                 ,
                 enquire
                 in
                 
                   Lombard
                   street
                
                 .
              
               
               
                 Let
                 Scot
                 and
                 Ockam
                 wrangle
                 as
                 they
                 please
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thus
                 in
                 short
                 with
                 me
                 conclude
                 the
                 case
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Doctor
                 is
                 no
                 better
                 than
                 an
                 Ass.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 Doctor
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ?
                 your self
                 :
                 Pray
                 have
                 a
                 care
                 ,
              
               
                 This
                 is
                 to
                 push
                 your
                 Raillery
                 too
                 far
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 not
                 to
                 lose
                 the
                 time
                 in
                 trifling
                 thus
                 ,
              
               
                 Beside
                 the
                 point
                 ,
                 come
                 now
                 more
                 home
                 and
                 close
                 :
              
               
                 That
                 Man
                 has
                 Reason
                 is
                 beyond
                 debate
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 will
                 your self
                 ,
                 I
                 think
                 ,
                 deny
                 me
                 that
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 was
                 not
                 this
                 fair
                 Pilot
                 giv'n
                 to
                 steer
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 tott'ring
                 Bark
                 through
                 Life's
                 rough
                 Ocean
                 here
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 All
                 this
                 I
                 grant
                 :
                 But
                 if
                 in
                 spite
                 of
                 it
              
               
                 The
                 Wretch
                 on
                 every
                 Rock
                 he
                 sees
                 will
                 split
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 what
                 great
                 purpose
                 does
                 his
                 Reason
                 serve
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 to
                 misguide
                 his
                 course
                 ,
                 and
                 make
                 him
                 swerve
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 boots
                 it
                 H.
                 when
                 it
                 says
                 ,
                 
                   Give
                   o're
                
              
               
                 
                   Thy
                   scribling
                   itch
                   ,
                   and
                   play
                   the
                   fool
                   no
                   more
                   .
                
              
               
                 If
                 her
                 vain
                 counsels
                 ,
                 purpos'd
                 to
                 reclaim
                 ,
              
               
                 Only
                 avail
                 to
                 harden
                 him
                 in
                 shame
                 ?
              
               
               
                 Lampoon'd
                 ,
                 and
                 hiss'd
                 ,
                 and
                 damn'd
                 the
                 thousandth
                 time
                 ,
              
               
                 Still
                 he
                 writes
                 on
                 ,
                 is
                 obstinate
                 in
                 Rhime
                 :
              
               
                 His
                 Verse
                 ,
                 which
                 he
                 does
                 every
                 where
                 recite
                 ,
              
               
                 Put
                 all
                 his
                 Neighbors
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 Friends
                 to
                 flight
                 :
              
               
                 Scar'd
                 by
                 the
                 rhiming
                 Fiend
                 ,
                 they
                 hast
                 away
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 will
                 his
                 very
                 Groom
                 be
                 hir'd
                 to
                 stay
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Ass
                 ,
                 whom
                 Nature
                 Reason
                 has
                 deni'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Content
                 with
                 Instinct
                 for
                 his
                 surer
                 guide
                 ,
              
               
                 Still
                 follows
                 that
                 ,
                 and
                 wiselier
                 does
                 proceed
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 ne'er
                 aspires
                 with
                 his
                 harsh
                 braying
                 Note
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Songsters
                 of
                 the
                 Wood
                 to
                 challenge
                 out
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 like
                 this
                 awkard
                 smatterer
                 in
                 Arts
                 ,
              
               
                 Sets
                 up
                 himself
                 for
                 a
                 vain
                 Ass
                 of
                 parts
                 ;
              
               
                 Of
                 reason
                 void
                 ,
                 he
                 sees
                 ,
                 and
                 gains
                 his
                 end
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 Man
                 ,
                 who
                 does
                 to
                 that
                 false
                 light
                 pretend
                 ,
              
               
                 Wildly
                 gropes
                 on
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 broad
                 day
                 is
                 blind
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 whimsie
                 led
                 he
                 does
                 all
                 things
                 by
                 chance
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 acts
                 in
                 each
                 against
                 all
                 common
                 sense
                 .
              
               
               
                 With
                 every
                 thing
                 pleas'd
                 ,
                 and
                 displeas'd
                 at
                 once
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 knows
                 not
                 what
                 he
                 seeks
                 ,
                 nor
                 what
                 he
                 shuns
                 :
              
               
                 Unable
                 to
                 distinguish
                 good
                 ,
                 or
                 bad
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 nothing
                 he
                 is
                 gay
                 ,
                 for
                 nothing
                 sad
                 :
              
               
                 At
                 random
                 loves
                 ,
                 and
                 loaths
                 ,
                 avoids
                 ,
                 pursues
                 ,
              
               
                 Enacts
                 ,
                 repeals
                 ,
                 makes
                 ,
                 alters
                 ,
                 does
                 ,
                 undoes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Did
                 we
                 ,
                 like
                 him
                 ,
                 e'er
                 see
                 the
                 Dog
                 ,
                 or
                 Bear
                 ,
              
               
                 Chimera's
                 of
                 their
                 own
                 devising
                 fear
                 ?
              
               
                 Frame
                 needless
                 doubts
                 ,
                 and
                 for
                 those
                 doubts
                 forego
              
               
                 The
                 Joys
                 which
                 prompting
                 Nature
                 calls
                 them
                 to
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 their
                 Pleasures
                 awkardly
                 at
                 strife
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 scaring
                 Fantoms
                 pall
                 the
                 sweets
                 of
                 Life
                 ?
              
               
                 Tell
                 me
                 ,
                 grave
                 Sir
                 ,
                 did
                 ever
                 Man
                 see
                 Beast
              
               
                 So
                 much
                 below
                 himself
                 ,
                 and
                 sense
                 debas'd
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 worship
                 Man
                 with
                 superstitious
                 Fear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fondly
                 to
                 his
                 Idol
                 Temples
                 rear
                 ?
              
               
                 Was
                 he
                 e'er
                 seen
                 with
                 Pray'rs
                 ,
                 and
                 Sacrifice
              
               
                 Approach
                 to
                 him
                 ,
                 as
                 Ruler
                 of
                 the
                 Skies
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 beg
                 for
                 Rain
                 ,
                 or
                 Sun-shine
                 on
                 his
                 knees
                 ?
              
               
               
                 No
                 never
                 :
                 but
                 a
                 thousand
                 times
                 has
                 Beast
              
               
                 Seen
                 Man
                 ,
                 beneath
                 the
                 meanest
                 Brute
                 debas'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Fall
                 low
                 to
                 Wood
                 ,
                 and
                 Metal
                 heretofore
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 madly
                 his
                 own
                 Workmanship
                 adore
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 Egypt
                 oft
                 has
                 seen
                 the
                 Sot
                 bow
                 down
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 reverence
                 some
                 deified
                 Baboon
                 :
              
               
                 Has
                 often
                 seen
                 him
                 on
                 the
                 Banks
                 of
                 Nile
              
               
                 Say
                 Pray'rs
                 to
                 the
                 Almighty
                 Crocodile
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 each
                 day
                 in
                 every
                 street
                 abroad
              
               
                 Sees
                 prostrate
                 Fools
                 adore
                 a
                 breaden
                 God.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 why
                 
                   (
                   say
                   you
                
                 )
                 these
                 spiteful
                 Instances
              
               
                 Of
                 Egypt
                 ,
                 and
                 its
                 gross
                 Idolatries
                 ?
              
               
                 Of
                 Rome
                 ,
                 and
                 hers
                 as
                 much
                 ridiculous
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 are
                 these
                 lewd
                 Buffooneries
                 to
                 us
                 ?
              
               
                 How
                 gather
                 you
                 from
                 such
                 wild
                 proofs
                 as
                 these
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Man
                 ,
                 a
                 Doctor
                 is
                 beneath
                 an
                 Ass
                 ?
              
               
                 An
                 Ass
                 !
                 that
                 heavy
                 ,
                 stupid
                 ,
                 lumpish
                 Beast
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Sport
                 ,
                 and
                 mocking-stock
                 of
                 all
                 the
                 rest
                 ?
              
               
                 Whom
                 they
                 all
                 spurn
                 ,
                 and
                 whom
                 they
                 all
                 despise
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 very
                 name
                 all
                 Satyr
                 does
                 comprize
                 ?
              
            
             
               
               
                 An
                 Ass
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ?
                 Yes
                 :
                 Pray
                 what
                 should
                 make
                 us
                 laugh
                 ?
              
               
                 Now
                 he
                 unjustly
                 is
                 our
                 jeer
                 ,
                 and
                 scoff
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 if
                 one
                 day
                 he
                 should
                 occasion
                 find
              
               
                 Upon
                 our
                 Follies
                 to
                 express
                 his
                 mind
                 ;
              
               
                 If
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 as
                 once
                 of
                 old
                 ,
                 to
                 check
                 proud
                 Man
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 miracle
                 should
                 give
                 him
                 Speech
                 again
                 ;
              
               
                 What
                 would
                 he
                 say
                 ,
                 d'
                 ye
                 think
                 ,
                 could
                 he
                 speak
                 out
                 ,
              
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 betwixt
                 us
                 two
                 ,
                 what
                 would
                 he
                 not
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 What
                 would
                 he
                 say
                 ,
                 were
                 he
                 condemn'd
                 to
                 stand
              
               
                 For
                 one
                 long
                 hourin
                 Fleetstreet
                 ,
                 or
                 the
                 Strand
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 cast
                 his
                 eyes
                 upon
                 the
                 motly
                 throng
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 two-leg'd
                 Herd
                 ,
                 that
                 daily
                 pass
                 along
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 see
                 their
                 odd
                 Disguises
                 ,
                 Furs
                 ,
                 and
                 Gowns
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 Cassocks
                 ,
                 Cloaks
                 ,
                 Lawn-sleeves
                 ,
                 and
                 Pantaloons
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 would
                 he
                 say
                 to
                 see
                 a
                 Velvet
                 Quack
              
               
                 Walk
                 with
                 the
                 price
                 of
                 forty
                 kill'd
                 on
                 's
                 Back
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Or
                 mounted
                 on
                 a
                 Stage
                 ,
                 and
                 gaping
                 loud
                 ,
              
               
                 Commend
                 his
                 Drugs
                 ,
                 and
                 Ratsbane
                 to
                 the
                 Crowd
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 would
                 he
                 think
                 ,
                 on
                 a
                 Lord
                 Mayor's
                 day
                 ,
              
               
                 Should
                 he
                 the
                 Pomp
                 and
                 Pageantry
                 survey
                 ?
              
               
                 Or
                 view
                 the
                 Judges
                 ,
                 and
                 their
                 solemn
                 Train
                 ,
              
               
                 March
                 with
                 grave
                 decency
                 to
                 kill
                 a
                 Man
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 would
                 he
                 think
                 of
                 us
                 ,
                 should
                 he
                 appear
              
               
                 In
                 Term
                 amongst
                 the
                 Crowds
                 at
                 Westminster
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 there
                 the
                 hellish
                 din
                 ,
                 and
                 Jargon
                 hear
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 S.
                 and
                 his
                 Pack
                 with
                 deep
                 mouth'd
                 Notes
              
               
                 Drown
                 Billingsgate
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 its
                 Oyster-Boats
                 ?
              
               
                 There
                 see
                 the
                 Judges
                 ,
                 Sergeants
                 ,
                 Barristers
                 ,
              
               
                 Attorneys
                 ,
                 Counsellors
                 ,
                 Solicitors
                 ,
              
               
                 Cricrs
                 ,
                 and
                 Clerks
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 the
                 Savage
                 Crew
              
               
                 Which
                 wretched
                 man
                 at
                 his
                 own
                 charge
                 undo
                 ?
              
               
                 If
                 after
                 prospect
                 of
                 all
                 this
                 ,
                 the
                 Ass
              
               
                 Should
                 find
                 the
                 voice
                 he
                 had
                 in
                 
                 Esop's
                 days
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Then
                 ,
                 Doctor
                 ,
                 then
                 ,
                 casting
                 his
                 eyes
                 around
              
               
                 On
                 human
                 Fools
                 ,
                 which
                 every
                 where
                 abound
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Content
                 with
                 Thistles
                 ,
                 from
                 all
                 envy
                 free
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 shaking
                 his
                 grave
                 head
                 ,
                 no
                 doubt
                 he
                 'd
                 cry
              
               
                 
                   Good
                   faith
                   ,
                   Man
                   is
                   a
                   Beast
                   as
                   much
                   as
                   we
                   .
                
              
            
          
           
             
             
               THE
               THIRTEENTH
               SATYR
               OF
               JUVENAL
               ,
               Imitated
               .
            
             
               Written
               in
               April
               ,
               1682.
               
            
             
               
                 ARGUMENT
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   POET
                   comforts
                   a
                   Friend
                   ,
                   that
                   is
                   overmuch
                   concerned
                   for
                   the
                   loss
                   of
                   a
                   considerable
                   Sum
                   of
                   Money
                   ,
                   of
                   which
                   he
                   has
                   lately
                   been
                   cheated
                   by
                   a
                   person
                   ,
                   to
                   whom
                   he
                   intrusted
                   the
                   same
                   .
                   This
                   he
                   does
                   by
                   shewing
                   ,
                   that
                   nothing
                   comes
                   to
                   pass
                   in
                   the
                   world
                   without
                   Divine
                   Providence
                   ,
                   and
                   that
                   wicked
                   Men
                   (
                   however
                   they
                   seem
                   to
                   escape
                   its
                   Punishment
                   here
                   )
                   
                   yet
                   suffer
                   abundantly
                   in
                   the
                   torments
                   of
                   an
                   evil
                   Conscience
                   .
                   And
                   by
                   the
                   way
                   takes
                   occasion
                   to
                   lash
                   the
                   Degeneracy
                   ,
                   and
                   Villany
                   of
                   the
                   present
                   Times
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 THere
                 is
                 not
                 one
                 base
                 Act
                 ,
                 which
                 men
                 commit
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 carries
                 this
                 ill
                 sting
                 along
                 with
                 it
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 to
                 the
                 Author
                 it
                 creates
                 regret
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 this
                 is
                 some
                 Revenge
                 at
                 least
                 ,
                 that
                 he
              
               
                 Can
                 ne'er
                 acquit
                 himself
                 of
                 Villany
                 .
              
               
                 Tho
                 a
                 Brib'd
                 Judg
                 and
                 Jury
                 set
                 him
                 free
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 All
                 people
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 abhor
                 (
                 as
                 't
                 is
                 but
                 just
                 )
              
               
                 Your
                 faithless
                 Friend
                 ,
                 wo
                 lately
                 broke
                 his
                 Trust
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 curse
                 the
                 treacherous
                 Deed
                 :
                 But
                 ,
                 thanks
                 to
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 has
                 not
                 bless'd
                 you
                 with
                 so
                 small
                 Estate
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 that
                 with
                 patience
                 you
                 may
                 bear
                 the
                 Cross
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 need
                 not
                 sink
                 under
                 so
                 mean
                 a
                 Loss
                 .
              
               
                 Besides
                 your
                 Case
                 for
                 less
                 concern
                 does
                 call
                 ,
              
               
                 Because
                 't
                 is
                 what
                 does
                 usually
                 befall
                 :
              
               
               
                 Ten
                 thousand
                 such
                 might
                 be
                 alledg'd
                 with
                 ease
                 ,
              
               
                 Out
                 of
                 the
                 common
                 crowd
                 of
                 Instances
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Then
                 cease
                 for
                 shame
                 ,
                 immoderate
                 regret
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 don't
                 your
                 Manhood
                 ,
                 and
                 your
                 sense
                 forget
                 :
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 womanish
                 ,
                 and
                 silly
                 to
                 lay
                 forth
              
               
                 More
                 cost
                 in
                 Grief
                 than
                 a
                 Misfortune's
                 worth
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 scarce
                 can
                 bear
                 a
                 puny
                 trifling
                 ill
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 goes
                 so
                 deep
                 ;
                 pray
                 Heav'n
                 !
                 it
                 does
                 not
                 kill
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 this
                 trouble
                 ,
                 and
                 this
                 vainado
                 ,
              
               
                 Because
                 a
                 Friend
                 (
                 forsooth
                 )
                 has
                 prov'd
                 untrue
                 .
              
               
                 Shame
                 o'
                 your
                 Beard
                 !
                 can
                 this
                 so
                 much
                 amaze
                 ?
              
               
                 Were
                 you
                 not
                 born
                 in
                 good
                 King
                 
                 Jemmy's
                 days
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 are
                 not
                 you
                 at
                 length
                 yet
                 wiser
                 grown
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 threescore
                 Winters
                 on
                 your
                 head
                 have
                 snown
                 ;
              
            
             
               
                 Almighty
                 Wisdom
                 gives
                 in
                 Holy
                 Writ
              
               
                 Wholsom
                 Advise
                 to
                 all
                 ,
                 that
                 follow
                 it
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 those
                 ,
                 that
                 will
                 not
                 its
                 great
                 Counsels
                 hear
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 learn
                 from
                 meer
                 experience
                 how
                 to
                 bear
              
               
                 (
                 Without
                 vain
                 strugling
                 )
                 Fortune's
                 yoke
                 ,
                 and
                 how
              
               
                 They
                 ought
                 her
                 rudest
                 shocks
                 to
                 undergo
                 ,
              
               
               
                 There
                 's
                 not
                 a
                 day
                 so
                 solemn
                 through
                 the
                 year
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 one
                 red
                 Letter
                 in
                 the
                 Calendar
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 we
                 of
                 some
                 new
                 Crime
                 discover'd
                 hear
                 .
              
               
                 Theft
                 ,
                 Murder
                 ,
                 Treason
                 ,
                 Perjury
                 ,
                 what
                 not
                 ?
              
               
                 Moneys
                 by
                 Cheating
                 ,
                 Padding
                 ,
                 Poisoning
                 got
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 is
                 it
                 strange
                 ;
                 so
                 few
                 are
                 now
                 the
                 Good
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 fewer
                 scarce
                 were
                 left
                 at
                 
                 Noah's
                 Flood
                 :
              
               
                 Should
                 
                 Sodom's
                 Angel
                 here
                 in
                 Fire
                 descend
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 Nation
                 wants
                 ten
                 Men
                 to
                 save
                 the
                 Land
                 ,
              
               
                 Fate
                 has
                 reserv'd
                 us
                 for
                 the
                 very
                 Lees
              
               
                 Of
                 Time
                 ,
                 where
                 Ill
                 admits
                 of
                 no
                 degrees
                 :
              
               
                 An
                 Age
                 so
                 bad
                 old
                 Poets
                 ne'r
                 could
                 frame
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 find
                 a
                 Metal
                 out
                 to
                 give
                 't
                 a
                 name
                 .
              
               
                 This
                 your
                 Experience
                 knows
                 ;
                 and
                 yet
                 for
                 all
              
               
                 On
                 faith
                 of
                 God
                 ,
                 and
                 Man
                 aloud
                 you
                 call
                 ,
              
               
                 Louder
                 than
                 on
                 Queen
                 
                 Bess's
                 day
                 the
                 Rout
              
               
                 For
                 Antichrist
                 burnt
                 in
                 Effigie
                 shout
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 tell
                 me
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 tell
                 me
                 ,
                 grey-headed
                 Boy
                 ,
              
               
                 Do
                 you
                 not
                 know
                 what
                 Lech'ry
                 men
                 enjoy
              
               
               
                 In
                 stollen
                 Goods
                 ?
                 For
                 Gods
                 sake
                 don't
                 you
                 see
              
               
                 How
                 they
                 all
                 laugh
                 at
                 your
                 simplicity
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 gravely
                 you
                 forewarn
                 of
                 Perjury
                 ?
              
               
                 Preach
                 up
                 a
                 God
                 ,
                 and
                 Hell
                 ,
                 vain
                 empty
                 names
                 ,
              
               
                 Exploded
                 now
                 for
                 idle
                 thredbare
                 shams
                 ,
              
               
                 Devis'd
                 by
                 Priests
                 ,
                 and
                 by
                 none
                 else
                 believ'd
                 ,
              
               
                 E'er
                 since
                 great
                 Hobbs
                 the
                 World
                 has
                 undeceiv'd
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 This
                 might
                 have
                 past
                 with
                 the
                 plain
                 simple
                 Race
              
               
                 Of
                 our
                 Forefathers
                 in
                 King
                 
                 Arthur's
                 days
                 :
              
               
                 E're
                 ,
                 mingling
                 with
                 corrupted
                 forein
                 Seed
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 learn'd
                 their
                 Vice
                 ,
                 and
                 spoil'd
                 our
                 native
                 Breed
                 .
              
               
                 E're
                 yet
                 bless'd
                 Albion
                 ,
                 high
                 in
                 ancient
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 her
                 first
                 Innocence
                 resign'd
                 her
                 Name
                 .
              
               
                 Fair
                 dealing
                 then
                 ,
                 and
                 downright
                 Honesty
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 plighted
                 Faith
                 were
                 good
                 Security
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 vast
                 Ingrossments
                 for
                 Estates
                 were
                 made
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 Deeds
                 ,
                 large
                 as
                 the
                 Lands
                 ,
                 which
                 they
                 convey'd
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 bind
                 a
                 Trust
                 there
                 lack'd
                 no
                 formal
                 ties
              
               
                 Of
                 Paper
                 ,
                 Wax
                 ,
                 and
                 Seals
                 ,
                 and
                 Witnesses
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 ready
                 Coin
                 ,
                 but
                 sterling
                 Promises
                 :
              
               
               
                 Each
                 took
                 the
                 other's
                 word
                 ,
                 and
                 that
                 would
                 go
              
               
                 For
                 currant
                 then
                 ,
                 and
                 more
                 than
                 Oaths
                 do
                 now
                 :
              
               
                 None
                 had
                 recourse
                 to
                 Chanc'ry
                 for
                 defence
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 you
                 forego
                 your
                 Right
                 with
                 less
                 Expence
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 traps
                 were
                 yet
                 set
                 up
                 for
                 Perjurers
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 catch
                 men
                 by
                 the
                 Heads
                 ,
                 and
                 whip
                 off
                 Ears
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 Knave
                 ,
                 and
                 Villain
                 ,
                 things
                 unheard
                 of
                 were
                 ,
              
               
                 Scarce
                 in
                 a
                 Century
                 did
                 one
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 he
                 more
                 gaz'd
                 at
                 than
                 a
                 Blazing-Star
                 :
              
               
                 If
                 a
                 young
                 Stripling
                 put
                 not
                 off
                 his
                 Hat
              
               
                 In
                 high
                 respect
                 to
                 every
                 Beard
                 he
                 met
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho
                 a
                 Lord's
                 Son
                 ,
                 and
                 Heir
                 ,
                 't
                 was
                 held
                 a
                 crime
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 scarce
                 deserv'd
                 its
                 Clergy
                 in
                 that
                 time
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 venerable
                 then
                 was
                 four
                 years
                 odds
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 grey
                 old
                 Heads
                 were
                 r●…verenc'd
                 as
                 Gods.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Now
                 if
                 a
                 Friend
                 once
                 in
                 an
                 Age
                 prove
                 just
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 he
                 miraculously
                 keep
                 his
                 Trust
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 without
                 force
                 of
                 Law
                 deliver
                 all
              
               
                 That
                 's
                 due
                 ,
                 both
                 Interest
                 ,
                 and
                 Principal
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Prodigious
                 wonder
                 !
                 fit
                 for
                 Stow
                 to
                 tell
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 stand
                 recorded
                 in
                 the
                 Chronicle
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 thing
                 less
                 memorable
                 would
                 require
              
               
                 As
                 great
                 a
                 Monument
                 as
                 London
                 Fire
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 man
                 of
                 Faith
                 and
                 Uprightness
                 is
                 grown
              
               
                 So
                 strange
                 a
                 Creature
                 both
                 in
                 Court
                 and
                 Town
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 he
                 with
                 Elephants
                 may
                 well
                 be
                 shewn
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Monster
                 ,
                 more
                 uncommon
                 than
                 a
                 Whale
              
               
                 At
                 Bridge
                 ,
                 the
                 last
                 great
                 Comet
                 ,
                 or
                 the
                 Hail
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 Thames
                 his
                 double
                 Tide
                 ,
                 or
                 should
                 he
                 run
              
               
                 With
                 Streams
                 of
                 Milk
                 ,
                 or
                 Bloud
                 to
                 Gravesend
                 down
                 .
              
               
                 You
                 're
                 troubled
                 that
                 you
                 've
                 lost
                 five
                 hundred
                 pound
              
               
                 By
                 treacherous
                 Fraud
                 :
                 another
                 may
                 be
                 found
                 ,
              
               
                 Has
                 lost
                 a
                 thousand
                 :
                 and
                 another
                 yet
                 ,
              
               
                 Double
                 to
                 that
                 ;
                 perhaps
                 his
                 whole
                 Estate
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Little
                 do
                 folks
                 the
                 heav'nly
                 Powers
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 they
                 but
                 scape
                 the
                 knowledge
                 of
                 Mankind
                 :
              
               
                 Observe
                 ,
                 with
                 how
                 demure
                 ,
                 and
                 grave
                 a
                 look
              
               
                 The
                 Rascal
                 lays
                 his
                 hand
                 upon
                 the
                 Book
                 :
              
               
               
                 Then
                 with
                 a
                 praying
                 Face
                 ,
                 and
                 lifted
                 Eye
              
               
                 Claps
                 on
                 his
                 Lips
                 ,
                 and
                 Seals
                 the
                 Perjury
                 :
              
               
                 If
                 you
                 persist
                 his
                 Innocence
                 to
                 doubt
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 boggle
                 in
                 Belief
                 ;
                 he
                 'l
                 strait
                 rapout
              
               
                 Oaths
                 by
                 the
                 volley
                 ,
                 each
                 of
                 which
                 would
                 make
              
               
                 Pale
                 Atheists
                 start
                 ,
                 and
                 trembling
                 Bullies
                 quake
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 more
                 than
                 would
                 a
                 whole
                 Ships
                 Crew
                 maintain
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 East-Indies
                 hence
                 ,
                 and
                 back
                 again
                 .
              
               
                 
                   As
                   God
                   shall
                   pardon
                   me
                   ,
                   Sir
                   ,
                   I
                   am
                   free
                
              
               
                 
                   Of
                   what
                   you
                   charge
                   me
                   with
                   :
                   let
                   me
                   ne'r
                   see
                
              
               
                 
                   His
                   Face
                   in
                   Heaven
                   else
                   :
                   may
                   these
                   hands
                   rot
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   These
                   eyes
                   drop
                   out
                   ;
                   if
                   Ie'er
                   had
                   a
                   Groat
                
              
               
                 
                   Of
                   yours
                   ,
                   or
                   if
                   they
                   ever
                   touch'd
                   ,
                   or
                   saw
                   't
                   .
                
              
               
                 Thus
                 he
                 'l
                 run
                 on
                 two
                 hours
                 in
                 length
                 ,
                 till
                 he
              
               
                 Spin
                 out
                 a
                 curse
                 long
                 as
                 the
                 Litany
                 :
              
               
                 Till
                 Heav'n
                 has
                 scarce
                 a
                 Judgment
                 left
                 in
                 store
              
               
                 For
                 him
                 to
                 wish
                 ,
                 deserve
                 ,
                 or
                 suffer
                 more
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 These
                 are
                 ,
                 who
                 disavow
                 all
                 Providence
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 think
                 the
                 world
                 is
                 only
                 steer'd
                 by
                 chance
                 :
              
               
               
                 Make
                 God
                 at
                 best
                 an
                 idle
                 looker
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 lazy
                 Monarch
                 lolling
                 in
                 his
                 Throne
                 :
              
               
                 Who
                 his
                 Affairs
                 does
                 neither
                 mind
                 ,
                 or
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 leaves
                 them
                 all
                 at
                 random
                 here
                 below
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 such
                 as
                 every
                 foot
                 themselves
                 will
                 damn
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Oaths
                 no
                 more
                 than
                 common
                 Breath
                 esteem
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 shame
                 ,
                 nor
                 loss
                 of
                 Ears
                 can
                 frighten
                 these
                 ,
              
               
                 Were
                 every
                 Street
                 a
                 Grove
                 of
                 Pillories
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 
                   Others
                   there
                   be
                   ,
                   that
                   own
                   a
                   God
                   ,
                   and
                   fear
                
              
               
                 
                   His
                   Vengeance
                   to
                   ensue
                   ,
                   and
                   yet
                   forswear
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   to
                   himself
                   ,
                   says
                   one
                   ,
                
                 Let
                 Heaven
                 decree
              
               
                 What
                 Doom
                 soe're
                 ,
                 its
                 pleasure
                 will
                 ,
                 of
                 me
                 :
              
               
                 Strike
                 me
                 with
                 Blindness
                 ,
                 Palsies
                 ,
                 Leprosies
                 ,
              
               
                 Plague
                 ,
                 Pox
                 ,
                 Consumption
                 ,
                 all
                 the
                 Maladies
              
               
                 Of
                 both
                 the
                 Spittles
                 ;
                 so
                 I
                 get
                 my
                 Prize
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 hold
                 it
                 sure
                 ;
                 I
                 'll
                 suffer
                 these
                 ,
                 and
                 more
                 ;
              
               
                 All
                 Plagues
                 are
                 light
                 to
                 that
                 of
                 being
                 poor
                 .
              
               
                 There
                 's
                 not
                 a
                 begging
                 Cripple
                 in
                 the
                 streets
              
               
                 (
                 Unless
                 he
                 with
                 his
                 Limbs
                 has
                 lost
                 his
                 Wits
                 ,
              
               
               
                 And
                 is
                 grown
                 fit
                 for
                 Bedlam
                 )
                 but
                 no
                 doubt
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 have
                 his
                 Wealth
                 would
                 have
                 the
                 Rich
                 man's
                 Gout
                 .
              
               
                 Grant
                 Heavens
                 Vengeance
                 heavy
                 be
                 ;
                 what
                 tho
                 ?
              
               
                 The
                 heaviest
                 things
                 move
                 slowliest
                 still
                 we
                 know
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 if
                 it
                 punish
                 all
                 ,
                 that
                 guilty
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 will
                 be
                 an
                 Age
                 before
                 it
                 come
                 to
                 me
                 :
              
               
                 God
                 too
                 is
                 merciful
                 ,
                 as
                 well
                 as
                 just
                 ;
              
               
                 Therefore
                 I
                 'll
                 rather
                 his
                 forgiveness
                 trust
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 live
                 despis'd
                 ,
                 and
                 poor
                 ,
                 as
                 thus
                 I
                 must
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 try
                 ,
                 and
                 hope
                 ,
                 he
                 's
                 more
                 a
                 Gentleman
              
               
                 Than
                 for
                 such
                 trivial
                 things
                 as
                 these
                 ,
                 to
                 damn
                 .
              
               
                 Besides
                 ,
                 for
                 the
                 same
                 Fact
                 we
                 've
                 often
                 known
              
               
                 One
                 mount
                 the
                 Cart
                 ,
                 another
                 mount
                 the
                 Throne
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 foulest
                 Deeds
                 ,
                 attended
                 with
                 success
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 longer
                 are
                 reputed
                 wickedness
                 ,
              
               
                 Disguis'd
                 with
                 Virtues
                 Livery
                 ,
                 and
                 Dress
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 With
                 these
                 weak
                 Arguments
                 they
                 fortifie
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 harden
                 up
                 themselves
                 in
                 Villany
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Rascal
                 now
                 dares
                 call
                 you
                 to
                 account
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 what
                 Court
                 you
                 please
                 ,
                 joyn
                 issue
                 on
                 't
                 :
              
               
               
                 Next
                 Term
                 he
                 'l
                 bring
                 the
                 Action
                 to
                 be
                 tri'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 twenty
                 Witnesses
                 to
                 swear
                 on
                 's
                 side
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 if
                 that
                 Justice
                 to
                 his
                 Cause
                 be
                 found
                 ,
              
               
                 Expects
                 a
                 Verdict
                 of
                 five
                 hundred
                 pound
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 he
                 ,
                 who
                 boldly
                 dares
                 the
                 Guilt
                 out-face
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 innocent
                 shall
                 with
                 the
                 Rabble
                 pass
                 :
              
               
                 While
                 you
                 ,
                 with
                 Impudence
                 ,
                 and
                 sham
                 run
                 down
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 only
                 thought
                 the
                 Knave
                 by
                 all
                 the
                 Town
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   ,
                   poor
                   you
                   at
                   Heav'n
                   exclaim
                   ,
                   and
                   rail
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Louder
                   than
                   I
                   —
                   at
                   the
                   Bar
                   does
                   Bawl
                   :
                
              
               
                 Is
                 there
                 a
                 Pow'r
                 above
                 ?
                 and
                 does
                 he
                 hear
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 can
                 he
                 tamely
                 Thunder
                 bolts
                 ferbear
                 ?
              
               
                 To
                 what
                 vain
                 end
                 do
                 we
                 with
                 Pray'rs
                 adore
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 on
                 our
                 bended
                 knees
                 his
                 aid
                 implore
                 ?
              
               
                 Where
                 is
                 his
                 Rule
                 ,
                 if
                 no
                 respect
                 be
                 had
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 Innocence
                 ,
                 or
                 Guilt
                 ,
                 of
                 Good
                 ,
                 or
                 Bad
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 who
                 henceforth
                 will
                 any
                 credit
                 show
              
               
                 To
                 what
                 his
                 lying
                 Priests
                 teach
                 here
                 below
                 ?
              
               
                 If
                 this
                 be
                 Providence
                 ;
                 for
                 ought
                 I
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 Bless'd
                 Saint
                 ,
                 Vaninus
                 !
                 I
                 shall
                 follow
                 thee
                 :
              
               
               
                 Little
                 's
                 the
                 odds
                 'twixt
                 such
                 a
                 God
                 ,
                 and
                 that
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 Atheist
                 Lewis
                 us'd
                 to
                 wear
                 in
                 's
                 Hat.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Thus
                 you
                 blaspheme
                 ,
                 and
                 rave
                 :
                 But
                 pray
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 try
              
               
                 What
                 Comforts
                 my
                 weak
                 Reason
                 can
                 apply
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 never
                 yet
                 read
                 Plutarch
                 ,
                 hardly
                 saw
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 am
                 but
                 meanly
                 vers'd
                 in
                 Seneca
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 cases
                 dangerous
                 and
                 hard
                 of
                 cure
              
               
                 We
                 have
                 recourse
                 to
                 Scarborough
                 ,
                 or
                 Lower
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 if
                 they
                 don't
                 so
                 desperate
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 trust
                 to
                 meaner
                 Doctors
                 skill
                 ,
                 and
                 care
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 If
                 there
                 were
                 never
                 in
                 the
                 world
                 before
              
               
                 So
                 foul
                 a
                 deed
                 ;
                 I
                 'm
                 dumb
                 ,
                 not
                 one
                 word
                 more
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 God's
                 name
                 then
                 let
                 both
                 your
                 sluces
                 flow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 th'
                 extravagance
                 of
                 sorrow
                 show
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 tear
                 your
                 Hair
                 ,
                 and
                 thump
                 your
                 mournful
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 your
                 dearest
                 First-born
                 were
                 deceas'd
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 granted
                 that
                 a
                 greater
                 Grief
                 attends
              
               
                 Departed
                 Moneys
                 than
                 departed
                 Friends
                 :
              
               
               
                 None
                 ever
                 counterfeits
                 upon
                 this
                 score
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 need
                 he
                 do
                 't
                 :
                 the
                 thought
                 of
                 being
                 poor
              
               
                 Will
                 serve
                 alone
                 to
                 make
                 the
                 eyes
                 run
                 o're
                 .
              
               
                 Lost
                 Money
                 's
                 griev'd
                 with
                 true
                 unfeigned
                 Tears
                 ,
              
               
                 More
                 true
                 ,
                 than
                 Sorrow
                 of
                 expecting
                 Heirs
              
               
                 At
                 their
                 dead
                 Father's
                 Funerals
                 ,
                 tho
                 here
              
               
                 The
                 Back
                 ,
                 and
                 Hands
                 no
                 pompous
                 Mourning
                 wear
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 if
                 the
                 like
                 Complaints
                 be
                 daily
                 found
              
               
                 At
                 Westminster
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 all
                 Courts
                 abound
                 ;
              
               
                 If
                 Bonds
                 ,
                 and
                 Obligations
                 can't
                 prevail
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 men
                 deny
                 their
                 very
                 Hand
                 and
                 Seal
                 ,
              
               
                 Sign'd
                 with
                 the
                 Arms
                 of
                 the
                 whole
                 Pedigree
              
               
                 Of
                 their
                 dead
                 Ancestors
                 to
                 vouch
                 the
                 Lye
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 Temple-Walks
                 ,
                 and
                 Smithfield
                 never
                 fail
              
               
                 Of
                 plying
                 Rogues
                 ,
                 that
                 set
                 their
                 Souls
                 to
                 sale
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 first
                 Passenger
                 ,
                 that
                 bids
                 a
                 price
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 make
                 their
                 livelihood
                 of
                 Perjuries
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 God's
                 sake
                 why
                 are
                 you
                 so
                 delicate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 think
                 it
                 hard
                 to
                 share
                 the
                 common
                 Fate
                 ?
              
               
               
                 And
                 why
                 must
                 you
                 alone
                 be
                 Fav'rite
                 thought
              
               
                 Of
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 and
                 we
                 sor
                 Reprobates
                 castout
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 wrong
                 you
                 bear
                 ,
                 is
                 hardly
                 worth
                 regard
                 ,
              
               
                 Much
                 less
                 your
                 just
                 resentment
                 ,
                 if
                 compar'd
              
               
                 With
                 greater
                 out-rages
                 to
                 others
                 done
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 daily
                 happen
                 ,
                 and
                 alarm
                 the
                 Town
                 :
              
               
                 Compare
                 the
                 Villains
                 who
                 cut
                 Throats
                 for
                 Bread
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 Houses
                 fire
                 ,
                 of
                 late
                 a
                 gainful
                 Trade
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 which
                 our
                 City
                 was
                 in
                 Ashes
                 laid
                 :
              
               
                 Compare
                 the
                 sacrilegious
                 Burglary
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 which
                 no
                 place
                 can
                 Sanctuary
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 rifles
                 Churches
                 of
                 Communion-Plate
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 good
                 King
                 
                 Edward's
                 days
                 did
                 dedicate
                 :
              
               
                 Think
                 ,
                 who
                 durst
                 fteal
                 S.
                 
                 Alban's
                 Font
                 of
                 Brass
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Christen'd
                 half
                 the
                 Royal
                 Scotish
                 Race
                 :
              
               
                 Who
                 stole
                 the
                 Chalices
                 at
                 Chichester
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 which
                 themselves
                 receiv'd
                 the
                 day
                 before
                 :
              
               
                 Or
                 that
                 bold
                 daring
                 hand
                 ,
                 of
                 fresh
                 Renown
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 ,
                 scorning
                 common
                 Booty
                 ,
                 stole
                 a
                 Crown
                 :
              
               
               
                 Compare
                 too
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 please
                 ,
                 the
                 horrid
                 Plot
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 all
                 the
                 Perjuries
                 to
                 make
                 it
                 out
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 make
                 it
                 nothing
                 ,
                 for
                 these
                 last
                 three
                 years
                 ;
              
               
                 Add
                 to
                 it
                 Thinne's
                 and
                 Godfrey's
                 Murderers
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 if
                 these
                 seem
                 but
                 slight
                 ,
                 and
                 trivial
                 things
                 ,
              
               
                 Add
                 those
                 ,
                 that
                 have
                 ,
                 and
                 would
                 have
                 murder'd
                 Kings
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 And
                 yet
                 how
                 little
                 's
                 this
                 of
                 Villany
              
               
                 To
                 what
                 our
                 Judges
                 oft
                 in
                 one
                 day
                 try
                 ?
              
               
                 This
                 to
                 convince
                 you
                 ,
                 do
                 but
                 travel
                 down
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 the
                 next
                 Circuit
                 comes
                 ,
                 with
                 Pemberton
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 any
                 of
                 the
                 Twelve
                 ,
                 and
                 there
                 but
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 many
                 Rogues
                 there
                 are
                 of
                 Humane
                 kind
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 let
                 me
                 hear
                 you
                 ,
                 when
                 you
                 're
                 back
                 again
                 ,
              
               
                 Say
                 ,
                 you
                 are
                 wrong'd
                 ,
                 and
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 dare
                 ,
                 complain
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 None
                 wonder
                 ,
                 who
                 in
                 Essex
                 Hundreds
                 live
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 Sheppy
                 Island
                 ,
                 to
                 have
                 Agues
                 rife
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 would
                 you
                 think
                 it
                 much
                 in
                 Africa
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 you
                 great
                 Lips
                 ,
                 and
                 short
                 flat
                 Noses
                 saw
                 :
              
               
               
                 Because
                 't
                 is
                 so
                 by
                 Nature
                 of
                 each
                 place
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 therefore
                 there
                 for
                 no
                 strange
                 things
                 they
                 pass
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 Lands
                 ,
                 where
                 Pigmies
                 are
                 ,
                 to
                 see
                 a
                 Crane
              
               
                 (
                 As
                 Kites
                 do
                 Chickens
                 here
                 )
                 sweep
                 up
                 a
                 Man
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Armour
                 clad
                 ,
                 with
                 us
                 would
                 make
                 a
                 show
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 serve
                 for
                 entertain
                 at
                 Bartholmew
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 there
                 it
                 goes
                 for
                 no
                 great
                 Prodigy
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 the
                 whole
                 Nation
                 is
                 but
                 one
                 foot
                 high
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 why
                 ,
                 fond
                 Man
                 ,
                 should
                 you
                 so
                 much
                 admire
                 ,
              
               
                 Since
                 Knave
                 is
                 of
                 our
                 Growth
                 ,
                 and
                 common
                 here
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 
                   But
                   must
                   such
                   Perjury
                   escape
                
                 (
                 say
                 you
                 )
              
               
                 
                   And
                   shall
                   it
                   ever
                   thus
                   unpunish'd
                   go
                   ?
                
              
               
                 Grant
                 ,
                 he
                 weredragg'd
                 to
                 Jail
                 this
                 very
                 hour
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 starve
                 ,
                 and
                 rot
                 ;
                 suppose
                 it
                 in
                 your
                 Pow'r
              
               
                 To
                 rack
                 ,
                 and
                 torture
                 him
                 all
                 kind
                 of
                 ways
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 hang
                 ,
                 or
                 burn
                 ,
                 or
                 kill
                 him
                 ,
                 as
                 you
                 please
                 ;
              
               
                 ▪
                 And
                 what
                 would
                 your
                 Revenge
                 it self
                 have
                 more
                 ?
                 )
              
               
                 Yet
                 this
                 ,
                 all
                 this
                 would
                 not
                 your
                 Cash
                 restore
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 where
                 would
                 be
                 the
                 Comfort
                 ,
                 where
                 the
                 Good.
              
               
                 〈◊〉
                 you
                 could
                 wash
                 your
                 Hands
                 in
                 's
                 reaking
                 Bloud
                 ?
              
            
             
               
               
                 
                   But
                   ,
                   Oh
                   ,
                   Revenge
                   more
                   sweet
                   than
                   Life
                   !
                
                 'T
                 is
                 true
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 the
                 unthinking
                 say
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 mad
                 Crew
              
               
                 Of
                 hect'ring
                 Blades
                 ,
                 who
                 for
                 slight
                 cause
                 ,
                 or
                 none
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 every
                 turn
                 are
                 into
                 Passion
                 blown
                 :
              
               
                 Whom
                 the
                 least
                 Trifles
                 with
                 Revenge
                 inspire
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 at
                 each
                 spark
                 ,
                 like
                 Gun-powder
                 ,
                 take
                 fire
                 :
              
               
                 These
                 unprovok'd
                 kill
                 the
                 next
                 Man
                 they
                 meet
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 being
                 so
                 sawcy
                 ,
                 as
                 to
                 walk
                 the
                 Street
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 at
                 the
                 summons
                 of
                 each
                 tiny
                 Drab
                 ,
              
               
                 Cry
                 ,
                 
                   Damme
                   !
                   Satisfaction
                
                 !
                 draw
                 ,
                 and
                 Stab
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Not
                 so
                 of
                 old
                 ,
                 the
                 mild
                 good
                 Socrates
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 Who
                 shew'd
                 how
                 high
                 without
                 the
                 help
                 of
                 Grace
                 ,
              
               
                 Well-cultivated
                 Nature
                 might
                 be
                 wrought
                 )
              
               
                 He
                 a
                 more
                 noble
                 way
                 of
                 suff'ring
                 taught
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 tho
                 he
                 Guiltless
                 drank
                 the
                 poisonous
                 Dose
                 ,
              
               
                 Ne'er
                 wish'd
                 a
                 drop
                 to
                 his
                 accufing
                 Foes
                 .
              
               
                 Not
                 so
                 our
                 great
                 good
                 
                   Martyr'd
                   King
                
                 of
                 late
              
               
                 (
                 Could
                 we
                 his
                 bless'd
                 Example
                 imitate
                 )
              
               
               
                 Who
                 ,
                 tho
                 the
                 great'st
                 of
                 mortal
                 sufferers
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 kind
                 to
                 his
                 rebellious
                 Murderers
                 ,
              
               
                 Forgave
                 ,
                 and
                 bless'd
                 them
                 with
                 his
                 dying
                 Pray'rs
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thus
                 ,
                 we
                 by
                 sound
                 Divinity
                 ,
                 and
                 Sense
              
               
                 May
                 purge
                 our
                 minds
                 ,
                 and
                 weed
                 all
                 Errors
                 thence
                 :
              
               
                 These
                 lead
                 us
                 into
                 right
                 ,
                 nor
                 shall
                 we
                 need
              
               
                 Other
                 than
                 them
                 through
                 Life
                 to
                 be
                 our
                 Guide
                 .
              
               
                 Revenge
                 is
                 but
                 a
                 Frailty
                 ,
                 incident
              
               
                 To
                 craz'd
                 ,
                 and
                 sickly
                 minds
                 ,
                 the
                 poor
                 Content
              
               
                 Of
                 little
                 Souls
                 ,
                 unable
                 to
                 surmount
              
               
                 An
                 Injury
                 ,
                 too
                 weak
                 to
                 bear
                 Affront
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 this
                 you
                 may
                 infer
                 ,
                 because
                 we
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 most
                 in
                 poor
                 unthinking
                 Woman-kind
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 wreak
                 their
                 feeble
                 spite
                 on
                 all
                 they
                 can
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 are
                 more
                 kin
                 to
                 Brute
                 than
                 brayer
                 Man.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 why
                 should
                 you
                 imagine
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 that
                 those
              
               
                 Escape
                 unpunish'd
                 ,
                 who
                 still
                 feel
                 the
                 Throes
              
               
                 And
                 Pangs
                 of
                 a
                 rack'd
                 Soul
                 ,
                 and
                 (
                 which
                 is
                 worse
              
               
                 Than
                 all
                 the
                 Pains
                 ,
                 which
                 can
                 the
                 Body
                 curse
                 )
              
               
                 The
                 secret
                 gnawings
                 of
                 unseen
                 Remorse
                 ?
              
               
               
                 Believe
                 't
                 ,
                 they
                 suffer
                 greater
                 Punishment
              
               
                 Than
                 
                 Rome's
                 Inquisitor's
                 could
                 e're
                 invent
                 :
              
               
                 Not
                 all
                 the
                 Tortures
                 ,
                 Racks
                 ,
                 and
                 Cruelties
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 ancient
                 Persecutors
                 could
                 devise
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 all
                 ,
                 that
                 Fox
                 his
                 Bloudy
                 Records
                 tell
                 ,
              
               
                 Can
                 match
                 what
                 Bradshaws
                 ,
                 and
                 Ravilliacs
                 feel
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 in
                 their
                 Breasts
                 carry
                 about
                 their
                 Hell.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 I
                 've
                 read
                 this
                 story
                 ,
                 but
                 I
                 know
                 nor
                 where
                 ,
              
               
                 Whether
                 in
                 Hackwel
                 ,
                 or
                 
                 Beard
                 's
                 Theatre
                 :
              
               
                 
                   A
                   certain
                
                 Spartan
                 ,
                 
                   whom
                   a
                   Friend
                   ,
                   like
                   you
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Had
                   trusted
                   with
                   a
                   Hundred
                   pound
                   or
                   two
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Went
                   to
                   the
                   Oracle
                   to
                   know
                   if
                   he
                
              
               
                 
                   With
                   safety
                   might
                   the
                   Sum
                   in
                   trust
                   deny
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   answer'd
                
                 ,
                 No
                 ,
                 that
                 if
                 he
                 durst
                 forswear
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 should
                 e're
                 long
                 for
                 's
                 knavery
                 pay
                 dear
                 :
              
               
                 
                   Hence
                   Fear
                   ,
                   not
                   Honesty
                   ,
                   made
                   him
                   refund
                
                 ;
              
               
                 
                   Yet
                   to
                   his
                   cost
                   the
                   Sentence
                   true
                   he
                   found
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   Himself
                   ,
                   his
                   Children
                   ,
                   all
                   his
                   Family
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Ev'n
                   the
                   remotest
                   of
                   his
                   whole
                   Pedigree
                   ,
                
              
               
                 Perish'd
                 (
                 as
                 there
                 't
                 is
                 told
                 )
                 
                   in
                   misery
                
                 .
              
               
               
                 Now
                 to
                 apply
                 :
                 if
                 such
                 be
                 the
                 sad
                 end
              
               
                 Of
                 Perjury
                 ,
                 tho
                 but
                 in
                 Thought
                 design'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Think
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 what
                 Fate
                 awaits
                 your
                 treach'rous
                 Friend
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 has
                 not
                 only
                 thought
                 ,
                 but
                 done
                 to
                 you
              
               
                 All
                 this
                 ,
                 and
                 more
                 ;
                 think
                 ,
                 what
                 he
                 suffers
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 think
                 ,
                 what
                 every
                 Villain
                 suffers
                 else
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 dares
                 ,
                 like
                 him
                 ,
                 be
                 faithless
                 ,
                 base
                 ,
                 and
                 false
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Pale
                 Horror
                 ,
                 ghastly
                 Fear
                 ,
                 and
                 black
                 Despair
              
               
                 Pursue
                 his
                 steps
                 ,
                 and
                 dog
                 him
                 wheresoe're
              
               
                 He
                 goes
                 ,
                 and
                 if
                 from
                 his
                 loath'd
                 self
                 he
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 Herd
                 ,
                 like
                 wounded
                 Deer
                 ,
                 in
                 company
                 ,
              
               
                 These
                 strait
                 creepin
                 and
                 pale
                 his
                 mirth
                 ,
                 and
                 joy
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 choicest
                 Dainties
                 ,
                 ev'n
                 by
                 Lumly
                 drest
                 ,
              
               
                 Afford
                 no
                 Relish
                 to
                 his
                 sickly
                 Taste
                 ,
              
               
                 Insipid
                 all
                 ,
                 as
                 Damocles
                 his
                 Feast
                 .
              
               
                 Ev'n
                 Wine
                 ,
                 the
                 greatest
                 Blessing
                 of
                 Mankind
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 best
                 support
                 of
                 the
                 dejected
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 Applied
                 to
                 his
                 dull
                 spirits
                 ,
                 warms
                 no
                 more
              
               
                 Than
                 to
                 his
                 Corps
                 it
                 could
                 past
                 Life
                 restore
                 .
              
               
               
                 Darkness
                 he
                 fears
                 ,
                 nor
                 dares
                 he
                 trust
                 his
                 Bed
              
               
                 Without
                 a
                 Candle
                 watching
                 by
                 his
                 side
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 if
                 the
                 wakeful
                 Troubles
                 of
                 his
                 Breast
              
               
                 To
                 his
                 toss'd
                 Limbs
                 allow
                 one
                 moments
                 Rest
                 ,
              
               
                 Straitways
                 the
                 groans
                 of
                 Ghosts
                 ,
                 and
                 hideous
                 Screams
              
               
                 Of
                 tortur'd
                 Spirits
                 haunt
                 his
                 frightful
                 Dreams
                 :
              
               
                 Strait
                 there
                 return
                 to
                 his
                 tormented
                 mind
              
               
                 His
                 perjur'd
                 Act
                 ,
                 his
                 injur'd
                 God
                 ,
                 and
                 Friend
                 :
              
               
                 Strait
                 he
                 imagines
                 you
                 before
                 his
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Ghastly
                 of
                 shape
                 ,
                 prodigious
                 of
                 size
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 glaring
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 cleft
                 Foot
                 ,
                 and
                 monstrous
                 Tail
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 bigger
                 than
                 the
                 Giants
                 at
                 
                   Guild
                   hall
                
                 ,
              
               
                 Stalking
                 with
                 horrid
                 strides
                 across
                 the
                 Room
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 guards
                 of
                 Fiends
                 to
                 drag
                 him
                 to
                 his
                 Doom
                 :
              
               
                 Hereat
                 he
                 falls
                 in
                 dreadful
                 Agonies
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 dead
                 cold
                 Sweats
                 his
                 trembling
                 Members
                 seize
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 starting
                 wakes
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 a
                 dismal
                 cry
                 ,
              
               
                 Calls
                 to
                 his
                 aid
                 his
                 frighted
                 Family
                 ;
              
               
               
                 There
                 owns
                 the
                 Crime
                 ,
                 and
                 vows
                 upon
                 his
                 knees
              
               
                 The
                 sacred
                 Pledge
                 next
                 morning
                 to
                 release
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 These
                 are
                 the
                 men
                 ,
                 whom
                 the
                 least
                 Terrors
                 daunt
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 at
                 the
                 sight
                 of
                 their
                 own
                 shadows
                 faint
                 ;
              
               
                 These
                 ,
                 if
                 it
                 chance
                 to
                 Lighten
                 ,
                 are
                 agast
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 quake
                 for
                 fear
                 ,
                 lest
                 every
                 Flash
                 should
                 blast
                 :
              
               
                 These
                 swoon
                 away
                 at
                 the
                 first
                 Thunder-clap
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 't
                 were
                 not
                 ,
                 what
                 usually
                 does
                 hap
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 casual
                 cracking
                 of
                 a
                 Cloud
                 ,
                 but
                 sent
              
               
                 By
                 Angry
                 Heaven
                 for
                 their
                 Punishment
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 if
                 unhurt
                 they
                 'scape
                 the
                 Tempest
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 Still
                 dread
                 the
                 greater
                 Vengeance
                 to
                 ensue
                 :
              
               
                 These
                 the
                 least
                 Symptoms
                 of
                 a
                 Fever
                 fright
                 ,
              
               
                 Water
                 high
                 colour'd
                 ,
                 want
                 of
                 rest
                 at
                 night
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 a
                 disorder'd
                 Pulse
                 strait
                 makes
                 them
                 shrink
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 presently
                 for
                 fear
                 they
                 're
                 ready
                 sink
              
               
                 Into
                 their
                 Graves
                 :
                 their
                 time
                 (
                 think
                 they
                 )
                 is
                 come
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Heav'n
                 in
                 judgment
                 now
                 has
                 sent
                 their
                 Doom
                 .
              
               
               
                 Nor
                 dare
                 they
                 ,
                 though
                 in
                 whisper
                 ,
                 waft
                 a
                 Prayer
                 ,
              
               
                 Left
                 it
                 by
                 chance
                 should
                 reach
                 th'
                 Almighty's
                 ear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 wake
                 his
                 sleeping
                 Vengeance
                 ,
                 which
                 before
              
               
                 So
                 long
                 has
                 their
                 impieties
                 forbore
                 .
              
               
                 These
                 are
                 the
                 thoughts
                 which
                 guilty
                 Wretches
                 haunt
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 enter'd
                 ,
                 they
                 still
                 grow
                 more
                 impudent
                 :
              
               
                 After
                 a
                 Crime
                 perhaps
                 they
                 now
                 and
                 then
              
               
                 Feel
                 pangs
                 and
                 strugglings
                 of
                 Remorse
                 within
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 straitreturn
                 to
                 their
                 old
                 course
                 agen
                 :
              
               
                 They
                 ,
                 who
                 have
                 once
                 thrown
                 Shame
                 ,
                 and
                 Conscience
                 by
                 ,
              
               
                 Ne'er
                 after
                 make
                 a
                 stop
                 in
                 Villany
                 :
              
               
                 Hurried
                 along
                 ,
                 down
                 the
                 vast
                 steep
                 they
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 find
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 all
                 a
                 Precipice
                 below
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Ev'n
                 this
                 perfidious
                 Friend
                 of
                 yours
                 ,
                 no
                 doubt
              
               
                 Will
                 not
                 with
                 single
                 wickedness
                 give
                 out
                 ;
              
               
                 Have
                 patience
                 but
                 a
                 while
                 ,
                 you
                 'l
                 shortly
                 see
              
               
                 His
                 hand
                 held
                 up
                 at
                 Bar
                 for
                 Felony
                 :
              
               
               
                 You
                 'l
                 see
                 the
                 sentenc'd
                 wretch
                 for
                 Punishment
              
               
                 To
                 Scilly
                 Isles
                 ,
                 or
                 the
                 Caribbes
                 sent
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 (
                 if
                 I
                 may
                 his
                 surer
                 Fate
                 divine
                 )
              
               
                 Hung
                 like
                 Boroski
                 ,
                 for
                 a
                 Gibbet-Sign
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 may
                 you
                 glut
                 Revenge
                 ,
                 and
                 feast
                 your
                 Eyes
              
               
                 With
                 the
                 dear
                 object
                 of
                 his
                 Miseries
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 then
                 at
                 length
                 convinc'd
                 ,
                 with
                 joy
                 you
                 'l
                 find
              
               
                 That
                 the
                 just
                 God
                 is
                 neither
                 deaf
                 ,
                 nor
                 blind
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               DAVID'S
               LAMENTATION
               For
               the
               DEATH
               of
               SAUL
               and
               JONATHAN
               ,
               PARAPHRAS'D
               .
            
             
               Written
               in
               September
               ,
               1677.
               
            
             
               ODE
               .
            
             
               
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 AH
                 wretched
                 Israel
                 !
                 once
                 a
                 bless'd
                 ,
                 and
                 happy
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Darling
                 of
                 the
                 Stars
                 ,
                 and
                 Heavens
                 Care
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 all
                 the
                 bord'ring
                 world
                 thy
                 Vassals
                 were
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thou
                 at
                 once
                 their
                 Envy
                 and
                 their
                 Fear
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 soon
                 art
                 thou
                 (
                 alas
                 !
                 )
                 by
                 the
                 sad
                 turn
                 of
                 Fate
              
               
               
                 Become
                 abandon'd
                 and
                 forlorn
                 ?
              
               
                 How
                 art
                 thou
                 now
                 become
                 their
                 Pity
                 ,
                 and
                 their
                 scorn
                 ?
              
               
                 Thy
                 Lustre
                 all
                 is
                 vanish'd
                 ,
                 all
                 thy
                 Glory
                 fled
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Sun
                 himself
                 set
                 in
                 a
                 bloud
                 red
                 ,
              
               
                 Too
                 sure
                 Prognostick
                 !
                 which
                 does
                 ill
                 portend
              
               
                 Approaching
                 Storms
                 on
                 thy
                 unhappy
                 Land
                 ,
              
               
                 Left
                 naked
                 ,
                 and
                 defenceless
                 now
                 to
                 each
                 invading
                 Hand
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 fatal
                 Battel
                 ,
                 lately
                 fought
                 ,
              
               
                 Has
                 all
                 these
                 Mis'ries
                 ,
                 and
                 Misfortunes
                 brought
                 ,
              
               
                 Has
                 thy
                 quick
                 Ruine
                 ,
                 and
                 Destruction
                 wrought
                 :
              
               
                 There
                 fell
                 we
                 by
                 a
                 mighty
                 Overthrow
              
               
                 A
                 Prey
                 to
                 an
                 enrag'd
                 ,
                 relentless
                 Foe
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 toil
                 and
                 labour
                 of
                 their
                 wearied
                 Cruelty
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 they
                 no
                 more
                 could
                 kill
                 ,
                 and
                 we
                 no
                 longer
                 die
                 :
              
               
                 Vast
                 slaughter
                 all
                 around
                 th'
                 enlarged
                 Mountain
                 swells
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 numerous
                 Deaths
                 increase
                 its
                 former
                 Hills
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 In
                 Gath
                 let
                 not
                 the
                 mournful
                 News
                 be
                 known
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 publish'd
                 in
                 the
                 streets
                 of
                 Askalon
                 ;
              
               
                 May
                 Fame
                 it self
                 be
                 quite
                 struck
                 dumb
                 !
              
               
                 Oh
                 may
                 it
                 never
                 to
                 Philistia
                 come
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 any
                 live
                 to
                 bear
                 the
                 cursed
                 Tidings
                 home
                 !
              
               
                 Lest
                 the
                 proud
                 Enemies
                 new
                 Trophies
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 loudly
                 triumph
                 in
                 our
                 fresh
                 Disgrace
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 captive
                 Israelite
                 their
                 pompous
                 Joy
                 adorn
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 in
                 sad
                 Bondage
                 his
                 lost
                 Country
                 mourn
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 Spoils
                 of
                 ours
                 be
                 in
                 their
                 Temples
                 hung
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 Hymns
                 to
                 
                 Ashdod's
                 Idol
                 sung
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 thankful
                 Sacrifice
                 on
                 his
                 glad
                 Altars
                 burn
                 ,
              
               
                 Kind
                 Heav'n
                 forbid
                 !
                 lest
                 the
                 base
                 Heathen
                 Slaves
                 blaspheme
              
               
                 Thy
                 sacred
                 and
                 unutterable
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 above
                 thine
                 extol
                 their
                 
                 Dagon's
                 Fame
                 .
              
               
                 Lest
                 the
                 vile
                 Fish's
                 Worship
                 spread
                 abroad
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 fell
                 a
                 prostrate
                 Victim
                 once
                 before
                 our
                 conqu'ring
                 God
                 :
              
               
               
                 And
                 you
                 ,
                 who
                 the
                 great
                 Deeds
                 of
                 Kings
                 and
                 Kingdoms
                 write
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 all
                 their
                 Actions
                 to
                 succeeding
                 Age
                 transmit
                 ,
              
               
                 Conceal
                 the
                 blushing
                 Story
                 ,
                 ah
                 !
                 conceal
              
               
                 Our
                 Nations
                 loss
                 ,
                 and
                 our
                 dread
                 Monarch's
                 fall
                 :
              
               
                 Conceal
                 the
                 Journal
                 of
                 this
                 bloudy
                 Day
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 both
                 by
                 the
                 ill
                 Play
                 of
                 Fate
                 were
                 thrown
                 away
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 let
                 our
                 wretched
                 Infamy
                 ,
                 and
                 Fortune's
                 Crime
              
               
                 Be
                 ever
                 mention'd
                 in
                 the
                 Registers
                 of
                 future
                 Time.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 III.
                 
              
               
                 For
                 ever
                 ,
                 Gilboa
                 ,
                 be
                 curs'd
                 thy
                 hated
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 Th'
                 eternal
                 Monument
                 of
                 our
                 Disgrace
                 ,
                 and
                 shame
                 !
              
               
                 For
                 ever
                 curss'd
                 be
                 that
                 unhappy
                 Scene
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Slaughter
                 ,
                 Bloud
                 ,
                 and
                 Death
                 did
                 lately
                 reign
                 !
              
               
                 No
                 Clouds
                 henceforth
                 above
                 thy
                 barren
                 top
                 appear
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 may
                 make
                 thee
                 mourning
                 wear
                 :
              
               
               
                 Let
                 them
                 ne're
                 shake
                 their
                 dewy
                 Fleeces
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 only
                 once
                 a
                 year
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 sad
                 Anniverse
                 drop
                 a
                 remembring
                 Tear
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 Flocks
                 of
                 Off'rings
                 on
                 thy
                 Hills
                 be
                 known
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 may
                 by
                 Sacrifice
                 our
                 Guilt
                 and
                 thine
                 attone
              
               
                 No
                 Sheep
                 ,
                 nor
                 any
                 of
                 the
                 gentler
                 kind
                 hereafter
                 stay
              
               
                 On
                 thee
                 ,
                 but
                 Bears
                 ,
                 and
                 Wolves
                 ,
                 and
                 Beasts
                 of
                 prey
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 men
                 more
                 savage
                 ,
                 wild
                 ,
                 and
                 fierce
                 than
                 they
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 Desart
                 may'st
                 thou
                 prove
                 ,
                 and
                 lonely
                 wast
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 that
                 ,
                 our
                 sinful
                 ,
                 stubborn
                 Fathers
                 past
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 they
                 the
                 Penance
                 trod
                 for
                 all
                 ,
                 they
                 there
                 transgress'd
                 :
              
               
                 Too
                 dearly
                 wast
                 thou
                 drench'd
                 with
                 precious
                 Bloud
              
               
                 Of
                 many
                 a
                 Jewish
                 Worthy
                 ,
                 spilt
                 of
                 late
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 suffer'd
                 there
                 by
                 an
                 ignoble
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 purchas'd
                 foul
                 Dishonour
                 at
                 too
                 high
                 a
                 rate
                 :
              
               
                 Great
                 
                 Saul's
                 ran
                 there
                 amongst
                 the
                 common
                 Flood
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Royal
                 self
                 mixt
                 with
                 the
                 baser
                 Crowd
                 :
              
               
               
                 He
                 ,
                 whom
                 Heav'ns
                 high
                 and
                 open
                 suffrage
                 chose
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Bulwark
                 of
                 our
                 Nation
                 to
                 oppose
              
               
                 The
                 Pow'r
                 and
                 Malice
                 of
                 our
                 Foes
                 ;
              
               
                 Ev'n
                 He
                 ,
                 on
                 whom
                 the
                 Sacred
                 Oyl
                 was
                 shed
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 mystick
                 drops
                 enlarg'd
                 his
                 hallow'd
                 Head
                 ,
              
               
                 Lies
                 now
                 (
                 oh
                 Fa●…e
                 ,
                 impartial
                 still
                 to
                 Kings
                 !
                 )
              
               
                 Huddled
                 ,
                 and
                 undistinguish'd
                 in
                 the
                 heap
                 of
                 meaner
                 Things
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 IV.
                 
              
               
                 Lo
                 !
                 there
                 the
                 mighty
                 Warriour
                 lies
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 all
                 his
                 Lawrels
                 ,
                 all
                 his
                 Victories
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 rav●…nous
                 Fowls
                 ,
                 or
                 worse
                 ,
                 to
                 his
                 proud
                 Foes
                 ,
                 a
                 Prize
                 :
              
               
                 How
                 chang'd
                 from
                 that
                 great
                 Saul
                 !
                 whose
                 generous
                 A●…d
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 conqu'ring
                 Army
                 to
                 distressed
                 Jabesh
                 led
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 whose
                 approach
                 Ammon's
                 proud
                 Tyrant
                 fled
                 :
              
               
                 How
                 chang'd
                 from
                 that
                 great
                 Saul
                 !
                 whom
                 we
                 saw
                 bring
              
               
                 From
                 vanquish'd
                 Amalek
                 their
                 captive
                 Spoils
                 ,
                 and
                 ●…ing
                 :
              
               
               
                 When
                 unbid
                 Pity
                 made
                 him
                 Agag
                 spare
                 ;
              
               
                 Ah
                 Pity
                 !
                 more
                 ●…an
                 Cruelty
                 found
                 guilty
                 there
                 :
              
               
                 Oft
                 has
                 he
                 made
                 these
                 conquer'd
                 Enemies
                 bow
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 whom
                 himself
                 lies
                 conquer'd
                 now
                 :
              
               
                 At
                 Micmash
                 his
                 great
                 Might
                 they
                 felt
                 ,
                 and
                 knew
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 same
                 they
                 felt
                 at
                 Dammi●…
                 too
                 :
              
               
                 Well
                 I
                 remember
                 ,
                 when
                 from
                 
                 Helah's
                 Plain
              
               
                 He
                 came
                 in
                 triumph
                 ,
                 met
                 by
                 a
                 numerous
                 Crowd
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 with
                 glad
                 shouts
                 proclaim'd
                 their
                 Joy
                 aloud
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 dance
                 of
                 beauteous
                 Virgins
                 led
                 the
                 solemn
                 Train
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sung
                 ,
                 and
                 prais'd
                 the
                 man
                 
                   that
                   had
                   his
                   thousands
                   slain
                
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Seir
                   ,
                   Moab
                   ,
                   Zobab
                
                 felt
                 him
                 ,
                 and
                 where
                 e'er
              
               
                 He
                 did
                 his
                 glorious
                 Standards
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 Officious
                 Vict'ry
                 follow'd
                 in
                 the
                 rere
                 :
              
               
                 Success
                 attended
                 still
                 his
                 brandish'd
                 Sword
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 like
                 the
                 Grave
                 ,
                 the
                 gluttonous
                 Blade
                 devour'd
                 :
              
               
                 Slaughter
                 upon
                 its
                 point
                 in
                 triumph
                 sate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 scatter'd
                 Death
                 ,
                 as
                 quick
                 ,
                 and
                 wide
                 as
                 Fare
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 V.
                 
              
               
                 Nor
                 less
                 in
                 high
                 Repute
                 ,
                 and
                 Worth
                 was
                 his
                 great
                 Son
                 ,
              
               
                 Sole
                 Heir
                 of
                 all
                 his
                 Valour
                 ,
                 and
                 Renown
                 ,
              
               
                 Heir
                 too
                 (
                 if
                 cruel
                 Fate
                 had
                 suffer'd
                 )
                 of
                 his
                 Throne
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 matchless
                 Jonathan
                 't
                 was
                 ,
                 whom
                 loud
                 ▪
                 tongu'd
                 Fame
              
               
                 Amongst
                 her
                 chiefest
                 Heroes
                 joys
                 to
                 name
                 ,
              
               
                 E're
                 since
                 the
                 wond'rous
                 Deeds
                 of
                 Seneh
                 done
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 he
                 ,
                 himself
                 an
                 Host
                 ,
                 o'recame
                 a
                 War
                 alone
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 trembling
                 Enemies
                 fled
                 ,
                 they
                 try'd
                 to
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 fix'd
                 amazement
                 stopt
                 ,
                 and
                 made
                 them
                 die
                 .
              
               
                 Great
                 Archer
                 he
                 !
                 to
                 whom
                 our
                 dreadful
                 skill
                 me
                 owe
                 ,
              
               
                 Dreaded
                 by
                 all
                 ,
                 who
                 
                 Israel's
                 warlike
                 Prowess
                 know
                 ;
              
               
                 As
                 many
                 Shafts
                 ,
                 as
                 his
                 full
                 Quiver
                 held
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 many
                 Fates
                 he
                 drew
                 ,
                 so
                 many
                 kill'd
                 :
              
               
                 Quick
                 ,
                 and
                 unerring
                 they
                 ,
                 as
                 darted
                 Eye-beams
                 ,
                 flew
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 he
                 gave
                 'em
                 sight
                 ,
                 and
                 swiftness
                 too
                 .
              
               
                 Death
                 took
                 her
                 Aim
                 from
                 his
                 ,
                 and
                 by
                 't
                 her
                 Arrows
                 threw
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 VI.
                 
              
               
                 Both
                 excellent
                 they
                 were
                 ,
                 both
                 equally
                 alli'd
              
               
                 On
                 Nature
                 ,
                 and
                 on
                 Valour
                 's
                 side
                 :
              
               
                 Great
                 Saul
                 ,
                 who
                 scorn'd
                 a
                 Rival
                 in
                 Renown
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 envied
                 not
                 the
                 Fame
                 of
                 's
                 greater
                 Son
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 him
                 endur'd
                 to
                 be
                 surpass'd
                 alone
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 gallant
                 Prince
                 ,
                 did
                 his
                 whole
                 Father
                 shew
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fast
                 ,
                 as
                 he
                 could
                 set
                 ,
                 the
                 well-writ
                 Copies
                 drew
              
               
                 And
                 blush'd
                 ,
                 that
                 Duty
                 bid
                 him
                 not
                 out-go
                 :
              
               
                 Together
                 they
                 did
                 both
                 the
                 paths
                 to
                 Glory
                 trace
                 ,
              
               
                 Together
                 hunted
                 in
                 the
                 noble
                 Chace
                 ,
              
               
                 Together
                 finish'd
                 their
                 united
                 Race
                 :
              
               
                 There
                 only
                 did
                 they
                 prove
                 unfortunate
                 ,
              
               
                 Never
                 till
                 then
                 unbless'd
                 by
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 there
                 they
                 ceas'd
                 not
                 to
                 be
                 great
                 ;
              
               
                 Fearless
                 they
                 met
                 ,
                 and
                 brav'd
                 their
                 threaten'd
                 fall
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fought
                 when
                 Heav'n
                 revolted
                 ,
                 Fortune
                 durst
                 rebel
                 .
              
               
               
                 When
                 publick
                 safety
                 ,
                 and
                 their
                 Countries
                 care
              
               
                 Requir'd
                 their
                 Aid
                 ,
                 and
                 call'd
                 them
                 to
                 the
                 toils
                 of
                 War
                 ;
              
               
                 As
                 Parent-Eagles
                 ,
                 summon'd
                 by
                 their
                 Infants
                 cries
              
               
                 Whom
                 some
                 rude
                 hands
                 would
                 make
                 a
                 Prize
                 ,
              
               
                 Haste
                 to
                 Relief
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 their
                 Wings
                 out-fly
                 their
                 eyes
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 swift
                 did
                 they
                 their
                 speedy
                 succour
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 swift
                 the
                 bold
                 Aggressors
                 seize
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 swift
                 attack
                 ,
                 so
                 swift
                 pursue
                 the
                 vanquish'd
                 enemies
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 vanquish'd
                 enemies
                 with
                 all
                 the
                 wings
                 of
                 Fear
              
               
                 Mov'd
                 not
                 so
                 quick
                 as
                 they
                 ,
              
               
                 Scarce
                 could
                 their
                 souls
                 fly
                 fast
                 enough
                 away
                 .
              
               
                 Bolder
                 than
                 Lions
                 ,
                 they
                 thick
                 Dangers
                 met
                 ,
              
               
                 Through
                 Fields
                 with
                 armed
                 Troops
                 ,
                 and
                 pointed
                 Harvests
                 set
                 ,
              
               
                 Nothing
                 could
                 tame
                 their
                 Rage
                 ,
                 or
                 quench
                 their
                 Generous
                 Heat
                 :
              
               
               
                 Like
                 those
                 ,
                 they
                 march'd
                 undaunted
                 ,
                 and
                 like
                 those
                 ,
              
               
                 Secure
                 of
                 Wounds
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 that
                 durst
                 oppose
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 to
                 Resisters
                 fierce
                 ,
                 so
                 gentle
                 to
                 their
                 prostrate
                 Foes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 VII
                 .
              
               
                 Mourn
                 ,
                 wretched
                 Israel
                 ,
                 mourn
                 thy
                 Monarch's
                 fall
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 thy
                 plenteous
                 stock
                 of
                 sorrow
                 call
                 ,
              
               
                 T'
                 attend
                 his
                 pompous
                 Funeral
                 :
              
               
                 Mourn
                 each
                 ,
                 who
                 in
                 this
                 loss
                 an
                 int'rest
                 shares
                 ,
              
               
                 Lavish
                 your
                 Grief
                 ,
                 exhaust
                 it
                 all
                 in
                 Tears
                 :
              
               
                 You
                 Hebrew
                 Virgins
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 once
                 in
                 lofty
                 strains
                 did
                 his
                 glad
                 Triumphs
                 sing
                 ,
              
               
                 Bring
                 all
                 your
                 Artful
                 Notes
                 ,
                 and
                 skilful
                 Measures
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 charming
                 air
                 of
                 Breath
                 ,
                 and
                 string
                 ,
              
               
                 Bring
                 all
                 to
                 grace
                 the
                 Obsequies
                 of
                 your
                 dead
                 King
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 high
                 ,
                 as
                 then
                 your
                 Joy
                 ,
                 let
                 now
                 your
                 Sorrow
                 flow
                 .
              
               
               
                 Saul
                 ,
                 your
                 great
                 Saul
                 is
                 dead
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 you
                 with
                 Natures
                 choicest
                 Dainties
                 fed
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 you
                 with
                 Natures
                 gayest
                 Wardrobe
                 clad
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 whom
                 you
                 all
                 her
                 Pride
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 her
                 Pleasures
                 had
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 you
                 the
                 precious
                 Worm
                 his
                 Bowels
                 spun
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 you
                 the
                 Tyrian
                 Fish
                 did
                 Purple
                 run
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 you
                 the
                 bless'd
                 
                 Arabia's
                 Spices
                 grew
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Eastern
                 Quarries
                 harden'd
                 Pearly
                 dew
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Sun
                 himself
                 turn'd
                 Labourer
                 for
                 you
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 you
                 he
                 hatch'd
                 his
                 golden
                 Births
                 alone
                 ,
              
               
                 Wherewith
                 you
                 were
                 array'ed
                 ,
                 whereby
                 you
                 him
                 out-shone
                 .
              
               
                 All
                 this
                 and
                 more
                 you
                 did
                 to
                 
                 Saul's
                 great
                 Conduct
                 owe
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 this
                 you
                 lost
                 in
                 his
                 unhappy
                 overthrow
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 VIII
                 .
              
               
                 Oh
                 Death
                 !
                 how
                 vast
                 an
                 Harvest
                 hast
                 thou
                 reap'd
                 of
                 late
                 !
              
               
                 Never
                 before
                 hadst
                 thou
                 so
                 great
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Ne'er
                 drunk'st
                 before
                 so
                 deep
                 of
                 Jewish
                 Bloud
                 ,
              
               
                 Ne're
                 since
                 th'
                 embattled
                 Hosts
                 at
                 Gibeah
                 stood
                 ;
              
               
                 When
                 three
                 whole
                 days
                 took
                 up
                 the
                 work
                 of
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 a
                 large
                 Tribe
                 enter'd
                 at
                 once
                 thy
                 Bill
                 ,
              
               
                 Ane
                 threescore
                 thousand
                 Victims
                 to
                 thy
                 Fury
                 fell
                 .
              
               
                 Upon
                 the
                 fatal
                 Mountains
                 Head
                 ,
              
               
                 Lo
                 !
                 how
                 the
                 mighty
                 Chiefs
                 lie
                 dead
                 :
              
               
                 There
                 my
                 beloved
                 Jonathan
                 was
                 slain
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 best
                 of
                 Princes
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 best
                 of
                 Men
                 ;
              
               
                 Cold
                 Death
                 hangs
                 on
                 his
                 Cheeks
                 like
                 an
                 untimely
                 Frost
              
               
                 On
                 early
                 Fruit
                 ,
                 there
                 sits
                 ,
                 and
                 smiles
                 a
                 sullen
                 Boast
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 looks
                 pale
                 at
                 the
                 great
                 Captive
                 ,
                 she
                 has
                 ta'en
                 .
              
               
                 My
                 Jonathan
                 is
                 dead
                 !
                 (
                 oh
                 dreadful'st
                 word
                 of
                 Fame
                 !
              
               
                 Oh
                 grief
                 !
                 that
                 I
                 can
                 speak
                 't
                 ,
                 and
                 not
                 become
                 the
                 same
                 !
                 )
              
               
                 He
                 's
                 dead
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 him
                 all
                 our
                 blooming
                 Hopes
                 are
                 gone
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 many
                 a
                 wonder
                 ,
                 which
                 he
                 must
                 have
                 done
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 many
                 a
                 Conquest
                 which
                 he
                 must
                 have
                 won
                 .
              
               
               
                 They
                 're
                 all
                 to
                 the
                 dark
                 Grave
                 ,
                 and
                 Silence
                 sled
              
               
                 And
                 never
                 now
                 in
                 story
                 shall
                 be
                 read
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 never
                 now
                 shall
                 take
                 their
                 date
                 ,
              
               
                 Snatch'd
                 hence
                 by
                 the
                 preventing
                 hand
                 of
                 envious
                 Fate
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 IX
                 .
              
               
                 Ah
                 worthy
                 Prince
                 !
                 would
                 I
                 for
                 thee
                 had
                 died
                 !
              
               
                 Ah
                 ,
                 would
                 I
                 had
                 thy
                 fatal
                 place
                 supplied
                 !
              
               
                 I
                 'd
                 then
                 repaid
                 a
                 Life
                 ,
                 which
                 to
                 thy
                 gift
                 I
                 owe
                 ,
              
               
                 Repaid
                 a
                 Crown
                 ,
                 which
                 Friendship
                 taught
                 thee
                 to
                 forgo
                 ;
              
               
                 Both
                 Debts
                 ,
                 Ine'er
                 can
                 cancel
                 now
                 :
              
               
                 Oh
                 ,
                 dearer
                 than
                 my
                 Soul
                 !
                 if
                 I
                 can
                 call
                 it
                 mine
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 sure
                 we
                 had
                 the
                 same
                 ,
                 't
                 was
                 very
                 thine
                 ,
              
               
                 Dearer
                 than
                 Light
                 ,
                 or
                 Life
                 ,
                 or
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 Crowns
                 ,
                 or
                 any
                 thing
                 ,
                 that
                 I
                 can
                 wish
                 ,
                 or
                 think
                 ,
                 or
                 name
                 :
              
               
                 Brother
                 thou
                 wast
                 ,
                 but
                 wast
                 my
                 Friend
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 that
                 new
                 Title
                 then
                 could
                 add
                 no
                 more
                 :
              
               
               
                 Mine
                 more
                 than
                 Bloud
                 ,
                 Alliance
                 ,
                 Natures
                 self
                 could
                 make
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 I
                 ,
                 or
                 Fame
                 it self
                 can
                 speak
                 :
              
               
                 Not
                 yearning
                 Mothers
                 ,
                 when
                 first
                 Throes
                 they
                 feel
              
               
                 To
                 their
                 young
                 Babes
                 in
                 looks
                 a
                 softer
                 Passion
                 tell
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 artless
                 undissembling
                 Maids
                 express
              
               
                 In
                 their
                 last
                 dying
                 sighs
                 such
                 Tenderness
                 :
              
               
                 Not
                 thy
                 fair
                 Sister
                 ,
                 whom
                 strict
                 Duty
                 bids
                 me
                 wear
              
               
                 First
                 in
                 my
                 Brest
                 ,
                 whom
                 holy
                 Vows
                 make
                 mine
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho
                 all
                 the
                 Virtues
                 of
                 a
                 loyal
                 Wife
                 she
                 bare
                 ,
              
               
                 Could
                 boast
                 an
                 Union
                 so
                 near
                 ,
              
               
                 Could
                 boast
                 a
                 Love
                 so
                 firm
                 ,
                 so
                 lasting
                 ,
                 so
                 Divine
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 pure
                 is
                 that
                 which
                 we
                 in
                 Angels
                 find
              
               
                 To
                 Mortals
                 here
                 ,
                 in
                 Heav'n
                 to
                 their
                 own
                 kind
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 pure
                 ,
                 but
                 not
                 more
                 great
                 must
                 that
                 blest
                 Friendship
                 prove
              
               
                 (
                 Could
                 ,
                 ah
                 ,
                 could
                 I
                 to
                 that
                 wish'd
                 Place
                 ,
                 and
                 Thee
                 remove
                 )
              
               
                 Which
                 shall
                 for
                 ever
                 joyn
                 our
                 mingled
                 Souls
                 above
                 ,
              
            
             
               
               
                 X.
                 
              
               
                 Ah
                 wretched
                 Israel
                 !
                 ah
                 unhappy
                 state
                 !
              
               
                 Expos'd
                 to
                 all
                 the
                 Bolts
                 of
                 angry
                 Fate
                 !
              
               
                 Expos'd
                 to
                 all
                 thy
                 Enemies
                 revengeful
                 hate
                 !
              
               
                 Who
                 is
                 there
                 left
                 their
                 fury
                 to
                 withstand
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 Champions
                 now
                 to
                 guard
                 thy
                 helpless
                 Land
                 ?
              
               
                 Who
                 is
                 there
                 left
                 in
                 listed
                 Fields
                 to
                 head
              
               
                 Thy
                 valiant
                 Youth
                 ,
                 and
                 lead
                 them
                 on
                 to
                 Victory
                 ?
              
               
                 Alas
                 !
                 thy
                 valiant
                 Youth
                 are
                 dead
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 thy
                 brave
                 Commanders
                 too
                 :
              
               
                 Lo
                 !
                 how
                 the
                 Glut
                 ,
                 and
                 Riot
                 of
                 the
                 Grave
                 they
                 lie
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 none
                 survive
                 the
                 fatal
                 Overthrow
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 right
                 their
                 injur'd
                 Ghosts
                 upon
                 the
                 barbarous
                 Foe
                 !
              
               
                 Rest
                 ,
                 ye
                 bless'd
                 shades
                 ,
                 in
                 everlasting
                 Peace
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 fell
                 your
                 Country's
                 bloudy
                 Sacrifice
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 ever
                 Sacred
                 be
                 your
                 Memories
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 may
                 e're
                 long
                 some
                 dread
                 Avenger
                 rise
              
               
                 To
                 wipe
                 of
                 Heav'ns
                 and
                 your
                 Disgrace
                 :
              
               
               
                 May
                 then
                 these
                 proud
                 insulting
                 Foes
              
               
                 Wash
                 off
                 our
                 stains
                 of
                 Honour
                 with
                 their
                 Bloud
                 .
              
               
                 May
                 they
                 ten
                 thousand-fold
                 repay
                 our
                 loss
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 every
                 Life
                 a
                 Myriad
                 ,
                 every
                 Drop
                 a
                 Floud
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               THE
               ODE
               OF
               Aristotle
               in
               Athenaeus
               ,
               PARAPHRAS'D
               .
            
             
               
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 HOnour
                 !
                 thou
                 greatest
                 Blessing
                 in
                 the
                 gift
                 of
                 Heaven
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 only
                 art
                 to
                 its
                 chief
                 Darlings
                 given
                 :
              
               
                 Cheaply
                 with
                 Bloud
                 and
                 Dangers
                 art
                 thou
                 sought
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 canst
                 at
                 any
                 rate
                 be
                 over-bought
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 ,
                 shining
                 Honour
                 ,
                 are
                 the
                 noblest
                 chase
              
               
                 Of
                 all
                 the
                 braver
                 part
                 of
                 Humane
                 Race
                 :
              
               
               
                 Thou
                 only
                 art
                 worth
                 living
                 for
                 below
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 only
                 worth
                 our
                 dying
                 too
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 thee
                 ,
                 bright
                 Goddess
                 ,
                 for
                 thy
                 charming
                 sake
                 ,
              
               
                 Does
                 Greece
                 such
                 wond'rous
                 Actions
                 undertake
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 thee
                 no
                 Toils
                 ,
                 nor
                 Hardships
                 she
                 forgoes
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Death
                 amidst
                 ten
                 thousand
                 ghastly
                 Terrors
                 wooes
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 powerfully
                 dost
                 thou
                 the
                 mind
                 inspire
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 kindlest
                 there
                 so
                 generous
                 a
                 fire
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 makes
                 thy
                 zealous
                 Votaries
              
               
                 All
                 things
                 ,
                 but
                 Thee
                 despise
                 ;
              
               
                 Makes
                 them
                 the
                 love
                 of
                 Thee
                 prefer
              
               
                 Before
                 th'
                 enchantments
                 of
                 bewitching
                 Gold
                 ,
              
               
                 Before
                 th'
                 embraces
                 of
                 a
                 Parent
                 's
                 arms
                 ,
              
               
                 Before
                 soft
                 ease
                 ,
                 and
                 Love's
                 enticing
                 Charms
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 ,
                 that
                 Men
                 on
                 Earth
                 most
                 valuable
                 hold
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 For
                 Thee
                 the
                 Heav'n
                 born
                 Hercules
              
               
                 And
                 
                 Leda's
                 faithful
                 Twins
                 ,
                 in
                 Birth
                 no
                 less
                 ,
              
               
               
                 So
                 many
                 mighty
                 Labours
                 underwent
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 their
                 God-like
                 Deeds
                 proclaim'd
                 their
                 high
                 Descent
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 thee
                 they
                 reach'd
                 the
                 bless'd
                 Abode
                 ,
              
               
                 Th●…
                 worthy
                 Prize
                 ,
                 for
                 which
                 in
                 Glory's
                 path
                 they
                 trode
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 thee
                 great
                 Ajax
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 greater
                 Son
              
               
                 Of
                 Peleus
                 were
                 exalted
                 to
                 Renown
                 :
              
               
                 Envied
                 by
                 the
                 Immortals
                 did
                 they
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 Laden
                 with
                 triumph
                 to
                 the
                 shades
                 below
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 thee
                 ,
                 and
                 thy
                 dear
                 sake
              
               
                 Did
                 the
                 young
                 Worthy
                 of
                 Atarna
                 lately
                 stake
              
               
                 His
                 Life
                 in
                 Battel
                 to
                 the
                 chance
                 of
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 bravely
                 lost
                 ,
                 what
                 he
                 so
                 boldly
                 set
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 lost
                 he
                 not
                 his
                 glorious
                 aim
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 by
                 short
                 Death
                 purchas'd
                 eternal
                 Fame
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 grateful
                 Muses
                 shall
                 embalm
                 his
                 Memory
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 never
                 let
                 it
                 die
                 :
              
               
                 They
                 shall
                 his
                 great
                 Exploits
                 rehearse
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 consecrate
                 the
                 Hero
                 in
                 immortal
                 Verse
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Upon
               the
               WORKS
               of
               
                 BEN.
                 JOHNSON
              
               .
            
             
               Written
               in
               1678.
               
            
             
               ODE
               .
            
             
               
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 GReat
                 Thou
                 !
                 whom
                 't
                 is
                 a
                 Crime
                 almost
                 to
                 dare
                 to
                 praise
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 firm
                 establish'd
                 ,
                 and
                 unshaken
                 Glories
                 stand
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 proudly
                 their
                 own
                 Fame
                 command
                 ,
              
               
                 Above
                 our
                 pow'r
                 to
                 lessen
                 or
                 to
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 ,
                 but
                 the
                 few
                 Heirs
                 of
                 thy
                 brave
                 Genius
                 ,
                 and
                 thy
                 Bays
                 ;
              
               
                 Hail
                 mighty
                 Founder
                 of
                 our
                 Stage
                 !
                 for
                 so
                 I
                 dare
              
               
                 Entitle
                 thee
                 ,
                 nor
                 any
                 modern
                 Censures
                 fear
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Nor
                 care
                 what
                 thy
                 unjust
                 Detractors
                 say
                 ;
              
               
                 They
                 'l
                 say
                 perhaps
                 ,
                 that
                 others
                 did
                 Materials
                 bring
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 others
                 did
                 the
                 first
                 Foundations
                 lay
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 glorious
                 't
                 was
                 (
                 we
                 grant
                 )
                 but
                 to
                 begin
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 thou
                 alone
                 couldst
                 finish
                 the
                 design
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 the
                 fair
                 Model
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Workmanship
                 was
                 thine
                 :
              
               
                 Some
                 bold
                 Advent'rers
                 might
                 have
                 been
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 durst
                 the
                 unknown
                 world
                 explore
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 them
                 it
                 was
                 survey'd
                 at
                 distant
                 view
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 here
                 and
                 there
                 a
                 Cape
                 ,
                 and
                 Line
                 they
                 drew
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 only
                 serv'd
                 as
                 hints
                 ,
                 and
                 marks
                 to
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 wast
                 reserv'd
                 to
                 make
                 the
                 full
                 Discovery
                 :
              
               
                 Art's
                 Compass
                 to
                 thy
                 painful
                 search
                 we
                 owe
                 ,
              
               
                 Whereby
                 thou
                 went'st
                 so
                 far
                 ,
                 and
                 we
                 may
                 after
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 that
                 we
                 may
                 Wit
                 's
                 vast
                 ,
                 and
                 trackless
                 Ocean
                 try
                 ,
              
               
                 Content
                 no
                 longer
                 ,
                 as
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 Dully
                 to
                 coast
                 along
                 the
                 shore
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 steer
                 a
                 course
                 more
                 unconfin'd
                 ,
                 and
                 free
                 ,
              
               
                 Beyond
                 the
                 narrow
                 bounds
                 ,
                 that
                 pent
                 Antiquity
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 Never
                 till
                 thee
                 the
                 Theater
                 possess'd
              
               
                 A
                 Prince
                 with
                 equal
                 Pow'r
                 ,
                 and
                 Greatness
                 bless'd
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 Government
                 ,
                 or
                 Laws
                 it
                 had
              
               
                 To
                 strengthen
                 ,
                 and
                 establish
                 it
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 thy
                 great
                 hand
                 the
                 Scepter
                 sway'd
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 groan'd
                 under
                 a
                 wretched
                 Anarchy
                 of
                 Wit
                 :
              
               
                 Unform'd
                 ,
                 and
                 void
                 was
                 then
                 its
                 Poesie
                 ,
              
               
                 Only
                 some
                 pre-existing
                 Matter
                 we
              
               
                 Perhaps
                 could
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 might
                 foretel
                 what
                 was
                 to
                 be
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 rude
                 ,
                 and
                 undigested
                 Lump
                 it
                 lay
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 the
                 old
                 Chaos
                 ,
                 e're
                 the
                 birth
                 of
                 Light
                 ,
                 and
                 Day
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 thy
                 brave
                 Genius
                 like
                 a
                 new
                 Creator
                 came
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 undertook
                 the
                 mighty
                 Frame
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 shuffled
                 Atoms
                 did
                 the
                 well-built
                 work
                 compose
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 from
                 no
                 lucky
                 hit
                 of
                 blund'ring
                 Chance
                 arose
              
               
                 (
                 As
                 some
                 of
                 this
                 great
                 Fabrick
                 idly
                 dream
                 )
              
               
               
                 But
                 wise
                 ,
                 all-seeing
                 Judgment
                 did
                 contrive
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 knowing
                 Art
                 its
                 Graces
                 give
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 sooner
                 did
                 thy
                 Soul
                 with
                 active
                 Force
                 and
                 Fire
              
               
                 The
                 dull
                 and
                 heavy
                 Mass
                 inspire
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 strait
                 throughout
                 it
                 let
                 us
                 see
              
               
                 Proportion
                 ,
                 Order
                 ,
                 Harmony
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 every
                 part
                 did
                 to
                 the
                 whole
                 agree
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 strait
                 appear'd
                 a
                 beauteous
                 new-made
                 world
                 of
                 Poetry
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 III.
                 
              
               
                 Let
                 dull
                 ,
                 and
                 ignorant
                 Pretenders
                 Art
                 condemn
              
               
                 (
                 Those
                 only
                 Foes
                 to
                 Art
                 ,
                 and
                 Art
                 to
                 them
                 )
              
               
                 The
                 meer
                 Fanaticks
                 ,
                 and
                 Enthusiasts
                 in
                 Poetry
              
               
                 (
                 For
                 Schismaticks
                 in
                 that
                 ,
                 as
                 in
                 Religion
                 be
                 )
              
               
                 Who
                 make
                 't
                 all
                 Revelation
                 ,
                 Trance
                 ,
                 and
                 Dream
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 them
                 despise
                 her
                 Laws
                 ,
                 and
                 think
              
               
                 That
                 Rules
                 and
                 Forms
                 the
                 Spirit
                 stint
                 :
              
               
                 Thine
                 was
                 no
                 mad
                 ,
                 unruly
                 Frenzy
                 of
                 the
                 brain
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 justly
                 might
                 deserve
                 the
                 Chain
                 ,
              
               
               
                 'T
                 was
                 brisk
                 ,
                 and
                 mettled
                 ,
                 but
                 a
                 manag'd
                 Rage
                 ,
              
               
                 Sprightly
                 as
                 vig'rous
                 Youth
                 ,
                 and
                 cool
                 as
                 temp'rate
                 Age
                 :
              
               
                 Free
                 ,
                 like
                 thy
                 Will
                 ,
                 it
                 did
                 all
                 Force
                 disdain
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 suffer'd
                 Reason's
                 loose
                 ,
                 and
                 easie
                 rein
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 that
                 it
                 suffer'd
                 to
                 be
                 led
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 did
                 not
                 curb
                 Poetick
                 liberty
                 ,
                 but
                 guide
                 :
              
               
                 Fancy
                 ,
                 that
                 wild
                 and
                 haggard
                 Faculty
                 ,
              
               
                 Untam'd
                 in
                 most
                 ,
                 and
                 let
                 at
                 random
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 Was
                 wisely
                 govern'd
                 ,
                 and
                 reclaim'd
                 by
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 Restraint
                 ,
                 and
                 Discipline
                 was
                 made
                 endure
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 thy
                 calm
                 ,
                 and
                 milder
                 Judgment
                 brought
                 to
                 lure
                 ;
              
               
                 Yet
                 when
                 't
                 was
                 at
                 some
                 nobler
                 Quarry
                 sent
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 bold
                 ,
                 and
                 tow'ring
                 wings
                 it
                 upward
                 went
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 lessen'd
                 at
                 the
                 greatest
                 height
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 turn'd
                 by
                 the
                 most
                 giddy
                 flights
                 of
                 dazling
                 Wit.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 IV.
                 
              
               
                 Nature
                 ,
                 and
                 Art
                 together
                 met
                 ,
                 and
                 joyn'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Made
                 up
                 the
                 Character
                 of
                 thy
                 great
                 Mind
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 like
                 a
                 bright
                 and
                 glorious
                 Sphere
                 ,
              
               
                 Appear'd
                 with
                 numerous
                 Stars
                 embellish'd
                 o're
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 much
                 of
                 Light
                 to
                 thee
                 ,
                 and
                 much
                 of
                 Influence
                 bore
                 ,
              
               
                 This
                 was
                 the
                 strong
                 Intelligence
                 ,
                 whose
                 pow'r
              
               
                 Turn'd
                 it
                 about
                 ,
                 and
                 did
                 th'
                 unerring
                 motions
                 steer
                 :
              
               
                 Concurring
                 both
                 like
                 vital
                 Seed
                 ,
                 and
                 Heat
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 noble
                 Births
                 they
                 joyntly
                 did
                 beget
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 hard
                 't
                 was
                 to
                 be
                 thought
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 most
                 of
                 force
                 to
                 the
                 great
                 Generation
                 brought
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 mingling
                 Elements
                 compose
                 our
                 Bodies
                 frame
                 ,
              
               
                 Fire
                 ,
                 Water
                 ,
                 Earth
                 ,
                 and
                 Air
              
               
                 Alike
                 their
                 just
                 Proportions
                 share
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 undistinguish'd
                 still
                 remains
                 the
                 same
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 can't
                 we
                 say
                 that
                 either's
                 here
                 ,
                 or
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 all
                 ,
                 we
                 know
                 not
                 how
                 ,
                 are
                 scatter'd
                 every
                 where
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 V.
                 
              
               
                 Sober
                 ,
                 and
                 grave
                 was
                 still
                 the
                 Garb
                 thy
                 Muse
                 put
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 tawdry
                 careless
                 slattern
                 Dress
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 starch'd
                 ,
                 and
                 formal
                 with
                 Affectedness
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 the
                 cast
                 Mode
                 ,
                 and
                 Fashion
                 of
                 the
                 Court
                 ,
                 and
                 Town
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 neat
                 agreeable
                 ,
                 and
                 janty
                 't
                 was
                 ,
              
               
                 Well-fitted
                 ,
                 it
                 sate
                 close
                 in
                 every
                 place
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 became
                 with
                 an
                 uncommon
                 Air
                 ,
                 and
                 Grace
                 :
              
               
                 Rich
                 ,
                 costly
                 and
                 substantial
                 was
                 the
                 stuff
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 barely
                 smooth
                 ,
                 nor
                 yet
                 too
                 coarsly
                 rough
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 refuse
                 ,
                 ill-patch'd
                 Shreds
                 o'
                 th'
                 Schools
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 motly
                 wear
                 of
                 read
                 ,
                 and
                 learned
                 Fools
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 French
                 Commodity
                 which
                 now
                 so
                 much
                 does
                 take
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 our
                 own
                 better
                 Manufacture
                 spoil
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 was
                 it
                 ought
                 of
                 forein
                 Soil
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 Staple
                 all
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 of
                 English
                 Growth
                 ,
                 and
                 Make
                 :
              
               
               
                 What
                 Flow'rs
                 soe're
                 of
                 Art
                 it
                 had
                 ,
                 were
                 found
              
               
                 No
                 tinsel'd
                 slight
                 Embroideries
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 all
                 appear'd
                 either
                 the
                 native
                 Ground
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 twisted
                 ,
                 wrought
                 ,
                 and
                 interwoven
                 with
                 the
                 Piece
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 VI.
                 
              
               
                 Plain
                 Humour
                 ,
                 shewn
                 with
                 her
                 whole
                 various
                 Face
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 mask'd
                 with
                 any
                 antick
                 Dress
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 screw'd
                 in
                 forc'd
                 ,
                 ridiculous
                 Grimace
              
               
                 (
                 The
                 gaping
                 Rabbles
                 dull
                 delight
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 more
                 the
                 Actor's
                 than
                 the
                 Poet's
                 Wit
                 )
              
               
                 Such
                 did
                 she
                 enter
                 on
                 thy
                 Stage
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 such
                 was
                 represented
                 to
                 the
                 wond'ring
                 Age
                 :
              
               
                 Well
                 wast
                 thou
                 skill'd
                 ,
                 and
                 read
                 in
                 humane
                 kind
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 every
                 wild
                 fantastick
                 Passion
                 of
                 his
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 Didst
                 into
                 all
                 his
                 hidden
                 Inclinations
                 dive
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 each
                 from
                 Nature
                 does
                 receive
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 Age
                 ,
                 or
                 Sex
                 ,
                 or
                 Quality
                 ,
                 or
                 Country
                 give
                 ;
              
               
               
                 What
                 Custom
                 too
                 ,
                 that
                 mighty
                 Sorceress
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 pow'rful
                 Witchcraft
                 does
                 transform
              
               
                 Enchanted
                 Man
                 to
                 several
                 monstrous
                 Images
                 ,
              
               
                 Makes
                 this
                 an
                 odd
                 ,
                 and
                 freakish
                 Monky
                 turn
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 that
                 a
                 grave
                 and
                 solemn
                 Ass
                 Appear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 a
                 thousand
                 beastly
                 shapes
                 of
                 Folly
                 wear
                 :
              
               
                 Whate're
                 Caprice
                 or
                 Whimsie
                 leads
                 awry
              
               
                 Perverted
                 ,
                 and
                 seduc'd
                 Mortality
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 does
                 incline
                 ,
                 and
                 byass
                 it
              
               
                 From
                 what
                 's
                 Discreet
                 ,
                 and
                 Wise
                 ,
                 and
                 Right
                 ,
                 and
                 Good
                 ,
                 and
                 Fit
                 ;
              
               
                 All
                 in
                 thy
                 faithful
                 Glass
                 were
                 so
                 express'd
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 they
                 were
                 Reflections
                 of
                 thy
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 they
                 had
                 been
                 stamp'd
                 on
                 thy
                 own
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thou
                 the
                 universal
                 vast
                 Idea
                 of
                 Mankind
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 VII
                 .
              
               
                 Never
                 didst
                 thou
                 with
                 the
                 same
                 Dish
                 repeated
                 cloy
                 .
              
               
                 Tho
                 every
                 Dish
                 ,
                 well
                 cook'd
                 by
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 Contain'd
                 a
                 plentiful
                 Variety
              
               
                 To
                 all
                 that
                 could
                 sound
                 relishing
                 Palates
                 be
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Each
                 Regale
                 with
                 new
                 Delicacies
                 did
                 invite
                 ,
              
               
                 Courted
                 the
                 Taste
                 ,
                 and
                 rais'd
                 the
                 Appetite
                 :
              
               
                 Whate're
                 fresh
                 dainty
                 Fops
                 in
                 season
                 were
              
               
                 To
                 garnish
                 ,
                 and
                 set
                 out
                 thy
                 Bill
                 of
                 fare
              
               
                 (
                 Those
                 never
                 found
                 to
                 fail
                 throughout
                 the
                 year
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 seldom
                 that
                 ill-natur'd
                 Planet
                 rules
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 plagues
                 a
                 Poet
                 with
                 a
                 dearth
                 of
                 Fools
                 )
              
               
                 What
                 thy
                 strict
                 Observation
                 e're
                 survey'd
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 the
                 fine
                 ,
                 luscious
                 Spark
                 of
                 high
                 ,
                 and
                 courtly
                 Breed
                 .
              
               
                 Down
                 to
                 the
                 dull
                 ,
                 insipid
                 Cit
                 ,
              
               
                 Made
                 thy
                 pleas'd
                 Audience
                 entertainment
                 fit
                 ,
              
               
                 Serv'd
                 up
                 with
                 all
                 the
                 grateful
                 Poignances
                 of
                 Wit.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 VIII
                 .
              
               
                 Most
                 Plays
                 are
                 writ
                 like
                 Almanacks
                 of
                 late
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 serve
                 one
                 only
                 year
                 ,
                 one
                 only
                 State
                 ;
              
               
                 Another
                 makes
                 them
                 useless
                 ,
                 stale
                 ,
                 and
                 out
                 of
                 date
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 thine
                 were
                 wisely
                 calcu●…ed
                 ●…it
              
               
                 For
                 each
                 Meridian
                 ,
                 every
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 ,
              
               
               
                 For
                 all
                 succeeding
                 time
                 ,
                 and
                 after-age
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 Mankind
                 might
                 thy
                 vast
                 Audience
                 sit
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 whole
                 world
                 be
                 justly
                 made
                 thy
                 Stage
                 :
              
               
                 Still
                 they
                 shall
                 taking
                 be
                 ,
                 and
                 ever
                 new
                 ,
              
               
                 Still
                 kept
                 in
                 vogue
                 in
                 spite
                 of
                 all
                 the
                 damning
                 Crew
                 ;
              
               
                 Till
                 the
                 last
                 Scene
                 of
                 this
                 great
                 Theatre
                 ,
              
               
                 Clos'd
                 ,
                 and
                 shut
                 down
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 numerous
                 Actors
                 all
                 retire
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 grand
                 Play
                 of
                 humane
                 Life
                 be
                 done
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 IX
                 .
              
               
                 Beshrew
                 those
                 envious
                 Tongues
                 ,
                 who
                 seek
                 to
                 blast
                 thy
                 Bays
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 Spots
                 in
                 thy
                 bright
                 Fame
                 would
                 find
                 ,
                 or
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 say
                 ,
                 it
                 only
                 shines
                 with
                 borrow'd
                 Rays
                 ;
              
               
                 Rich
                 in
                 thy self
                 ,
                 to
                 whose
                 unbounded
                 store
              
               
                 Exhausted
                 Nature
                 could
                 vouchsafe
                 no
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 could'st
                 alone
                 the
                 Empire
                 of
                 the
                 Stage
                 maintain
                 ,
              
               
                 Could'st
                 all
                 its
                 Grandeur
                 ,
                 and
                 its
                 Port
                 sustain
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Nor
                 neededst
                 others
                 Subsidies
                 to
                 pay
                 ,
              
               
                 Neededst
                 no
                 Tax
                 on
                 forein
                 ,
                 or
                 thy
                 native
                 Country
                 lay
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 bear
                 the
                 charges
                 of
                 thy
                 purchas'd
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 thy
                 own
                 Stock
                 could
                 raise
                 the
                 same
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 sole
                 Revenue
                 all
                 the
                 vast
                 Expence
                 defray
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 like
                 some
                 mighty
                 Conquerour
                 in
                 Poetry
                 ,
              
               
                 Design'd
                 by
                 Fate
                 of
                 choice
                 to
                 be
              
               
                 Founder
                 of
                 its
                 new
                 universal
                 Monarchy
                 ,
              
               
                 Boldly
                 thou
                 didst
                 the
                 learned
                 World
                 invade
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 all
                 around
                 thy
                 pow'rful
                 Genius
                 sway'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Soon
                 vanquish'd
                 Rome
                 ,
                 and
                 Greece
                 were
                 made
                 submit
                 ,
              
               
                 Both
                 were
                 thy
                 humble
                 Tributaries
                 made
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thou
                 return'dst
                 in
                 Triumph
                 with
                 their
                 captive
                 Wit.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 X.
                 
              
               
                 Unjust
                 ,
                 and
                 more
                 ill-natur'd
                 those
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 spiteful
                 ,
                 and
                 malicious
                 Fo●…
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 on
                 thy
                 happiest
                 Talent
                 fix
                 ●…lye
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 call
                 that
                 Slowness
                 ,
                 which
                 w●…●…are
                 ,
                 and
                 Industry
                 .
              
               
               
                 Let
                 me
                 (
                 with
                 Pride
                 so
                 to
                 be
                 guilty
                 thought
                 )
              
               
                 Share
                 all
                 thy
                 wish'd
                 Reproach
                 ,
                 and
                 share
                 th
                 shame
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 Diligence
                 be
                 deem'd
                 a
                 fault
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 to
                 be
                 faultless
                 must
                 deserve
                 their
                 Blame
                 :
              
               
                 Judg
                 of
                 thy self
                 alone
                 (
                 for
                 none
                 there
                 were
                 ,
              
               
                 Could
                 be
                 so
                 just
                 ,
                 or
                 could
                 be
                 so
                 severe
                 )
              
               
                 Thou
                 thy
                 own
                 Works
                 didst
                 strictly
                 try
              
               
                 By
                 known
                 and
                 uncontested
                 Rules
                 of
                 Poetry
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 gav'st
                 thy
                 Sentence
                 still
                 impartially
                 :
              
               
                 With
                 rigour
                 thou
                 arraign'dst
                 each
                 guilty
                 Line
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 spar'dst
                 no
                 criminal
                 Sense
                 ,
                 because
                 't
                 was
                 thine
                 :
              
               
                 Unbrib'd
                 with
                 Favour
                 ,
                 Love
                 ,
                 or
                 Self-conceit
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 For
                 never
                 ,
                 or
                 too
                 seldom
                 we
                 ,
              
               
                 Objects
                 too
                 near
                 us
                 ,
                 our
                 own
                 Blemishes
                 can
                 see
                 )
              
               
                 Thou
                 didst
                 no
                 small'st
                 Delinquencies
                 acquit
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 saw'st
                 them
                 to
                 Correction
                 all
                 submit
                 ,
              
               
                 Saw'st
                 execution
                 done
                 on
                 all
                 convicted
                 Crimes
                 of
                 Wit.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 XI
                 .
              
               
                 Some
                 curious
                 Painter
                 ,
                 taught
                 by
                 Art
                 to
                 dare
              
               
                 (
                 For
                 they
                 with
                 Poets
                 in
                 that
                 Title
                 share
                 )
              
               
                 When
                 he
                 would
                 undertake
                 a
                 glorious
                 Frame
              
               
                 Of
                 lasting
                 Worth
                 ,
                 and
                 fadeless
                 as
                 his
                 Fame
                 ;
              
               
                 Long
                 he
                 contrives
                 ,
                 and
                 weighs
                 the
                 bold
                 Design
                 ,
              
               
                 Long
                 holds
                 his
                 doubting
                 hand
                 ere
                 he
                 begin
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 justly
                 then
                 proportions
                 every
                 stroke
                 ,
                 and
                 line
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 oft
                 he
                 brings
                 it
                 to
                 review
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 oft
                 he
                 does
                 deface
                 ,
                 and
                 dashes
                 oft
                 anew
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 mixes
                 Oils
                 to
                 make
                 the
                 flitting
                 Colours
                 dure
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 keep
                 'em
                 from
                 the
                 tarnish
                 of
                 injurious
                 Time
                 secure
                 ;
              
               
                 Finish'd
                 at
                 length
                 in
                 all
                 that
                 Care
                 ,
                 and
                 Skill
                 can
                 do
              
               
                 The
                 matchless
                 Piece
                 is
                 set
                 to
                 publick
                 View
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 surpriz'd
                 about
                 it
                 wond'ring
                 stand
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 tho
                 no
                 name
                 be
                 found
                 below
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 strait
                 discernth
                 '
                 unimitable
                 hand
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 strait
                 they
                 cry
                 't
                 is
                 Titian
                 ,
                 or
                 't
                 is
                 Angelo
                 :
              
               
               
                 So
                 thy
                 brave
                 Soul
                 ,
                 that
                 scorn'd
                 all
                 cheap
                 ,
                 and
                 easie
                 ways
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 trod
                 no
                 common
                 road
                 to
                 Praise
                 ,
              
               
                 Would
                 not
                 with
                 rash
                 ,
                 and
                 speedy
                 Negligence
                 proceed
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 For
                 who
                 e're
                 saw
                 Perfection
                 grow
                 in
                 haste
                 ?
              
               
                 Or
                 that
                 soon
                 done
                 ,
                 which
                 must
                 for
                 ever
                 last
                 ?
                 )
              
               
                 But
                 gently
                 did
                 advance
                 with
                 wary
                 heed
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 shew'd
                 that
                 mastery
                 is
                 most
                 in
                 justness
                 read
                 :
              
               
                 Nought
                 ever
                 issued
                 from
                 thy
                 teeming
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 had
                 gone
                 full
                 time
                 ,
                 could
                 write
                 exactly
                 best
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 stand
                 the
                 sharpest
                 Censure
                 ,
                 and
                 def●…e
                 the
                 rigid'st
                 Test.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 XII
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 thus
                 th'
                 Almighty
                 Poet
                 (
                 if
                 we
                 dare
              
               
                 Our
                 weak
                 ,
                 and
                 meaner
                 Acts
                 with
                 his
                 compare
                 )
              
               
                 When
                 he
                 the
                 Worlds
                 fair
                 Poem
                 did
                 of
                 old
                 design
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Work
                 ,
                 which
                 now
                 must
                 boast
                 no
                 longer
                 date
                 than
                 thine
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Tho
                 't
                 was
                 in
                 him
                 alike
                 to
                 will
                 ,
                 and
                 do
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho
                 the
                 same
                 Word
                 that
                 spoke
                 ,
                 could
                 make
                 it
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 would
                 he
                 not
                 such
                 quick
                 ,
                 and
                 hasty
                 methods
                 use
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 did
                 an
                 instant
                 (
                 which
                 it
                 might
                 )
                 the
                 great
                 effect
                 produce
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 th'
                 All-wise
                 himself
                 in
                 Council
                 sate
                 ,
              
               
                 Vouchsaf'd
                 to
                 think
                 and
                 be
                 deliberate
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 Heaven
                 consider'd
                 ,
                 and
                 th'
                 Eternal
                 Wit
                 ,
                 and
                 sense
                 ,
              
               
                 Seem'd
                 to
                 take
                 time
                 ,
                 and
                 care
                 ,
                 and
                 pains
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 shew'd
                 that
                 some
                 uncommon
                 Birth
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 something
                 worthy
                 of
                 a
                 God
                 was
                 coming
                 forth
                 ;
              
               
                 Nought
                 uncorrect
                 there
                 was
                 ,
                 nought
                 faulty
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 point
                 amiss
                 did
                 in
                 the
                 large
                 voluminous
                 Piece
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 the
                 glorious
                 Author
                 all
                 survey'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Survey'd
                 whate're
                 his
                 mighty
                 Labours
                 made
                 ,
              
               
                 Well-pleas'd
                 he
                 was
                 to
                 find
              
               
                 All
                 answer'd
                 the
                 great
                 Model
                 ,
                 and
                 Idea
                 of
                 his
                 Mind
              
               
               
                 Pleas'd
                 at
                 himself
                 He
                 in
                 high
                 wonder
                 stood
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 much
                 his
                 Power
                 ,
                 and
                 much
                 his
                 Wisdom
                 did
                 applaud
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 see
                 how
                 all
                 was
                 perfect
                 ,
                 all
                 transcendent
                 Good.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 XIII
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 meaner
                 spirits
                 stoop
                 to
                 low
                 precarious
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 Content
                 on
                 gross
                 and
                 coarse
                 Applause
                 to
                 live
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 what
                 the
                 dull
                 ,
                 and
                 sensless
                 Rabble
                 give
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 didst
                 it
                 still
                 with
                 noble
                 scorn
                 contemn
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 would'st
                 that
                 wretched
                 Alms
                 receive
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 poor
                 subsistence
                 of
                 some
                 bankrupt
                 ,
                 sordid
                 name
                 :
              
               
                 Thine
                 was
                 no
                 empty
                 Vapour
                 ,
                 rais'd
                 beneath
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 form'd
                 of
                 common
                 Breath
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 false
                 ,
                 and
                 foolish
                 Fire
                 ,
                 that
                 's
                 whisk'd
                 about
              
               
                 By
                 popular
                 Air
                 ,
                 and
                 glares
                 a
                 while
                 ,
                 and
                 then
                 goes
                 out
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 't
                 was
                 a
                 solid
                 ,
                 whole
                 ,
                 and
                 perfect
                 Globe
                 of
                 light
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 shone
                 all
                 over
                 ,
                 was
                 all
                 over
                 bright
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 dar'd
                 all
                 sullying
                 Clouds
                 ,
                 and
                 fear'd
                 no
                 darkning
                 night
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Like
                 the
                 gay
                 Monarch
                 of
                 the
                 Stars
                 and
                 Sky
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 wheresoe're
                 he
                 does
                 display
              
               
                 His
                 sovereign
                 Lustre
                 ,
                 and
                 majestick
                 Ray
                 ,
              
               
                 Strait
                 all
                 the
                 less
                 ,
                 and
                 petty
                 Glories
                 nigh
              
               
                 Vanish
                 ,
                 and
                 shrink
                 away
                 .
              
               
                 O'rewhelm'd
                 ,
                 and
                 swallow'd
                 by
                 the
                 greater
                 blaze
                 of
                 Day
                 ;
              
               
                 With
                 such
                 a
                 strong
                 ,
                 an
                 awful
                 and
                 victorious
                 Beam
              
               
                 Appear'd
                 ,
                 and
                 ever
                 shall
                 appear
                 ,
                 thy
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 View'd
                 ,
                 and
                 ador'd
                 by
                 all
                 th'
                 undoubted
                 Race
                 of
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 only
                 can
                 endure
                 to
                 look
                 on
                 it
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 rest
                 o'recome
                 with
                 too
                 much
                 light
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 too
                 much
                 brightness
                 dazled
                 ,
                 or
                 extinguish'd
                 quite
                 :
              
               
                 Restless
                 ,
                 and
                 uncontroul'd
                 it
                 now
                 shall
                 pass
              
               
                 As
                 wide
                 a
                 course
                 about
                 the
                 World
                 as
                 he
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 his
                 long-repeated
                 Travels
                 cease
              
               
                 Begin
                 a
                 new
                 ,
                 and
                 vaster
                 Race
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 still
                 tread
                 round
                 the
                 endless
                 Circle
                 of
                 Eternity
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               THE
               NINTH
               ODE
               Of
               the
               Third
               Book
               of
               HORACE
               ,
               IMITATED
               .
            
             
               A
               Dialogue
               betwixt
               the
               Poet
               and
               Lydia
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Donec
                   Gratus
                   eram
                   tibi
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 Hor.
                 WHile
                 you
                 for
                 me
                 alone
                 had
                 Charms
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 none
                 more
                 welcome
                 fill'd
                 your
                 Arms
                 ,
              
               
                 Proud
                 with
                 content
                 ,
                 I
                 slighted
                 Crowns
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 pitied
                 Monarchs
                 on
                 their
                 Thrones
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 Lyd.
                 While
                 you
                 thought
                 Lydia
                 only
                 fair
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 lov'd
                 no
                 other
                 Nymph
                 but
                 her
                 ,
              
               
                 Lydia
                 was
                 happier
                 in
                 your
                 Love
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 the
                 bless'd
                 Virgins
                 are
                 above
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 III.
                 
              
               
                 Hor.
                 Now
                 Chloes
                 charming
                 Voice
                 ,
                 and
                 Art
              
               
                 Have
                 gain'd
                 the
                 conquest
                 of
                 my
                 Heart
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 whom
                 ,
                 ye
                 Fates
                 ,
                 I
                 'd
                 wish
                 to
                 die
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 mine
                 the
                 Nymphs
                 dear
                 Life
                 might
                 buy
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 IV.
                 
              
               
                 
                   Lyd.
                   Thyrsis
                
                 by
                 me
                 has
                 done
                 the
                 same
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Yough
                 burns
                 me
                 with
                 mutual
                 Flame
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 whom
                 a
                 double
                 Death
                 I
                 'd
                 bear
                 ;
              
               
                 Would
                 Fate
                 my
                 dearest
                 Thyrsis
                 spare
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 V.
                 
              
               
                 Hor.
                 But
                 say
                 ,
                 fair
                 Nymph
                 ,
                 if
                 I
                 once
                 more
              
               
                 Become
                 your
                 Captive
                 as
                 before
                 ?
              
               
                 Say
                 ,
                 I
                 throw
                 off
                 my
                 Chloes
                 chain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 take
                 you
                 to
                 my
                 Breast
                 again
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 VI.
                 
              
               
                 Lyd.
                 Why
                 then
                 ,
                 tho
                 he
                 more
                 bright
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 More
                 constant
                 than
                 a
                 fixed
                 Star
                 ;
              
               
                 Tho
                 you
                 than
                 Wind
                 more
                 fickle
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 rougher
                 than
                 the
                 stormy
                 Sea.
              
               
                 By
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 its
                 Pow'rs
                 I
                 vow
              
               
                 I
                 'd
                 gladly
                 live
                 ,
                 and
                 die
                 with
                 you
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               
                 UPON
                 A
                 LADY
              
               ,
               Who
               by
               overturning
               of
               a
               Coach
               ,
               had
               her
               Coats
               behind
               flung
               up
               ,
               and
               what
               was
               under
               shewn
               to
               the
               View
               of
               the
               Company
               .
            
             
               Out
               of
               Voiture
               .
            
             
               
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 PHillis
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 own'd
                 ,
                 I
                 am
                 your
                 Slave
                 ,
              
               
                 This
                 happy
                 moment
                 dates
                 your
                 Reign
                 ;
              
               
                 No
                 force
                 of
                 Humane
                 Pow'r
                 can
                 save
              
               
                 My
                 captive
                 Heart
                 ,
                 that
                 wears
                 your
                 chain
                 :
              
               
               
                 But
                 when
                 my
                 Conquest
                 you
                 design'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Pardon
                 ,
                 bright
                 Nymph
                 ,
                 if
                 I
                 declare
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 was
                 unjust
                 ,
                 and
                 too
                 severe
                 ,
              
               
                 Thus
                 to
                 attack
                 me
                 from
                 behind
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 Against
                 the
                 Charms
                 ,
                 your
                 Eyes
                 impart
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 care
                 I
                 had
                 secur'd
                 my
                 Heart
                 ;
              
               
                 On
                 all
                 the
                 wonders
                 of
                 your
                 Face
              
               
                 Could
                 safely
                 ,
                 and
                 unwounded
                 gaze
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 now
                 entirely
                 to
                 enthral
              
               
                 My
                 Breast
                 ,
                 you
                 have
                 expos'd
                 to
                 view
              
               
                 Another
                 more
                 resistless
                 Foe
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 which
                 I
                 had
                 no
                 guard
                 at
                 all
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 III.
                 
              
               
                 At
                 first
                 assault
                 constrain'd
                 to
                 yield
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 vanquish'd
                 Heart
                 resign'd
                 the
                 Field
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Freedom
                 to
                 the
                 Conquerour
              
               
                 Became
                 a
                 prey
                 that
                 very
                 hour
                 :
              
               
               
                 The
                 subtle
                 Traitor
                 ,
                 who
                 unspied
              
               
                 Had
                 lurk'd
                 till
                 now
                 in
                 close
                 disguise
                 ,
              
               
                 Lay
                 all
                 his
                 life
                 in
                 ambush
                 hid
              
               
                 At
                 last
                 to
                 kill
                 me
                 by
                 surprize
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 IV.
                 
              
               
                 A
                 sudden
                 Heat
                 my
                 Breast
                 inspir'd
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 piercing
                 Flame
                 ,
                 like
                 Light'ning
                 ,
                 sent
              
               
                 From
                 that
                 new
                 dawning
                 Firmament
              
               
                 Through
                 every
                 Vein
                 my
                 Spirits
                 fir'd
                 ;
              
               
                 My
                 Heart
                 ,
                 before
                 averse
                 to
                 Love
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 longer
                 could
                 a
                 Rebel
                 prove
                 ;
              
               
                 When
                 on
                 the
                 Grass
                 you
                 did
                 display
              
               
                 Your
                 radiant
                 B●…M
                 to
                 my
                 survey
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sham'd
                 the
                 Lustre
                 of
                 the
                 Day
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 V.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 Sun
                 in
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 abash'd
                 to
                 see
              
               
                 A
                 thing
                 more
                 gay
                 ,
                 more
                 bright
                 than
                 He
                 ,
              
               
                 Struck
                 with
                 disgrace
                 ,
                 as
                 well
                 he
                 might
                 ,
              
               
                 Thought
                 to
                 drive
                 back
                 the
                 Steeds
                 of
                 Light
                 :
              
               
               
                 His
                 Beams
                 he
                 now
                 thought
                 useless
                 grown
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 better
                 were
                 by
                 yours
                 supplied
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 having
                 once
                 seen
                 your
                 Back
                 side
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 shame
                 he
                 durst
                 not
                 shew
                 his
                 own
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 VI.
                 
              
               
                 Forsaking
                 every
                 Wood
                 ,
                 and
                 Grove
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Sylvans
                 ravish'd
                 at
                 the
                 sight
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 pressing
                 Crowds
                 about
                 you
                 strove
                 ,
              
               
                 Gazing
                 ,
                 and
                 lost
                 in
                 wonder
                 quite
                 :
              
               
                 Fond
                 Zephyr
                 seeing
                 your
                 rich
                 store
              
               
                 Of
                 Beauty
                 ,
                 undescried
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 Enamour'd
                 of
                 each
                 lovely
                 Grace
                 ,
              
               
                 Before
                 his
                 own
                 dear
                 
                 Flora's
                 face
                 ,
              
               
                 Could
                 not
                 forbear
                 to
                 kiss
                 the
                 place
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 VII
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 beauteous
                 Queen
                 of
                 Flow'rs
                 ,
                 the
                 Rose
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 blushes
                 did
                 her
                 shame
                 disclose
                 :
              
               
                 Pale
                 Lillies
                 droop'd
                 ,
                 and
                 hung
                 their
                 heads
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 shrunk
                 for
                 fear
                 into
                 their
                 Beds
                 :
              
               
               
                 The
                 amorous
                 Narcissus
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 Reclaim'd
                 of
                 fond
                 self-love
                 by
                 you
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 former
                 vain
                 desire
                 cashier'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 your
                 fair
                 Breech
                 alone
                 admir'd
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 VIII
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 this
                 bright
                 Object
                 greets
                 our
                 sight
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 others
                 lose
                 their
                 Lustre
                 quite
                 :
              
               
                 Your
                 Eyes
                 that
                 shoot
                 such
                 pointed
                 Rays
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 Beauties
                 of
                 your
                 Race
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 dwindling
                 Stars
                 ,
                 that
                 fly
                 away
              
               
                 At
                 the
                 approach
                 of
                 brighter
                 Day
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 more
                 regard
                 ,
                 or
                 value
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 its
                 Glories
                 disappear
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 IX
                 .
              
               
                 Of
                 some
                 ill
                 Qualities
                 they
                 tell
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 justly
                 give
                 me
                 cause
                 to
                 fear
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 that
                 ,
                 which
                 most
                 begets
                 despair
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 has
                 no
                 sense
                 of
                 Love
                 at
                 all
                 :
              
               
               
                 More
                 hard
                 than
                 Adamant
                 it
                 is
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 say
                 ,
                 that
                 no
                 Impression
                 takes
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 has
                 no
                 Ears
                 ,
                 nor
                 any
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 rarely
                 ,
                 very
                 rarely
                 speaks
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 X.
                 
              
               
                 Yet
                 I
                 must
                 love't
                 ,
                 and
                 own
                 my
                 Flame
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 to
                 the
                 world
                 I
                 thus
                 rehearse
                 ,
              
               
                 Throughout
                 the
                 spacious
                 coasts
                 of
                 Fame
              
               
                 To
                 stand
                 recorded
                 in
                 my
                 Verse
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 other
                 subject
                 ,
                 or
                 design
              
               
                 Henceforth
                 shall
                 be
                 my
                 Muses
                 Theme
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 with
                 just
                 Praises
                 to
                 proclaim
              
               
                 The
                 fairest
                 ARSE
                 ,
                 that
                 e're
                 was
                 seen
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XI
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 pity
                 gentle
                 Phillis
                 hide
              
               
                 The
                 dazling
                 Beams
                 of
                 your
                 Back
                 side
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 should
                 they
                 shine
                 unclouded
                 long
                 .
              
               
                 All
                 humane
                 kind
                 would
                 be
                 undone
                 .
              
               
               
                 Not
                 the
                 bright
                 Goddesses
                 on
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 reign
                 above
                 the
                 starry
                 Sky
                 ,
              
               
                 Should
                 they
                 turn
                 up
                 to
                 open
                 view
              
               
                 All
                 their
                 immortal
                 Tails
                 ,
                 can
                 shew
              
               
                 An
                 Arse-h
                 —
                 so
                 divine
                 as
                 you
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               CATULLUS
               EPIGR.
               VII
               .
               IMITATED
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Quaeris
                   quot
                   mihi
                   basiationes
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 NAY
                 ,
                 Lesbia
                 ,
                 never
                 ask
                 me
                 this
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 many
                 Kisses
                 will
                 suffice
                 ?
              
               
                 Faith
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 a
                 question
                 hard
                 to
                 tell
                 ,
              
               
                 Exceeding
                 hard
                 ;
                 for
                 you
                 as
                 well
              
               
                 Ma●…
                 ask
                 what
                 sums
                 of
                 Gold
                 suffice
              
               
                 The
                 greedy
                 Miser's
                 boundless
                 Wish
                 :
              
               
                 Think
                 what
                 drops
                 the
                 Ocean
                 store
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 all
                 the
                 Sands
                 ,
                 that
                 make
                 its
                 Shore
                 :
              
               
                 Think
                 what
                 Spangles
                 deck
                 the
                 Skies
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 Heaven
                 looks
                 with
                 all
                 its
                 Eyes
                 :
              
               
               
                 Or
                 think
                 how
                 many
                 Atoms
                 came
              
               
                 To
                 compose
                 this
                 mighty
                 Frame
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 all
                 these
                 the
                 Counters
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 tell
                 how
                 ost
                 I
                 'm
                 kiss'd
                 by
                 thee
                 :
              
               
                 Till
                 no
                 malicious
                 Spy
                 ca●…
                 guess
              
               
                 To
                 what
                 vast
                 height
                 the
                 Scores
                 arise
                 ;
              
               
                 Till
                 weak
                 Arithmetick
                 grow
                 scant
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 numbers
                 for
                 the
                 reck'ning
                 want
                 :
              
               
                 All
                 these
                 will
                 hardly
                 be
                 enough
              
               
                 For
                 me
                 stark
                 staring
                 mad
                 with
                 Love.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
             
               SOME
               ELEGIES
               OUT
               OF
               OVID'S
               Amours
               ,
               IMITATED
               .
            
             
               
                 BOOK
                 II.
                 ELEGY
                 IV.
                 That
                 he
                 loves
                 Women
                 of
                 all
                 sorts
                 and
                 sizes
                 .
              
               
                 
                   
                     Non
                     ego
                     mendosos
                     ausim
                     defendere
                     mores
                     ,
                     &c.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   NOt
                   I
                   ,
                   I
                   never
                   vainly
                   durst
                   pretend
                
                 
                   My
                   Follies
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Frailties
                   to
                   defend
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   own
                   my
                   Faults
                   ,
                   if
                   it
                   avail
                   to
                   own
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   like
                   a
                   graceless
                   Wretch
                   I
                   still
                   go
                   on
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   I
                   hate
                   my self
                   ,
                   but
                   yet
                   in
                   spite
                   of
                   Fate
                
                 
                   Am
                   fain
                   to
                   be
                   that
                   loathed
                   thing
                   I
                   hate
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   I
                   would
                   shake
                   off
                   this
                   load
                   of
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   Too
                   hard
                   to
                   bear
                   ,
                   yet
                   harder
                   to
                   remove
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   want
                   the
                   strength
                   my
                   fierce
                   Desires
                   to
                   stem
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hurried
                   away
                   by
                   the
                   impetuous
                   stream
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   not
                   one
                   Face
                   alone
                   subdues
                   my
                   Heart
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   each
                   wears
                   Charms
                   ,
                   and
                   every
                   Eye
                   a
                   Dart
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   wheresoe're
                   I
                   cast
                   my
                   Looks
                   abroad
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   every
                   place
                   I
                   find
                   Temptations
                   strow'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   modest
                   kills
                   me
                   with
                   her
                   down
                   cast
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Love
                   his
                   ambush
                   lays
                   in
                   that
                   disguise
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Brisk
                   allures
                   me
                   with
                   her
                   gaity
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   shews
                   how
                   Active
                   she
                   in
                   Bed
                   will
                   be
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   Coy
                   ,
                   like
                   cloyster'd
                   Virgins
                   ,
                   she
                   appears
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   but
                   dissembles
                   ,
                   what
                   she
                   most
                   desires
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   she
                   be
                   vers'd
                   in
                   Arts
                   ,
                   and
                   deeply
                   read
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   long
                   to
                   get
                   a
                   Learned
                   Maidenhead
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   Untaught
                   ,
                   and
                   Ignorant
                   she
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   takes
                   me
                   then
                   with
                   her
                   simplicity
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   One
                   likes
                   my
                   Verses
                   ,
                   and
                   commends
                   each
                   Line
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   swears
                   that
                   
                   Cowley's
                   are
                   but
                   dull
                   to
                   mine
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   in
                   mere
                   Gratitude
                   I
                   must
                   approve
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   who
                   ,
                   but
                   would
                   his
                   kind
                   Applauder
                   love
                   ?
                
                 
                   Another
                   damns
                   my
                   Poetry
                   ,
                   and
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   plays
                   the
                   Critick
                   most
                   judiciously
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   she
                   too
                   fires
                   my
                   Heart
                   ,
                   and
                   she
                   too
                   charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   'm
                   agog
                   to
                   have
                   her
                   in
                   my
                   arms
                   .
                
                 
                   One
                   with
                   her
                   soft
                   and
                   wanton
                   Trip
                   does
                   please
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   prints
                   in
                   every
                   step
                   ,
                   she
                   sets
                   ,
                   a
                   Grace
                   :
                
                 
                   Another
                   walks
                   with
                   stiff
                   ungainly
                   tread
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   she
                   may
                   learn
                   more
                   pliantness
                   abed
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   sweetly
                   sings
                   ;
                   her
                   Voice
                   does
                   Love
                   inspire
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   every
                   Breath
                   kindles
                   ,
                   and
                   blows
                   the
                   fire
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   can
                   forbear
                   to
                   kiss
                   those
                   Lips
                   ,
                   whose
                   sound
                
                 
                   The
                   ravish'd
                   Ears
                   does
                   with
                   such
                   softness
                   wound
                   ?
                
                 
                   That
                   sweetly
                   plays
                   :
                   and
                   while
                   her
                   Fingers
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   o're
                   the
                   bounding
                   Strings
                   their
                   touches
                   ▪
                   rove
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Heart
                   leaps
                   too
                   ,
                   and
                   every
                   Pulse
                   beats
                   Love
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   What
                   Reason
                   is
                   so
                   pow'rful
                   to
                   withstand
                
                 
                   The
                   Magick
                   force
                   of
                   that
                   resistless
                   Hand
                   ?
                
                 
                   Another
                   Dances
                   to
                   a
                   Miracle
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   moves
                   her
                   numerous
                   Limbs
                   with
                   graceful
                   skill
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   she
                   ,
                   or
                   else
                   the
                   Devil
                   's
                   in
                   't
                   ,
                   must
                   charm
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   touch
                   of
                   her
                   would
                   bed
                   rid
                   Hermits
                   warm
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   tall
                   ;
                   I
                   guess
                   what
                   plenteous
                   Game
                   she
                   'l
                   yield
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   Pleasure
                   ranges
                   o're
                   so
                   wide
                   a
                   Field
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   low
                   ;
                   she
                   's
                   pretty
                   :
                   both
                   alike
                   invite
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Dwarf
                   ,
                   and
                   Giant
                   both
                   my
                   wishes
                   fit
                   ,
                
                 
                   Undress'd
                   ;
                   I
                   think
                   how
                   killing
                   she
                   'd
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   arm'd
                   with
                   all
                   Advantages
                   she
                   were
                   :
                
                 
                   Richly
                   attir'd
                   ;
                   she
                   's
                   the
                   gay
                   Bait
                   of
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   knows
                   with
                   Art
                   to
                   set
                   her
                   Beauties
                   off
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   like
                   the
                   Fair
                   ,
                   I
                   like
                   the
                   Red
                   hair'd
                   one
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   can
                   find
                   attractions
                   in
                   the
                   Brown
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   curling
                   Jet
                   adorn
                   her
                   snowy
                   Neck
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   beauteous
                   Leda
                   is
                   reported
                   Black
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   If
                   curling
                   Gold
                   ;
                   
                   Aurora's
                   painted
                   so
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   sorts
                   of
                   Histories
                   my
                   Love
                   does
                   know
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   like
                   the
                   Young
                   with
                   all
                   her
                   blooming
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Age
                   it self
                   is
                   welcome
                   to
                   my
                   Arms
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   uncropt
                   Beauty
                   in
                   its
                   flow'r
                   assails
                   ,
                
                 
                   Experience
                   here
                   ,
                   and
                   riper
                   sense
                   prevails
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   fine
                   ,
                   whatever
                   of
                   the
                   Sex
                   are
                   known
                
                 
                   To
                   stock
                   this
                   spacious
                   and
                   well
                   furnish'd
                   Town
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whatever
                   any
                   single
                   man
                   can
                   find
                
                 
                   Agreeable
                   of
                   all
                   the
                   num'rous
                   kind
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   all
                   alike
                   my
                   haggard
                   Love
                   does
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   each
                   is
                   Game
                   ,
                   and
                   each
                   a
                   Miss
                   for
                   me
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 BOOK
                 II.
                 ELEGY
                 V.
                 To
                 his
                 Mistris
                 that
                 jilted
                 him
                 .
              
               
                 
                   
                     Nullus
                     amor
                     tanti
                     est
                     :
                     abeas
                     pharetrate
                     Cupido
                     ,
                     &c.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   NAY
                   then
                   the
                   Devil
                   take
                   all
                   Love
                   !
                   if
                   I
                
                 
                   So
                   oft
                   for
                   its
                   damn'd
                   sake
                   must
                   wish
                   to
                   die
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   can
                   I
                   wish
                   for
                   but
                   to
                   die
                   ,
                   when
                   you
                   .
                
                 
                   Dear
                   faithless
                   Thing
                   ,
                   I
                   find
                   ,
                   could
                   prove
                   untrue
                   ?
                
                 
                   Why
                   am
                   I
                   curs'd
                   with
                   Life
                   ?
                   why
                   am
                   I
                   fain
                
                 
                   For
                   thee
                   ,
                   false
                   Jilt
                   ,
                   to
                   bear
                   eternal
                   Pain
                   ?
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   not
                   thy
                   Letters
                   ,
                   which
                   thy
                   Crimes
                   reveal
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   secret
                   Presents
                   ,
                   which
                   ,
                   thy
                   Falshood
                   tell
                   :
                
                 
                   Would
                   God!
                   my
                   just
                   suspicions
                   wanted
                   cause
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   they
                   might
                   prove
                   less
                   fatal
                   to
                   my
                   ease
                   :
                
                 
                   Would
                   God!
                   less
                   colour
                   for
                   thy
                   guilt
                   there
                   were
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   that
                   (
                   alas
                   !
                   )
                   too
                   much
                   of
                   proof
                   does
                   bear
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Bless'd
                   he
                   ,
                   who
                   what
                   he
                   loves
                   can
                   justifie
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   his
                   Mistris
                   can
                   the
                   Fact
                   deny
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   boldly
                   give
                   his
                   Jealousie
                   the
                   lye
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cruel
                   the
                   Man
                   ,
                   and
                   uncompassionate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   too
                   indulgent
                   to
                   his
                   own
                   Regret
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   seeks
                   to
                   have
                   her
                   guilt
                   too
                   manifest
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   the
                   murd'ring
                   secret
                   stabs
                   his
                   Rest.
                
                 
                   I
                   saw
                   ,
                   when
                   little
                   you
                   suspected
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   sleep
                   ,
                   you
                   thought
                   ,
                   gave
                   opportunity
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Crimes
                   I
                   saw
                   ,
                   and
                   these
                   unhappy
                   eyes
                
                 
                   Of
                   all
                   your
                   hidden
                   stealths
                   were
                   Witnesses
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   saw
                   in
                   signs
                   your
                   mutual
                   Wishes
                   read
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Nods
                   the
                   message
                   of
                   your
                   Hearts
                   convey'd
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   saw
                   the
                   conscious
                   Board
                   ,
                   which
                   writ
                   all
                   o're
                
                 
                   With
                   scrawls
                   of
                   Wine
                   ,
                   Love's
                   mystick
                   Cypher
                   bore
                   :
                
                 
                   Your
                   Glances
                   were
                   not
                   mute
                   ,
                   but
                   each
                   bewray'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   your
                   Fingers
                   Dialogues
                   were
                   made
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   understood
                   the
                   Language
                   out
                   of
                   hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   For
                   what
                   's
                   too
                   hard
                   for
                   Love
                   to
                   understand
                   ?
                   )
                
                 
                 
                   Full
                   well
                   I
                   understood
                   for
                   what
                   intent
                
                 
                   All
                   this
                   dumb
                   Talk
                   ,
                   and
                   silent
                   Hints
                   were
                   meant
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   the
                   Ghests
                   were
                   from
                   the
                   Table
                   fled
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   Company
                   retir'd
                   to
                   bed
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   saw
                   you
                   then
                   with
                   wanton
                   Kisses
                   greet
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Tongues
                   (
                   I
                   saw
                   )
                   did
                   in
                   your
                   Kisses
                   meet
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   such
                   as
                   Sisters
                   to
                   their
                   Brothers
                   give
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Lovers
                   from
                   their
                   Mistrisses
                   receive
                   :
                
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   the
                   God
                   of
                   War
                   ,
                   and
                   Paphian
                   Queen
                
                 
                   Did
                   in
                   the
                   height
                   of
                   their
                   Embraces
                   joyn
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Patience
                     ,
                     ye
                     Gods
                     !
                     (
                     I
                     cried
                     )
                     what
                     is
                     't
                     I
                     see
                     ?
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Unfaithful
                     !
                     why
                     this
                     Treachery
                     to
                     me
                     ?
                  
                
                 
                   
                     How
                     dare
                     you
                     let
                     another
                     in
                     my
                     sight
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Invade
                     my
                     native
                     Property
                     ,
                     and
                     Right
                     ?
                  
                
                 
                   
                     He
                     must
                     not
                     ,
                     shall
                     not
                     do
                     't
                     :
                     by
                     Love
                     I
                     swear
                  
                
                 
                   
                     I
                     'll
                     seize
                     the
                     bold
                     usurping
                     Ravisher
                     :
                  
                
                 
                   
                     T●…
                     are
                     my
                     Free
                     hold
                     ,
                     and
                     the
                     Fates
                     design
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     That
                     you
                     should
                     be
                     unalienably
                     mine
                     :
                  
                
                 
                   
                     These
                     Favours
                     all
                     to
                     me
                     impropriate
                     are
                     :
                  
                
                 
                   
                     How
                     comes
                     another
                     then
                     to
                     trespass
                     here
                     ?
                  
                
                 
                 
                   This
                   ,
                   and
                   much
                   more
                   I
                   said
                   ,
                   by
                   Rage
                   inspir'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   conscious
                   shame
                   her
                   Cheeks
                   with
                   Blushes
                   fir'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Such
                   lovely
                   stains
                   the
                   face
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   adorn
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Light
                   's
                   first
                   blushes
                   paint
                   the
                   bashful
                   Morn
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   on
                   the
                   Bush
                   the
                   flaming
                   Rose
                   does
                   glow
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   mingled
                   with
                   the
                   Lillies
                   neighb'ring
                   Snow
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   ,
                   or
                   some
                   other
                   Colour
                   much
                   like
                   these
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   semblance
                   then
                   of
                   here
                   Complexion
                   was
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   while
                   her
                   Looks
                   that
                   sweet
                   Disorder
                   wore
                
                 
                   Chance
                   added
                   Beauties
                   undisclos'd
                   before
                   :
                
                 
                   Upon
                   the
                   ground
                   she
                   cast
                   her
                   jetty
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Eyes
                   shot
                   fiercer
                   Darts
                   in
                   that
                   Disgulse
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   Face
                   a
                   sad
                   and
                   mournful
                   Air
                   express'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Face
                   more
                   lovely
                   seem'd
                   in
                   sadness
                   dress'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Urg'd
                   by
                   Revenge
                   ,
                   I
                   hardly
                   could
                   forbear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   braided
                   Locks
                   ,
                   and
                   tender
                   Cheeks
                   to
                   tear
                   :
                
                 
                   Yet
                   I
                   no
                   sooner
                   had
                   her
                   Face
                   survey'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   strait
                   the
                   tempest
                   of
                   my
                   Rage
                   was
                   laid
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   A
                   look
                   of
                   her
                   did
                   my
                   Resentments
                   charm
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   look
                   of
                   her
                   did
                   all
                   their
                   Force
                   disarm
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   ,
                   that
                   fierce
                   outrageous
                   thing
                   e're-while
                   ,
                
                 
                   Grow
                   calm
                   as
                   Infants
                   ,
                   when
                   in
                   sleep
                   they
                   smile
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   a
                   Kiss
                   am
                   humbly
                   fain
                   to
                   crave
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   smil'd
                   ,
                   and
                   strait
                   a
                   throng
                   of
                   Kisses
                   prest
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   worst
                   of
                   which
                   ,
                   should
                   Jove
                   himself
                   but
                   taste
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   brandish'd
                   Thunder
                   from
                   his
                   Hand
                   would
                   wrest
                   :
                
                 
                   Well-pleas'd
                   I
                   was
                   ,
                   and
                   yet
                   tormented
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   fear
                   my
                   envied
                   Rival
                   felt
                   them
                   so
                   :
                
                 
                   Better
                   they
                   seem'd
                   by
                   far
                   than
                   I
                   ere
                   taught
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   she
                   in
                   them
                   shew'd
                   something
                   new
                   methought
                   :
                
                 
                   Fond
                   jealous
                   I
                   my self
                   the
                   Pleasure
                   grutch
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   they
                   displeas'd
                   ,
                   because
                   they
                   pleas'd
                   too
                   much
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   in
                   my
                   mouth
                   I
                   felt
                   her
                   darting
                   Tongue
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   wounded
                   Thoughts
                   it
                   with
                   suspicion
                   stung
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Nor
                   is
                   it
                   this
                   alone
                   afflicts
                   my
                   mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   More
                   reason
                   for
                   complaint
                   remains
                   behind
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   grieve
                   not
                   only
                   that
                   she
                   Kisses
                   gave
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho
                   that
                   affords
                   me
                   cause
                   enough
                   to
                   grieve
                   :
                
                 
                   Such
                   never
                   could
                   be
                   taught
                   her
                   but
                   in
                   Bed
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Heav'n
                   knows
                   what
                   Reward
                   her
                   Teacher
                   had
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 BOOK
                 II.
                 ELEGY
                 X.
                 To
                 a
                 Friend
                 ,
                 Acquainting
                 him
                 ,
                 that
                 he
                 is
                 in
                 Love
                 with
                 two
                 at
                 one
                 time
                 .
              
               
                 
                   
                     Tu
                     mihi
                     ,
                     tu
                     certè
                     (
                     memini
                     )
                     Graecine
                     ,
                     negabas
                     ,
                     &c.
                     
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   'VE
                   heard
                   ,
                   my
                   Friend
                   ,
                   and
                   heard
                   it
                   said
                   by
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   man
                   at
                   once
                   could
                   ever
                   well
                   love
                   two
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   I
                   was
                   much
                   deceiv'd
                   upon
                   that
                   score
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   single
                   I
                   at
                   once
                   love
                   one
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   :
                
                 
                   Two
                   at
                   one
                   time
                   reign
                   joyntly
                   in
                   my
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Both
                   handsom
                   are
                   ,
                   both
                   charming
                   ,
                   both
                   well-dress'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   hang
                   me
                   ,
                   if
                   I
                   know
                   ,
                   which
                   takes
                   me
                   best
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   This
                   Fairer
                   is
                   thao
                   that
                   ,
                   and
                   that
                   than
                   this
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   more
                   than
                   this
                   :
                   and
                   this
                   than
                   that
                   does
                   please
                   :
                
                 
                   Tost
                   ,
                   like
                   a
                   Ship
                   ,
                   by
                   diffrent
                   gusts
                   of
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   to
                   this
                   Point
                   ,
                   and
                   now
                   to
                   that
                   I
                   move
                   .
                
                 
                   Why
                   ,
                   Love
                   ,
                   why
                   dost
                   thou
                   double
                   thus
                   my
                   pains
                   ?
                
                 
                   Was
                   't
                   not
                   enough
                   to
                   bear
                   one
                   Tyrant's
                   chains
                   ?
                
                 
                   Why
                   ,
                   Goddess
                   ,
                   do'st
                   thou
                   vainly
                   lavish
                   more
                
                 
                   On
                   one
                   ,
                   that
                   was
                   top-full
                   of
                   Love
                   before
                   ?
                
                 
                   Yet
                   thus
                   I
                   'd
                   rather
                   love
                   ,
                   than
                   not
                   at
                   all
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   that
                   ill
                   Curse
                   my
                   Enemies
                   befal
                   :
                
                 
                   May
                   my
                   worst
                   Foe
                   be
                   damn'd
                   to
                   love
                   of
                   none
                   ,
                
                 
                   Be
                   damn'd
                   to
                   Continence
                   ,
                   and
                   lie
                   alone
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   Loves
                   alarms
                   each
                   night
                   disturb
                   my
                   Rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   drowsie
                   sleep
                   never
                   approach
                   my
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   strait-way
                   thence
                   be
                   by
                   new
                   Pleasure
                   chas'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   Pleasure
                   in
                   succession
                   keep
                   my
                   Sense
                
                 
                   Ever
                   awake
                   ,
                   or
                   ever
                   in
                   a
                   Trance
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   me
                   lie
                   melting
                   in
                   my
                   fair
                   One's
                   Arms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Riot
                   in
                   Bliss
                   ,
                   and
                   surfeit
                   on
                   her
                   Charms
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Let
                   her
                   undo
                   me
                   there
                   without
                   controul
                   ,
                
                 
                   Drain
                   nature
                   quite
                   ,
                   suck
                   out
                   my
                   very
                   Soul
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   if
                   by
                   one
                   I
                   can't
                   enough
                   be
                   drawn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Give
                   me
                   another
                   ,
                   clap
                   more
                   Leeches
                   on
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   have
                   made
                   me
                   of
                   the
                   sporting
                   kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   for
                   the
                   Feat
                   my
                   Pliant
                   Limbs
                   design'd
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   Nature
                   has
                   in
                   Bulk
                   to
                   me
                   denied
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Sinews
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   vigour
                   is
                   supplied
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   should
                   my
                   Strength
                   be
                   wanting
                   to
                   Desire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pleasure
                   would
                   add
                   new
                   Fewel
                   to
                   the
                   Fire
                   :
                
                 
                   Oft
                   in
                   soft
                   Battels
                   have
                   I
                   spent
                   the
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   rose
                   next
                   Morning
                   vig'rous
                   for
                   the
                   Fight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fresh
                   as
                   the
                   Day
                   ,
                   and
                   active
                   as
                   the
                   Light
                   :
                
                 
                   No
                   Maid
                   ,
                   that
                   ever
                   under
                   me
                   took
                   pay
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   my
                   Embrace
                   went
                   unoblig'd
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   Bless'd
                   he
                   ,
                   who
                   in
                   Loves
                   service
                   yields
                   his
                   Breath
                   ,
                
                 
                   Grant
                   me
                   ,
                   ye
                   Gods
                   ,
                   so
                   sweet
                   ,
                   to
                   wish'd
                   a
                   Death
                   !
                
                 
                   In
                   bloudy
                   Fields
                   let
                   Souldiers
                   meet
                   their
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   purchase
                   dear
                   bought
                   Honour
                   at
                   the
                   rate
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Let
                   greedy
                   Merchants
                   trust
                   the
                   faithless
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   shipwrack
                   Life
                   and
                   Soul
                   for
                   sordid
                   gain
                   :
                
                 
                   Dying
                   ,
                   let
                   me
                   expire
                   in
                   gasps
                   of
                   Lust
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   a
                   gush
                   of
                   Joy
                   give
                   up
                   the
                   Ghost
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   some
                   kind
                   pitying
                   Friend
                   shall
                   say
                   of
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     So
                     did
                     he
                     live
                     ,
                     and
                     so
                     deserv'd
                     to
                     die
                     .
                  
                
              
            
          
           
             
             
               A
               FRAGMENT
               of
               PETRONIUS
               ,
               PARAPHRAS'D
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Foeda
                   est
                   in
                   coitu
                   ,
                   &
                   brevis
                   voluptas
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 I
                 Hate
                 Fruition
                 ,
                 now
                 't
                 is
                 past
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 all
                 but
                 nastiness
                 at
                 best
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 homeliest
                 thing
                 ,
                 that
                 man
                 can
                 do
                 ,
              
               
                 Besides
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 short
                 ,
                 and
                 fleeting
                 too
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 squirt
                 of
                 slippery
                 Delight
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 with
                 a
                 moment
                 takes
                 its
                 flight
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 fulsom
                 Bliss
                 ,
                 that
                 soon
                 does
                 cloy
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 makes
                 us
                 loath
                 what
                 we
                 enjoy
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 let
                 us
                 not
                 too
                 eager
                 run
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 Passion
                 blindly
                 hurried
                 on
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Like
                 Beasts
                 ,
                 who
                 nothing
                 better
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 what
                 meer
                 Lust
                 〈◊〉
                 them
                 to
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 when
                 in
                 Flouds
                 of
                 Love
                 we
                 're
                 dronch'd
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Flames
                 are
                 by
                 enjoyment
                 quench'd
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 thus
                 ,
                 let
                 's
                 thus
                 together
                 lie
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 kiss
                 out
                 long
                 Eternity
                 :
              
               
                 Here
                 we
                 dread
                 no
                 conscious
                 Spies
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 blushes
                 stain
                 our
                 guiltless
                 Joys
                 :
              
               
                 Here
                 no
                 Faintness
                 dulls
                 Desires
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Pleasure
                 never
                 flags
                 ,
                 nor
                 tires
                 :
              
               
                 This
                 has
                 pleas'd
                 ,
                 and
                 pleases
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 Ages
                 will
                 do
                 so
                 :
              
            
             
               
                 Enjoyment
                 here
                 is
                 never
                 done
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 fresh
                 ,
                 and
                 always
                 but
                 begun
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               AN
               ODE
               OF
               ANACREON
               ,
               PARAPHRAS'D
               .
            
             
               The
               CUP
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                  
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 MAke
                 me
                 a
                 Bowl
                 ,
                 a
                 mighty
                 Bowl
                 ,
              
               
                 Large
                 ,
                 as
                 my
                 capacious
                 Soul
                 ,
              
               
                 Vast
                 ,
                 as
                 my
                 thirst
                 is
                 ;
                 let
                 it
                 have
              
               
                 Depth
                 enough
                 to
                 be
                 my
                 Grave
                 ;
              
               
               
                 I
                 mean
                 the
                 Grave
                 of
                 all
                 my
                 Care
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 I
                 intend
                 to
                 bury't
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 it
                 of
                 Silver
                 fashion'd
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Worthy
                 of
                 Wine
                 ,
                 worthy
                 of
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 Worthy
                 to
                 adorn
                 the
                 Spheres
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 that
                 bright
                 Cup
                 amongst
                 the
                 Stars
                 :
              
               
                 That
                 Cup
                 which
                 Heaven
                 deign'd
                 a
                 place
                 :
              
               
                 Next
                 the
                 Sun
                 its
                 greatest
                 Grace
                 .
              
               
                 Kind
                 Cup
                 !
                 that
                 to
                 the
                 Stars
                 did
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 light
                 poor
                 Drunkards
                 her
                 below
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 mine
                 be
                 so
                 ,
                 and
                 give
                 me
                 light
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 I
                 may
                 drink
                 ,
                 and
                 revel
                 by
                 't
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 draw
                 no
                 shapes
                 of
                 Armour
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 Cask
                 ,
                 nor
                 Shield
                 ,
                 nor
                 Sword
                 ,
                 nor
                 Spear
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 Wars
                 of
                 Thebes
                 ,
                 nor
                 Wars
                 of
                 Troy
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 any
                 other
                 martial
                 Toy
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 what
                 do
                 I
                 vain
                 Armour
                 prize
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 mind
                 not
                 such
                 rough
                 Exercise
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 gentler
                 Sieges
                 ,
                 softer
                 Wars
                 ,
              
               
                 Fights
                 ,
                 that
                 cause
                 no
                 Wounds
                 ,
                 or
                 Scars
                 ?
                 )
              
               
               
                 I
                 'll
                 have
                 no
                 Battels
                 on
                 my
                 Plate
                 ,
              
               
                 Lest
                 sight
                 of
                 them
                 should
                 Brawls
                 create
                 ,
              
               
                 Lest
                 that
                 provoke
                 to
                 Quarrels
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 Wine
                 it self
                 enough
                 can
                 do
                 .
              
               
                 Draw
                 me
                 no
                 Constellations
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 Ram
                 ,
                 nor
                 Bull
                 ,
                 nor
                 Dog
                 ,
                 nor
                 Bear
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 any
                 of
                 that
                 monstrous
                 fry
              
               
                 Of
                 Animals
                 ,
                 which
                 stock
                 the
                 sky
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 what
                 are
                 Stars
                 to
                 my
                 Design
                 ,
              
               
                 Stars
                 ,
                 which
                 I
                 ,
                 when
                 drunk
                 ,
                 out-shine
                 ,
              
               
                 Out-shone
                 by
                 every
                 drop
                 of
                 Wine
                 ?
              
               
                 I
                 lack
                 no
                 Pole-Star
                 on
                 the
                 Brink
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 guide
                 in
                 the
                 wide
                 Sea
                 of
                 Drink
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 would
                 for
                 ever
                 there
                 be
                 tost
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 wish
                 no
                 Haven
                 ,
                 seek
                 no
                 Coast.
              
               
                 Yet
                 ,
                 Gentle
                 Artist
                 ,
                 if
                 thou
                 'lt
                 try
              
               
                 Thy
                 Skill
                 ,
                 then
                 draw
                 me
                 (
                 let
                 me
                 see
                 )
              
               
                 Draw
                 me
                 first
                 a
                 spreading
                 Vine
                 ,
              
               
                 Make
                 its
                 Arms
                 the
                 Bowl
                 entwine
                 ,
              
               
               
                 With
                 kind
                 embraces
                 ,
                 such
                 as
                 I
              
               
                 Twist
                 about
                 my
                 loving
                 she
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 its
                 Boughs
                 o're-spread
                 above
              
               
                 Scenes
                 of
                 Drinking
                 ,
                 Scenes
                 of
                 Love
                 :
              
               
                 Draw
                 next
                 the
                 Patron
                 of
                 that
                 Tree
                 ,
              
               
                 Draw
                 Bacchus
                 and
                 sost
                 Cupid
                 by
                 ;
              
               
                 Draw
                 them
                 both
                 in
                 toping
                 Shapes
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 Temples
                 crown'd
                 with
                 cluster'd
                 Grapes
                 :
              
               
                 Make
                 them
                 lean
                 against
                 the
                 Cup
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 't
                 were
                 to
                 keep
                 their
                 Figures
                 up
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 their
                 reeling
                 Forms
                 I
                 view
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 think
                 them
                 drunk
                 ,
                 and
                 be
                 so
                 too
                 :
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Gods
                 shall
                 my
                 examples
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Gods
                 ,
                 thus
                 drunk
                 in
                 Effigy
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               An
               Allusion
               to
               MARTIAL
               .
               BOOK
               I.
               EPIG
               .
               118.
               
            
             
               
                 AS
                 oft
                 ,
                 Sir
                 Tradewel
                 ,
                 as
                 we
                 meet
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 're
                 sure
                 to
                 ask
                 me
                 in
                 the
                 street
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 you
                 shall
                 send
                 your
                 Boy
                 to
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 fetch
                 my
                 Book
                 of
                 Poetry
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 promise
                 you
                 'l
                 but
                 read
                 it
                 o're
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 faithfully
                 the
                 Loan
                 restore
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 let
                 me
                 ye
                 as
                 a
                 Friend
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 need
                 not
                 take
                 the
                 pains
                 to
                 send
                 :
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 a
                 long
                 way
                 to
                 where
                 I
                 dwell
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 farther
                 end
                 of
                 Clarkenwel
                 :
              
               
               
                 There
                 in
                 a
                 Garret
                 near
                 the
                 Sky
                 ,
              
               
                 Above
                 five
                 pair
                 of
                 Stairs
                 I
                 lie
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 'd
                 have
                 ,
                 what
                 you
                 pretend
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 may
                 procure
                 it
                 nearer
                 hand
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 Cornhil
                 ,
                 where
                 you
                 often
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 Hard
                 by
                 th'
                 Exchange
                 ,
                 there
                 is
                 ,
                 you
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Shop
                 of
                 Rhime
                 ,
                 where
                 you
                 may
                 see
              
               
                 The
                 Posts
                 all
                 clad
                 in
                 Poetry
                 ;
              
               
                 There
                 H
                 —
                 lives
                 of
                 high
                 renown
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 noted'st
                 TORY
                 in
                 the
                 Town
                 :
              
               
                 Where
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 please
                 ,
                 enquire
                 for
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 he
                 ,
                 or
                 's
                 Prentice
                 ,
                 presently
              
               
                 From
                 the
                 next
                 Shelf
                 will
                 reach
                 you
                 down
              
               
                 The
                 Piece
                 well
                 bound
                 for
                 half
                 a
                 Crown
                 :
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Price
                   is
                   much
                   too
                   dear
                   ,
                
                 you
                 cry
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   To
                   give
                   for
                   both
                   the
                   Book
                   ,
                   and
                   me
                   :
                
              
               
                 Yes
                 doubtless
                 ,
                 for
                 such
                 vanities
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 know
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 you
                 are
                 too
                 too
                 wise
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               THE
               DREAM
               .
            
             
               Written
               ,
               March
               10.
               1677.
               
            
             
               
                 LAte
                 as
                 I
                 on
                 my
                 Bed
                 reposing
                 lay
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 soft
                 sleep
                 forgot
                 the
                 Toils
                 of
                 Day
                 ,
              
               
                 My self
                 ,
                 my
                 Cares
                 ,
                 and
                 Love
                 ,
                 all
                 charm'd
                 to
                 Rest
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 Tumults
                 of
                 my
                 waking
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 Quiet
                 and
                 calm
                 ,
                 as
                 was
                 the
                 silent
                 Night
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 stillness
                 did
                 to
                 that
                 bless'd
                 sleep
                 invite
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 dreamt
                 ,
                 and
                 strait
                 this
                 visionary
                 Scene
              
               
                 Did
                 with
                 Delight
                 my
                 Fancy
                 entertain
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 I
                 saw
                 ,
                 methought
                 ,
                 a
                 lonely
                 Privacy
                 ,
              
               
                 Remote
                 alike
                 from
                 man's
                 ,
                 and
                 Heavens
                 Eye
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Girt
                 with
                 the
                 covert
                 of
                 a
                 shady
                 Grove
                 ,
              
               
                 Dark
                 as
                 my
                 thoughts
                 ,
                 and
                 secret
                 as
                 my
                 Love
                 :
              
               
                 Hard
                 by
                 a
                 Stream
                 did
                 with
                 that
                 softness
                 creep
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 't
                 were
                 by
                 its
                 own
                 murmurs
                 husht
                 asleep
                 ;
              
               
                 On
                 its
                 green
                 Bank
                 under
                 a
                 spreading
                 Tree
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 once
                 a
                 pleasant
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 shelt'ring
                 Canopy
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 I
                 ,
                 and
                 there
                 my
                 dear
                 Cosmelia
                 sate
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 envied
                 Monarchs
                 in
                 our
                 safe
                 Retreat
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 heretofore
                 were
                 the
                 first
                 Lovers
                 laid
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 same
                 Turf
                 of
                 which
                 themselves
                 were
                 made
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 while
                 I
                 did
                 her
                 charming
                 Glories
                 view
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 to
                 their
                 former
                 Conquests
                 added
                 new
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 while
                 my
                 wanton
                 hand
                 was
                 pleas'd
                 to
                 rove
              
               
                 Through
                 all
                 the
                 hidden
                 Labyrinths
                 of
                 Love
                 ;
              
               
                 Ten
                 thousand
                 Kisses
                 on
                 her
                 Lips
                 I
                 fix'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 she
                 with
                 interfering
                 Kisses
                 mix'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Eager
                 as
                 those
                 of
                 Lovers
                 are
                 in
                 Death
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 they
                 give
                 up
                 their
                 Souls
                 too
                 with
                 the
                 Breath
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 
                   Love
                   by
                   these
                   Freedoms
                   first
                   became
                   more
                   bold
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   At
                   length
                   unruly
                   ,
                   and
                   too
                   fierce
                   to
                   hold
                   :
                
              
               
               
                 See
                 then
                 
                   (
                   said
                   I
                
                 )
                 and
                 pity
                 ,
                 charming
                 Fair
                 ,
              
               
                 Yield
                 quickly
                 ,
                 yield
                 ;
                 I
                 can
                 no
                 longer
                 bear
              
               
                 Th'
                 impatient
                 Sallies
                 of
                 a
                 Bliss
                 so
                 near
                 :
              
               
                 Tou
                 must
                 ,
                 and
                 you
                 alone
                 these
                 storms
                 appease
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 lay
                 those
                 Spirits
                 which
                 your
                 Charms
                 could
                 raise
                 ;
              
               
                 Come
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 equal
                 Flouds
                 let
                 's
                 quench
                 our
                 Flame
                 ,
              
               
                 Come
                 let
                 's
                 —
                 
                   and
                   unawares
                   I
                   went
                   to
                   name
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Thing
                   ,
                   but
                   stopt
                   and
                   blusht
                   methought
                   in
                   Dream
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 At
                 first
                 she
                 did
                 the
                 rude
                 Address
                 disown
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 check'd
                 my
                 Boldness
                 with
                 an
                 angry
                 Frown
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 yielding
                 Glances
                 ,
                 and
                 consenting
                 Eyes
              
               
                 Prov'd
                 the
                 soft
                 Traitors
                 to
                 her
                 forc'd
                 Disguise
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 soon
                 her
                 looks
                 ,
                 with
                 anger
                 rough
                 e're
                 while
                 ,
              
               
                 Sunk
                 in
                 the
                 dimples
                 of
                 a
                 calmer
                 smile
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 with
                 a
                 sigh
                 into
                 these
                 words
                 she
                 broke
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 printed
                 melting
                 Kisses
                 as
                 she
                 spoke
                 :
              
               
                 
                   Too
                   strong
                
                 ,
                 Philander
                 ,
                 
                   is
                   thy
                   pow'rful
                   Art
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   take
                   a
                   feeble
                   Maids
                   ill-guarded
                   Heart
                   :
                
              
               
               
                 
                   Too
                   long
                   I
                   've
                   struggled
                   with
                   my
                   Bliss
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Too
                   long
                   oppos'd
                   what
                   Ioft
                   wish'd
                   to
                   gain
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Loath
                   to
                   consent
                   ,
                   yet
                   loather
                   to
                   deny
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   At
                   once
                   I
                   court
                   ,
                   and
                   shun
                   Felicity
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   cannot
                   ,
                   will
                   not
                   yield
                   ;
                   —
                   and
                   yet
                   I
                   must
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Lest
                   to
                   my
                   own
                   Desires
                   I
                   prove
                   unjust
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   Sweet
                   Ravisher
                   !
                   what
                   Love
                   commands
                   thee
                   ,
                   do
                
                 ;
              
               
                 
                   Tho
                   I
                   'm
                   displeas'd
                   ,
                   I
                   shall
                   forgive
                   thee
                   too
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Too
                   well
                   thou
                   know'st
                
                 —
                 and
                 there
                 my
                 hand
                 she
                 press'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 said
                 no
                 more
                 ,
                 but
                 blush'd
                 and
                 smil'd
                 the
                 rest
              
            
             
               
                 Ravish'd
                 at
                 the
                 new
                 grant
                 ,
                 fierce
                 eager
                 I
              
               
                 Leap'd
                 furious
                 on
                 ,
                 and
                 seiz'd
                 my
                 trembling
                 Prey
                 ;
              
               
                 With
                 guarding
                 Arms
                 she
                 first
                 my
                 Force
                 repell'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Shrunk
                 ,
                 and
                 drew
                 back
                 ,
                 and
                 would
                 not
                 seem
                 to
                 yield
                 ;
              
               
                 Unwilling
                 to
                 o'recome
                 ,
                 she
                 faintly
                 strove
                 ,
              
               
                 One
                 hand
                 pull'd
                 to
                 ,
                 what
                 t'other
                 did
                 remove
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 feeble
                 are
                 the
                 struglings
                 ,
                 and
                 so
                 weak
              
               
                 In
                 sleep
                 we
                 seem
                 ,
                 and
                 only
                 seem
                 to
                 make
                 :
              
               
               
                 Forbear
                 !
                 (
                 she
                 said
                 )
                 
                   ah
                   ,
                   gentle
                   Youth
                   ,
                   forbear
                   ,
                
              
               
                 (
                 and
                 still
                 she
                 hug'd
                 ,
                 and
                 clasp'd
                 me
                 still
                 more
                 near
                 )
              
               
                 
                   Ah!
                   will
                   you
                   ?
                   will
                   you
                   force
                   my
                   Rui●…
                   so
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   Ah?
                   do
                   not
                   ,
                   do
                   not
                   ,
                   do
                   not
                   ;
                   —
                   let
                   me
                   go
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 What
                 follow'd
                 was
                 above
                 the
                 pow'r
                 of
                 Verse
                 ,
              
               
                 Above
                 the
                 reach
                 of
                 Fancy
                 to
                 rehearse
                 :
              
               
                 Not
                 dying
                 Saints
                 enjoy
                 such
                 Extasies
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 they
                 in
                 Vision
                 antedate
                 their
                 Bliss
                 ;
              
               
                 Not
                 Dreams
                 of
                 a
                 young
                 Prophet
                 are
                 so
                 bless'd
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 holy
                 Trances
                 first
                 inspire
                 his
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 God
                 enters
                 there
                 to
                 be
                 a
                 Guest
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 duller
                 Mortals
                 other
                 Pleasures
                 prize
                 ,
              
               
                 Pleasures
                 which
                 enter
                 at
                 the
                 waking
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Might
                 I
                 each
                 Night
                 such
                 sweet
                 Enjoyments
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'd
                 wink
                 for
                 ever
                 ,
                 be
                 for
                 ever
                 blind
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               A
               SATYR
               TOUCHING
               NOBILITY
               .
            
             
               Out
               of
               Monsieur
               BOILEAU
               .
            
             
               
                 'T
                 IS
                 granted
                 ,
                 that
                 Nobility
                 in
                 Man
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 no
                 wild
                 flutt'ring
                 Notion
                 of
                 the
                 Brain
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 he
                 ,
                 descended
                 of
                 an
                 ancient
                 Race
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 a
                 long
                 train
                 of
                 numerous
                 Worthies
                 grace
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 Virtues
                 Rules
                 guiding
                 his
                 steddy
                 Course
                 ,
              
               
                 Traces
                 the
                 steps
                 of
                 his
                 bright
                 Ancestors
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 Yet
                 I
                 can't
                 endure
                 an
                 haughty
                 Ass
                 ,
              
               
                 Debauch'd
                 with
                 Luxury
                 and
                 slothful
                 Ease
                 .
              
               
               
                 Who
                 besides
                 empty
                 Titles
                 of
                 high
                 Birth
                 ,
              
               
                 Has
                 no
                 pretence
                 to
                 any
                 thing
                 of
                 Worth
                 ,
              
               
                 Should
                 proudly
                 wear
                 the
                 Fame
                 ,
                 which
                 others
                 sought
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 boast
                 of
                 Honour
                 which
                 himself
                 ne'er
                 got
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 I
                 grant
                 ,
                 the
                 Acts
                 which
                 his
                 Fore-fathers
                 did
              
               
                 Have
                 furnish'd
                 matter
                 for
                 old
                 Hollinshead
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 which
                 their
                 Scutcheon
                 ,
                 by
                 the
                 Conqu'ror
                 grac'd
              
               
                 Still
                 bears
                 a
                 
                   Lion
                   Rampant
                
                 for
                 its
                 Crest
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 does
                 this
                 vain
                 mass
                 of
                 Glory
                 boot
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 the
                 branch
                 of
                 such
                 a
                 noble
                 Root
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 he
                 of
                 all
                 the
                 Heroes
                 of
                 his
                 Line
              
               
                 Which
                 in
                 the
                 Registers
                 of
                 Story
                 shine
                 ,
              
               
                 Can
                 offer
                 nothing
                 to
                 the
                 World's
                 regard
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 mouldy
                 Parchments
                 which
                 the
                 Worms
                 have
                 spar'd
                 ?
              
               
                 If
                 sprung
                 ,
                 as
                 he
                 pretends
                 ,
                 of
                 noble
                 Race
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 does
                 his
                 own
                 Original
                 disgrace
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 swoln
                 with
                 selfish
                 Vanity
                 and
                 Pride
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 greatness
                 has
                 no
                 other
                 claim
                 beside
                 ,
              
               
               
                 But
                 squanders
                 life
                 ,
                 and
                 sleeps
                 away
                 his
                 days
                 ,
              
               
                 Dissolv'd
                 in
                 Sloth
                 ,
                 and
                 steep'd
                 in
                 sensual
                 ease
                 :
              
            
             
               
                 Mean
                 while
                 to
                 see
                 how
                 much
                 the
                 Arrogant
              
               
                 Boasts
                 the
                 false
                 Lustre
                 of
                 his
                 high
                 Descent
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 'd
                 fancy
                 him
                 Comptroller
                 of
                 the
                 Sky
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fram'd
                 by
                 Heav'n
                 of
                 other
                 Clay
                 than
                 me
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Tell
                 me
                 ,
                 great
                 Hero
                 ,
                 you
                 ,
                 that
                 would
                 be
                 thought
              
               
                 So
                 much
                 above
                 the
                 mean
                 ,
                 and
                 humble
                 Rout.
              
               
                 Of
                 all
                 the
                 Creatures
                 which
                 do
                 men
                 esteem
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 which
                 would
                 you
                 your self
                 the
                 noblest
                 deem
                 ?
              
               
                 Put
                 case
                 of
                 Horse
                 :
                 No
                 doubt
                 ,
                 you
                 'l
                 answer
                 strait
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Racer
                 ,
                 which
                 has
                 often'st
                 won
                 the
                 Plate
                 :
              
               
                 Who
                 full
                 of
                 mettle
                 ,
                 and
                 of
                 sprightly
                 Fire
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 never
                 distanc'd
                 in
                 the
                 sleet
                 Career
                 :
              
               
                 Him
                 all
                 the
                 Rivals
                 of
                 New-market
                 dread
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 crowds
                 of
                 Vent'rers
                 stake
                 upon
                 his
                 Head
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 if
                 the
                 Breed
                 of
                 Dragon
                 ,
                 often
                 cast
                 ,
              
               
                 Degenerate
                 ,
                 and
                 prove
                 a
                 Jade
                 at
                 last
                 ;
              
               
                 Nothing
                 of
                 Honour
                 ,
                 or
                 respect
                 (
                 we
                 see
                 )
              
               
                 Is
                 had
                 of
                 his
                 high
                 Birth
                 ,
                 and
                 Pedigree
                 :
              
               
               
                 But
                 maugre
                 all
                 his
                 great
                 Progenitors
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 worthless
                 Brute
                 is
                 banish'd
                 from
                 the
                 Course
                 ,
              
               
                 Condemn'd
                 for
                 Life
                 to
                 ply
                 the
                 dirty
                 Road
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 drag
                 some
                 Cart
                 ,
                 or
                 bear
                 some
                 Carrier's
                 Load
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Then
                 how
                 can
                 you
                 with
                 any
                 sense
                 expect
              
               
                 That
                 I
                 should
                 be
                 so
                 silly
                 to
                 respect
              
               
                 The
                 ghost
                 of
                 Honour
                 ,
                 perish'd
                 long
                 ago
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 's
                 quite
                 extinct
                 ,
                 and
                 lives
                 no
                 more
                 in
                 you
                 ?
              
               
                 Such
                 gaudy
                 Trifles
                 with
                 the
                 Fools
                 may
                 pass
                 ,
              
               
                 Caught
                 with
                 mere
                 shew
                 ,
                 and
                 vain
                 Appearances
                 :
              
               
                 Virtue
                 's
                 the
                 certain
                 Mark
                 ,
                 by
                 Heav'n
                 design'd
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 's
                 always
                 stamp'd
                 upon
                 a
                 noble
                 mind
                 :
              
               
                 If
                 you
                 from
                 such
                 illustrious
                 Worthies
                 came
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 copying
                 them
                 your
                 high
                 Extract
                 proclaim
                 :
              
               
                 Shew
                 us
                 those
                 generous
                 Heats
                 of
                 Gallantry
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 Ages
                 past
                 did
                 in
                 those
                 Worthies
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 zeal
                 for
                 Honour
                 ,
                 and
                 that
                 brave
                 Disdain
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 scorn'd
                 to
                 do
                 an
                 Action
                 base
                 ,
                 or
                 mean
                 :
              
               
                 Do
                 you
                 apply
                 your
                 Interest
                 aright
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 to
                 oppress
                 the
                 Poor
                 with
                 wrongful
                 Might
                 ?
              
               
               
                 Would
                 you
                 make
                 Conscience
                 to
                 pervert
                 the
                 Laws
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho
                 brib'd
                 to
                 do
                 't
                 ,
                 or
                 urg'd
                 by
                 your
                 own
                 Cause
                 ?
              
               
                 Dare
                 you
                 ,
                 when
                 justly
                 call'd
                 ,
                 expend
                 your
                 Bloud
              
               
                 In
                 service
                 for
                 your
                 King's
                 and
                 Countrys
                 good
                 ?
              
               
                 Can
                 you
                 in
                 open
                 Field
                 in
                 Armour
                 sleep
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 there
                 meet
                 danger
                 in
                 the
                 ghastliest
                 shape
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 By
                 such
                 illustrious
                 Marks
                 as
                 these
                 ,
                 I
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 're
                 truly
                 issued
                 of
                 a
                 noble
                 kind
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 fetch
                 your
                 Line
                 from
                 Albanact
                 ,
                 or
                 Knute
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 ,
                 if
                 these
                 are
                 too
                 fresh
                 ,
                 from
                 older
                 Brute
                 :
              
               
                 At
                 leisure
                 search
                 all
                 History
                 to
                 find
              
               
                 Some
                 great
                 and
                 glorious
                 Warriour
                 to
                 your
                 mind
                 :
              
               
                 Take
                 
                   Caesar
                   ,
                   Alexander
                
                 ,
                 which
                 you
                 please
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 the
                 mighty
                 Founder
                 of
                 your
                 Race
                 ;
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 the
                 World
                 your
                 Parentage
                 bely
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 was
                 ,
                 or
                 should
                 have
                 been
                 your
                 Pedegree
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 could
                 with
                 ease
                 derive
                 your
                 Kin
              
               
                 From
                 Hercules
                 himself
                 in
                 a
                 right
                 Line
                 ;
              
               
                 If
                 yet
                 there
                 nothing
                 in
                 your
                 Actions
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Worthy
                 the
                 name
                 of
                 your
                 high
                 Progeny
                 ;
              
               
               
                 All
                 these
                 great
                 Ancestors
                 ,
                 which
                 you
                 disgrace
                 ,
              
               
                 Against
                 you
                 are
                 a
                 cloud
                 of
                 Witnesses
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 Lustre
                 of
                 their
                 tarnish'd
                 Fame
              
               
                 Serves
                 but
                 to
                 light
                 ,
                 and
                 manifest
                 your
                 Shame
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 you
                 urge
                 the
                 merit
                 of
                 your
                 Race
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 boast
                 that
                 Bloud
                 ,
                 which
                 you
                 your selves
                 debase
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 you
                 borrow
                 ,
                 to
                 adorn
                 your
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Spoils
                 ,
                 and
                 Plunder
                 of
                 another's
                 Fame
                 ;
              
               
                 If
                 ,
                 where
                 I
                 look'd
                 for
                 something
                 Great
                 ,
                 and
                 Brave
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 meet
                 with
                 nothing
                 but
                 a
                 Fool
                 ,
                 or
                 Knave
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Traitor
                 ,
                 Villain
                 ,
                 Sycophant
                 ,
                 or
                 Slave
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 freakish
                 Madman
                 ,
                 fit
                 to
                 be
                 confin'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Whom
                 Bedlam
                 only
                 can
                 to
                 order
                 bind
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 (
                 to
                 speak
                 all
                 at
                 once
                 )
                 a
                 barren
                 Limb
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 rotten
                 Branch
                 of
                 an
                 illustrious
                 Stem
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 I
                 am
                 too
                 severe
                 ,
                 perhaps
                 you
                 'l
                 think
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 mix
                 too
                 much
                 of
                 Satyr
                 with
                 my
                 Ink
                 :
              
               
                 We
                 speak
                 to
                 men
                 of
                 Birth
                 ,
                 and
                 Honour
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 those
                 nice
                 Subjects
                 must
                 be
                 touch'd
                 with
                 care
                 :
              
               
               
                 Cry
                 mercy
                 ,
                 Sirs
                 !
                 Your
                 Race
                 ,
                 we
                 grant
                 ,
                 is
                 known
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 how
                 far
                 backwards
                 can
                 you
                 trace
                 it
                 down
                 ?
              
               
                 You
                 answer
                 :
                 For
                 at
                 least
                 a
                 thousand
                 year
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 some
                 odd
                 hundreds
                 you
                 can
                 make
                 't
                 appear
                 :
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 much
                 :
                 But
                 yet
                 in
                 short
                 the
                 proofs
                 are
                 clear
                 :
              
               
                 All
                 Books
                 with
                 your
                 Fore-fathers
                 Titles
                 shine
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 names
                 have
                 scap'd
                 the
                 general
                 wreck
                 of
                 Time
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 who
                 is
                 there
                 so
                 bold
                 ,
                 that
                 dares
                 engage
              
               
                 His
                 Honour
                 ,
                 that
                 in
                 this
                 long
                 Tract
                 of
                 Age
              
               
                 No
                 one
                 of
                 all
                 his
                 Ancestors
                 deceas'd
              
               
                 Had
                 e're
                 the
                 fate
                 to
                 find
                 a
                 Bride
                 unchast
                 ?
              
               
                 That
                 they
                 have
                 all
                 along
                 
                 Lucretia's
                 been
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 nothing
                 e're
                 of
                 spurious
                 Bloud
                 crept
                 in
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 mingle
                 and
                 defile
                 the
                 Sacred
                 Line
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Curss'd
                 be
                 the
                 day
                 ,
                 when
                 first
                 this
                 vanity
              
               
                 Did
                 primitive
                 simplicity
                 destroy
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 bless'd
                 state
                 of
                 infant
                 time
                 ,
                 unknown
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 Glory
                 sprung
                 from
                 Innocence
                 alone
                 ▪
              
               
               
                 Each
                 from
                 his
                 merit
                 only
                 Title
                 drew
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 that
                 alone
                 made
                 Kings
                 ,
                 and
                 Nobles
                 too
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 ,
                 scorning
                 borrow'd
                 Helps
                 to
                 prop
                 his
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Hero
                 from
                 himself
                 deriv'd
                 his
                 Fame
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 Merit
                 by
                 degenerate
                 time
                 at
                 last
                 ,
              
               
                 Saw
                 Vice
                 ennobled
                 ,
                 and
                 her self
                 debas'd
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 haughty
                 Pride
                 false
                 pompous
                 Titles
                 feign'd
                 ,
              
               
                 T'
                 amuse
                 the
                 World
                 ,
                 and
                 Lord
                 it
                 o're
                 Mankind
                 :
              
               
                 Thence
                 the
                 vast
                 Herd
                 of
                 Earls
                 and
                 Barons
                 came
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 Virtue
                 each
                 brought
                 nothing
                 but
                 a
                 Name
                 :
              
               
                 Soon
                 aster
                 Man
                 ,
                 fruitful
                 in
                 Vanities
                 ,
              
               
                 Did
                 Blazoning
                 and
                 Armory
                 devise
                 ,
              
               
                 Founded
                 a
                 College
                 for
                 the
                 Herald's
                 Art
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 made
                 a
                 Language
                 of
                 their
                 Terms
                 apart
                 ,
              
               
                 Compos'd
                 of
                 frightful
                 words
                 ,
                 of
                 Chief
                 ,
                 and
                 Base
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 
                   Chevron
                   ,
                   Saltier
                   ,
                   Canton
                   ,
                   Bend
                   ,
                
                 and
                 Fess
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 whatsoe're
                 of
                 hideous
                 Jargon
                 else
              
               
                 Mad
                 Guillim
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 barbarous
                 Volume
                 fills
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Then
                 farther
                 the
                 wild
                 Folly
                 to
                 pursue
                 ,
              
               
                 Plain
                 down
                 right
                 Honour
                 out
                 of
                 fashion
                 grew
                 :
              
            
             
               
               
                 But
                 to
                 keep
                 up
                 its
                 Dignity
                 ,
                 and
                 Birth
                 ,
              
               
                 Expence
                 ,
                 and
                 Luxury
                 must
                 set
                 it
                 forth
                 :
              
               
                 It
                 must
                 inhabit
                 stately
                 Palaces
                 ,
              
               
                 Distinguish
                 Servants
                 by
                 their
                 Liveries
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 carrying
                 vast
                 Retinues
                 up
                 and
                 down
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Duke
                 and
                 Earl
                 be
                 by
                 their
                 Pages
                 known
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thus
                 Honour
                 to
                 support
                 it self
                 is
                 brought
              
               
                 To
                 its
                 last
                 shifts
                 ,
                 and
                 thence
                 the
                 Art
                 has
                 got
              
               
                 Of
                 borrowing
                 every
                 where
                 ,
                 and
                 paying
                 nought
                 :
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 now
                 thought
                 mean
                 ,
                 and
                 much
                 beneath
                 a
                 Lord
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 an
                 honest
                 man
                 ,
                 and
                 keep
                 his
                 Word
                 ;
              
               
                 Who
                 ,
                 by
                 his
                 Peerage
                 ,
                 and
                 Protection
                 safe
                 ,
              
               
                 Can
                 plead
                 the
                 priviledge
                 to
                 be
                 a
                 Knave
                 :
              
               
                 While
                 daily
                 Crowds
                 of
                 starving
                 Creditors
              
               
                 Are
                 forc'd
                 to
                 dance
                 attendance
                 at
                 his
                 doors
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 he
                 at
                 length
                 with
                 all
                 his
                 mortgag'd
                 Lands
                 .
              
               
                 Are
                 forfeited
                 into
                 the
                 Banker's
                 hands
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 to
                 redress
                 his
                 wants
                 ,
                 the
                 bankrupt
                 Peer
              
               
                 To
                 some
                 rich
                 trading
                 Sot
                 ,
                 turns
                 Pensioner
                 :
              
               
               
                 And
                 the
                 next
                 News
                 ,
                 you
                 're
                 sure
                 to
                 hear
                 that
                 he
              
               
                 Is
                 nobly
                 wed
                 into
                 the
                 Company
                 :
              
               
                 Where
                 for
                 a
                 Portion
                 of
                 ill
                 gotten
                 Gold
                 ,
              
               
                 Himself
                 and
                 all
                 his
                 Ancestors
                 are
                 sold
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 thus
                 repairs
                 his
                 broken
                 Family
              
               
                 At
                 the
                 expence
                 of
                 his
                 own
                 Infamy
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 For
                 if
                 you
                 want
                 Estate
                 to
                 set
                 it
                 forth
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 you
                 boast
                 the
                 splendor
                 of
                 your
                 Birth
                 :
              
               
                 Your
                 priz'd
                 Gentility
                 for
                 madness
                 goes
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 each
                 your
                 Kindred
                 shuns
                 and
                 disavows
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 he
                 that
                 's
                 rich
                 is
                 prais'd
                 at
                 his
                 full
                 rate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 tho
                 he
                 once
                 cry'd
                 
                   Small
                   coal
                
                 in
                 the
                 street
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho
                 he
                 ,
                 nor
                 none
                 of
                 his
                 e're
                 mentioned
                 were
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 in
                 the
                 Parish
                 Book
                 ,
                 or
                 Register
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 
                   D
                   —
                   lé
                
                 by
                 help
                 of
                 Chronicle
                 shall
                 trace
              
               
                 An
                 hundred
                 Barons
                 of
                 his
                 ancient
                 Race
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               
                 A
                 SATYR
              
               .
               Addressed
               to
               a
               Friend
               ,
               that
               is
               about
               to
               leave
               the
               University
               ,
               and
               come
               abroad
               in
               the
               World.
               
            
             
               
                 IF
                 you
                 're
                 so
                 out
                 of
                 love
                 with
                 Happiness
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 quit
                 a
                 College
                 life
                 ,
                 and
                 learned
                 ease
                 ;
              
               
                 Convince
                 me
                 first
                 ,
                 and
                 some
                 good
                 Reasons
                 give
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 methods
                 and
                 designs
                 you
                 'l
                 take
                 to
                 live
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 such
                 Resolves
                 are
                 needful
                 in
                 the
                 Case
                 ,
              
               
                 Before
                 you
                 tread
                 the
                 worlds
                 Mysterious
                 Maze
                 :
              
               
                 Without
                 the
                 Premisses
                 in
                 vain
                 you
                 'l
                 try
              
               
                 To
                 live
                 by
                 Systems
                 of
                 Philosophy
                 :
              
               
                 Your
                 
                   Aristotle
                   ,
                   Cartes
                
                 ,
                 and
                 Le-Grand
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Euclid
                 too
                 in
                 little
                 stead
                 will
                 stand
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 How
                 many
                 men
                 of
                 choice
                 ,
                 and
                 noted
                 parts
                 ,
              
               
                 Well
                 fraught
                 with
                 Learning
                 ,
                 Languages
                 ,
                 and
                 Arts
                 ,
              
               
                 Designing
                 high
                 Preferment
                 in
                 their
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 little
                 doubting
                 good
                 success
                 to
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 vast
                 and
                 tow'ring
                 thoughts
                 have
                 flock'd
                 to
                 Town
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 to
                 their
                 cost
                 soon
                 found
                 themselves
                 undone
                 ,
              
               
                 Now
                 to
                 repent
                 ,
                 and
                 starve
                 at
                 leisure
                 left
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 miseries
                 last
                 Comfort
                 ,
                 Hope
                 bereft
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 
                   These
                   fail'd
                   for
                   want
                   of
                   good
                   Advice
                   ,
                
                 you
                 cry
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   Because
                   at
                   first
                   they
                   fix'd
                   on
                   no
                   employ
                   :
                
              
               
                 Well
                 then
                 ,
                 let
                 's
                 draw
                 the
                 Prospect
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Scene
              
               
                 To
                 all
                 advantage
                 possibly
                 we
                 can
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 world
                 lies
                 now
                 before
                 you
                 ,
                 let
                 me
                 hear
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 course
                 your
                 Judgment
                 counsels
                 you
                 to
                 steer
                 :
              
               
                 Always
                 consider'd
                 ,
                 that
                 your
                 whole
                 Estate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 your
                 Fortune
                 lies
                 beneath
                 your
                 Hat
                 :
              
               
                 Were
                 you
                 the
                 Son
                 of
                 some
                 rich
                 Usurer
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 starv'd
                 ,
                 and
                 damn'd
                 himself
                 to
                 make
                 his
                 Heir
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Left
                 nought
                 to
                 do
                 ,
                 but
                 to
                 inter
                 the
                 Sot
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 spend
                 with
                 ease
                 what
                 he
                 with
                 pains
                 had
                 got
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 were
                 easie
                 to
                 advise
                 how
                 you
                 might
                 live
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 would
                 there
                 need
                 instruction
                 then
                 to
                 give
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 you
                 ,
                 that
                 boast
                 of
                 no
                 Inheritance
                 ,
              
               
                 Save
                 that
                 small
                 Stock
                 ,
                 which
                 lies
                 within
                 your
                 Brains
                 ,
              
               
                 Learning
                 must
                 be
                 your
                 Trade
                 ,
                 and
                 therefore
                 weigh
              
               
                 With
                 heed
                 ,
                 how
                 you
                 your
                 Game
                 the
                 best
                 may
                 play
                 ;
              
               
                 Bethink
                 your self
                 a
                 while
                 ,
                 and
                 then
                 propose
              
               
                 What
                 way
                 of
                 Life
                 is
                 fitt'st
                 for
                 you
                 to
                 choose
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 If
                 you
                 for
                 Orders
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 Gown
                 design
                 ,
              
               
                 Consider
                 only
                 this
                 ,
                 dear
                 Friend
                 of
                 mine
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Church
                 is
                 grown
                 so
                 over-stock'd
                 of
                 late
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 if
                 you
                 walk
                 abroad
                 ,
                 you
                 'l
                 hardly
                 meet
              
               
                 More
                 Porters
                 now
                 than
                 Parsons
                 in
                 the
                 street
                 .
              
               
                 At
                 every
                 Corner
                 they
                 are
                 forc'd
                 to
                 ply
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 Jobs
                 of
                 hawkering
                 Divinity
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 half
                 the
                 number
                 of
                 the
                 Sacred
                 Herd
              
               
                 Are
                 fain
                 to
                 strowl
                 ,
                 and
                 wander
                 unpreferr'd
                 :
              
            
             
               
               
                 If
                 this
                 ,
                 or
                 thoughts
                 of
                 such
                 a
                 weighty
                 Charge
              
               
                 Make
                 you
                 resolve
                 to
                 keep
                 your self
                 at
                 large
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 want
                 of
                 better
                 opportunity
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 School
                 must
                 your
                 next
                 Sanctuary
                 be
                 :
              
               
                 Go
                 ,
                 wed
                 some
                 Grammar-Bridewel
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 Wife
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 there
                 beat
                 Greek
                 ,
                 and
                 Latin●…
                 for
                 your
                 life
                 :
              
               
                 With
                 Birchen
                 Scepter
                 there
                 command
                 at
                 will
                 ,
              
               
                 Greater
                 than
                 
                 Busby's
                 self
                 ,
                 or
                 Doctor
                 Gill
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 who
                 would
                 be
                 to
                 the
                 vile
                 Drudg'ry
                 bound
              
               
                 Where
                 there
                 so
                 small
                 encouragement
                 is
                 found
                 ?
              
               
                 Where
                 you
                 for
                 recompence
                 of
                 all
                 your
                 pains
              
               
                 Shall
                 hardly
                 reach
                 a
                 common
                 Fidler's
                 gains
                 ?
              
               
                 For
                 when
                 you
                 've
                 toil'd
                 ,
                 and
                 labour'd
                 all
                 you
                 can
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 dung
                 ,
                 and
                 cultivate
                 a
                 barren
                 Brain
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 Dancing
                 Master
                 shall
                 be
                 better
                 paid
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho
                 he
                 instructs
                 the
                 Heels
                 ,
                 and
                 you
                 the
                 Head
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 such
                 Indulgence
                 are
                 kind
                 Parents
                 grown
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 nought
                 costs
                 less
                 in
                 Breeding
                 than
                 a
                 Son
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 is
                 it
                 hard
                 to
                 find
                 a
                 Father
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 more
                 upon
                 a
                 Setting-dog
                 allow
                 :
              
               
               
                 And
                 with
                 a
                 freer
                 hand
                 reward
                 the
                 Care
              
               
                 Of
                 training
                 up
                 his
                 Spaniel
                 ,
                 than
                 his
                 Heir
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Some
                 think
                 themselves
                 exalted
                 to
                 the
                 Sky
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 they
                 light
                 in
                 some
                 noble
                 Family
                 ;
              
               
                 Diet
                 ,
                 an
                 Horse
                 ,
                 and
                 thirty
                 pounds
                 a
                 year
                 ,
              
               
                 Besides
                 the
                 advantage
                 of
                 his
                 Lordships
                 ear
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 credit
                 of
                 the
                 business
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 things
                 that
                 in
                 a
                 Younster's
                 Sense
                 sound
                 great
                 .
              
               
                 Little
                 the
                 unexperienc'd
                 Wretch
                 does
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 slavery
                 he
                 oft
                 must
                 undergo
                 :
              
               
                 Who
                 tho
                 in
                 silken
                 Skarf
                 ,
                 and
                 Cassock
                 drest
                 ,
              
               
                 Wears
                 but
                 a
                 gayer
                 Livery
                 at
                 best
                 :
              
               
                 When
                 Dinner
                 calls
                 the
                 Implement
                 must
                 wait
              
               
                 With
                 holy
                 Words
                 to
                 consecrate
                 the
                 Meat
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 hold
                 it
                 for
                 a
                 Favour
                 seldom
                 known
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 he
                 be
                 deign'd
                 the
                 Honour
                 to
                 sit
                 down
                 .
              
               
                 Soon
                 as
                 the
                 Tarts
                 appear
                 ,
                 Sir
                 Crape
                 ,
                 withdraw
                 !
              
               
                 Those
                 Dainties
                 are
                 not
                 for
                 a
                 spiritual
                 Maw
                 :
              
               
                 Observe
                 your
                 distance
                 ,
                 and
                 be
                 sure
                 to
                 stand
              
               
                 Hard
                 by
                 the
                 Cistern
                 with
                 your
                 Cap
                 in
                 hand
                 :
              
               
               
                 There
                 for
                 diversion
                 you
                 may
                 pick
                 your
                 Teeth
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 the
                 kind
                 Voider
                 comes
                 for
                 your
                 Relief
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 meer
                 Board-wages
                 such
                 their
                 Freedom
                 sell
                 ,
              
               
                 Slaves
                 to
                 an
                 Hour
                 ,
                 and
                 Vassals
                 to
                 a
                 Bell
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 if
                 th'
                 enjoyment
                 of
                 one
                 day
                 be
                 stole
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 are
                 but
                 Pris'ners
                 out
                 upon
                 Parole
                 :
              
               
                 Always
                 the
                 marks
                 of
                 slavery
                 remain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 they
                 ,
                 tho
                 loose
                 ,
                 still
                 drag
                 about
                 their
                 Chain
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 And
                 where
                 's
                 the
                 mighty
                 Prospect
                 after
                 all
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Chaplainship
                 serv'd
                 up
                 ,
                 and
                 seven
                 years
                 Thrall
                 ?
              
               
                 The
                 menial
                 thing
                 perhaps
                 for
                 a
                 Reward
              
               
                 Is
                 to
                 some
                 slender
                 Benefice
                 preferr'd
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 this
                 Proviso
                 bound
                 ,
                 that
                 he
                 must
                 wed
              
               
                 My
                 Ladies
                 antiquated
                 Waiting-maid
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Dressing
                 only
                 skill'd
                 ,
                 and
                 Marmalade
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 Let
                 others
                 who
                 such
                 meannesses
                 can
                 brook
                 ,
              
               
                 Strike
                 Countenance
                 to
                 every
                 Great
                 man's
                 Look
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 those
                 that
                 have
                 a
                 mind
                 ,
                 turn
                 slaves
                 to
                 ear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 live
                 contented
                 by
                 another's
                 Plate
                 :
              
               
               
                 I
                 rate
                 my
                 Freedom
                 higher
                 ,
                 nor
                 will
                 I
              
               
                 For
                 Food
                 and
                 Rayment
                 truck
                 my
                 Liberty
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 if
                 I
                 must
                 to
                 my
                 last
                 shifts
                 be
                 put
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 fill
                 a
                 Bladder
                 ,
                 and
                 twelve
                 yards
                 of
                 Gut
                 ;
              
               
                 Rather
                 with
                 counterfeited
                 wooden
                 Leg
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 my
                 right
                 Arm
                 tied
                 up
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 chuse
                 to
                 beg
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 rather
                 chuse
                 to
                 starve
                 at
                 large
                 ,
                 than
                 be
              
               
                 The
                 gawdiest
                 Vassal
                 to
                 Dependency
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 'T
                 has
                 ever
                 been
                 the
                 top
                 of
                 my
                 Desires
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 utmost
                 height
                 to
                 which
                 my
                 wish
                 aspires
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 Heav'n
                 would
                 bless
                 me
                 with
                 a
                 small
                 Estate
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 I
                 might
                 find
                 a
                 close
                 obscure
                 retreat
                 ;
              
               
                 There
                 ,
                 free
                 from
                 Noise
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 ambitious
                 ends
                 ,
              
               
                 Enjoy
                 a
                 few
                 choice
                 Books
                 ,
                 and
                 fewer
                 Friends
                 ,
              
               
                 Lord
                 of
                 my self
                 ,
                 accountable
                 to
                 none
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 to
                 my
                 Conscience
                 ,
                 and
                 my
                 God
                 alone
                 :
              
               
                 There
                 live
                 unthought
                 of
                 ,
                 and
                 unheard
                 of
                 ,
                 die
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 grudge
                 Mankind
                 my
                 very
                 memory
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 since
                 the
                 Blessing
                 is
                 (
                 I
                 find
                 )
                 too
                 great
              
               
                 For
                 me
                 to
                 wish
                 for
                 ,
                 or
                 expect
                 of
                 Fate
                 :
              
               
               
                 Yet
                 ,
                 maugre
                 all
                 the
                 spight
                 of
                 Destiny
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Thoughts
                 ,
                 and
                 Actions
                 are
                 ,
                 and
                 shall
                 be
                 free
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 certain
                 Author
                 ,
                 very
                 grave
                 ,
                 and
                 sage
                 ,
              
               
                 This
                 Story
                 tells
                 :
                 no
                 matter
                 ,
                 what
                 the
                 Page
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 One
                 time
                 ,
                 as
                 they
                 walk'd
                 forth
                 e're
                 break
                 of
                 day
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Wolf
                 ,
                 and
                 Dog
                 encounter'd
                 on
                 the
                 way
                 :
              
               
                 Famish'd
                 the
                 one
                 ,
                 meager
                 ,
                 and
                 lean
                 of
                 plight
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 a
                 cast
                 Poet
                 ,
                 who
                 for
                 Bread
                 does
                 write
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 other
                 fat
                 ,
                 and
                 plump
                 ,
                 as
                 Prebend
                 ,
                 was
                 ,
              
               
                 Pamper'd
                 with
                 Luxury
                 ,
                 and
                 holy
                 Ease
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 
                   Thus
                   met
                   ,
                   with
                   Complements
                   ,
                   too
                   long
                   to
                   tell
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Of
                   being
                   glad
                   to
                   see
                   each
                   other
                   well
                   :
                
              
               
                 How
                 now
                 ,
                 Sir
                 Towzer
                 ?
                 
                   (
                   said
                   the
                   Wolf
                
                 )
                 I
                 pray
                 ,
              
               
                 Whence
                 comes
                 it
                 ,
                 that
                 you
                 look
                 so
                 sleek
                 ,
                 and
                 gay
                 ?
              
               
                 While
                 I
                 ,
                 who
                 do
                 as
                 well
                 (
                 I
                 'm
                 sure
                 )
                 deserve
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 want
                 of
                 Livelihood
                 am
                 like
                 to
                 starve
                 ?
              
               
                 Troth
                 Sir
                 
                   (
                   replied
                   the
                   Dog
                
                 )
                 'thas
                 been
                 my
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 thank
                 the
                 friendly
                 Stars
                 ,
                 to
                 hap
                 of
                 late
              
               
                 On
                 a
                 kind
                 Master
                 ,
                 to
                 whose
                 care
                 I
                 owe
              
               
                 All
                 this
                 good
                 Flesh
                 ,
                 wherewith
                 you
                 see
                 me
                 now
                 :
              
               
               
                 From
                 his
                 rich
                 Voider
                 every
                 day
                 I
                 'm
                 fed
              
               
                 With
                 Bones
                 of
                 Fowl
                 ,
                 and
                 Crusts
                 of
                 finest
                 Bread
                 :
              
               
                 With
                 
                   Fricassee
                   ,
                   Ragoust
                
                 ,
                 and
                 whatsoe're
              
               
                 Of
                 costly
                 Kickshaws
                 now
                 in
                 fashion
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 more
                 variety
                 of
                 Boil'd
                 and
                 Roast
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 a
                 
                   Lord
                   Mayor's
                
                 Waiter
                 e're
                 could
                 boast
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 hardly
                 credible
                 to
                 tell
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 I
                 'm
                 respected
                 ,
                 and
                 belov'd
                 by
                 all
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 'm
                 the
                 Delight
                 of
                 the
                 whole
                 Family
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 darling
                 Shock
                 more
                 Favourite
                 than
                 I
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 never
                 sleep
                 abroad
                 ,
                 to
                 Air
                 expos'd
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 in
                 my
                 warm
                 apartment
                 am
                 inclos'd
                 :
              
               
                 There
                 on
                 fresh
                 Bed
                 of
                 Straw
                 ,
                 with
                 Canopy
              
               
                 Of
                 Hutch
                 above
                 ,
                 like
                 Dog
                 of
                 State
                 I
                 lie
                 .
              
               
                 Besides
                 ,
                 when
                 with
                 high
                 Fare
                 ,
                 and
                 Nature
                 fir'd
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 generous
                 Sports
                 of
                 Youth
                 I
                 am
                 inspir'd
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 the
                 proud
                 shee
                 s
                 are
                 soft
                 to
                 my
                 Embrace
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 Bitch
                 of
                 Quality
                 down
                 to
                 Turn-spit
                 Race
                 :
              
               
                 Each
                 day
                 I
                 try
                 new
                 Mistrisses
                 and
                 Loves
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 envy
                 Sovereign
                 Dogs
                 in
                 their
                 Alcoves
                 .
              
               
               
                 Thus
                 happy
                 I
                 of
                 all
                 enjoy
                 the
                 best
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 mortal
                 Cur
                 on
                 Earth
                 yet
                 half
                 so
                 bless'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 farther
                 to
                 enhance
                 the
                 Happiness
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 this
                 I
                 get
                 by
                 idleness
                 ,
                 and
                 ease
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Troth
                 !
                 
                   (
                   said
                   the
                   Wolf
                
                 )
                 I
                 envy
                 your
                 Estate
              
               
                 Would
                 to
                 the
                 Gods
                 it
                 were
                 but
                 my
                 good
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 I
                 might
                 happily
                 admitted
                 be
              
               
                 A
                 member
                 of
                 your
                 bless'd
                 Society
                 !
              
               
                 I
                 would
                 with
                 Faithfulness
                 discharge
                 my
                 place
              
               
                 In
                 any
                 thing
                 that
                 I
                 might
                 serve
                 his
                 Grace
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 think
                 you
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 it
                 mould
                 be
                 feasible
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 that
                 my
                 Application
                 might
                 prevail
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Do
                 but
                 endeavour
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 you
                 need
                 not
                 doubt
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 make
                 no
                 question
                 but
                 to
                 bring
                 't
                 about
                 :
              
               
                 Only
                 rely
                 on
                 me
                 ,
                 and
                 rest
                 secure
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 serve
                 you
                 to
                 the
                 utmost
                 of
                 my
                 Pow'r
                 ;
              
               
                 As
                 I
                 'm
                 a
                 Dog
                 of
                 Honour
                 ,
                 Sir
                 :
                 —
                 but
                 this
              
               
                 I
                 only
                 take
                 the
                 Freedom
                 to
                 advise
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 you
                 'd
                 a
                 little
                 lay
                 your
                 Roughness
                 by
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 learn
                 to
                 practice
                 Complaisance
                 ,
                 like
                 me
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 For
                 that
                 let
                 me
                 alone
                 :
                 I
                 'll
                 have
                 a
                 care
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 top
                 my
                 part
                 ,
                 I
                 warrant
                 ,
                 to
                 a
                 hair
                 :
              
               
                 There
                 's
                 not
                 a
                 Courtier
                 of
                 them
                 all
                 shall
                 vie
              
               
                 For
                 Fawning
                 ,
                 and
                 for
                 Suppleness
                 with
                 me
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 And
                 thus
                 resolv'd
                 at
                 last
                 ,
                 the
                 Travellers
              
               
                 Towards
                 the
                 House
                 together
                 shape
                 their
                 course
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Dog
                 ,
                 who
                 Breeding
                 well
                 did
                 understand
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 walking
                 gives
                 his
                 Ghest
                 the
                 upper
                 hand
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 as
                 they
                 walk
                 along
                 ,
                 they
                 all
                 the
                 while
              
               
                 With
                 Mirth
                 ,
                 and
                 pleasant
                 Raillery
                 beguile
              
               
                 The
                 tedious
                 Time
                 ,
                 and
                 Way
                 ,
                 till
                 Day
                 drew
                 near
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Light
                 came
                 on
                 ;
                 by
                 which
                 did
                 soon
                 appear
              
               
                 The
                 Mastiffs
                 Neck
                 to
                 view
                 all
                 worn
                 and
                 bare
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 
                   This
                   when
                   his
                   Comrade
                   spi'd
                
                 ,
                 What
                 means
                 
                   (
                   said
                   he
                
                 )
              
               
                 This
                 Circle
                 bare
                 ,
                 which
                 round
                 your
                 Neck
                 I
                 see
                 ?
              
               
                 If
                 I
                 may
                 be
                 so
                 bold
                 ;
                 —
                 Sir
                 ,
                 you
                 must
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 I
                 at
                 first
                 was
                 rough
                 ,
                 and
                 fierce
                 ,
                 like
                 you
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 Nature
                 curs'd
                 ,
                 and
                 often
                 apt
                 to
                 bite
              
               
                 Strangers
                 ,
                 and
                 else
                 ,
                 who
                 ever
                 came
                 in
                 sight
                 :
              
               
               
                 For
                 this
                 I
                 was
                 tied
                 up
                 ,
                 and
                 underwent
              
               
                 The
                 Whip
                 sometimes
                 ,
                 and
                 such
                 light
                 Chastisement
                 :
              
               
                 Till
                 I
                 at
                 length
                 by
                 Discipline
                 grew
                 tame
                 ,
              
               
                 Gentle
                 ,
                 and
                 tractable
                 ,
                 as
                 now
                 I
                 am
                 :
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 by
                 this
                 short
                 ,
                 and
                 slight
                 severity
              
               
                 I
                 gain'd
                 these
                 Marks
                 and
                 Badges
                 ,
                 which
                 you
                 see
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 are
                 they
                 ?
                 
                   Allons
                   Monsieur
                
                 !
                 let
                 's
                 go
                 .
              
               
                 Not
                 one
                 step
                 farther
                 :
                 Sir
                 ,
                 excuse
                 me
                 now
                 .
              
               
                 Much
                 joy
                 t'
                 ye
                 of
                 your
                 envied
                 ,
                 bless'd
                 Estate
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 will
                 not
                 buy
                 Preferment
                 at
                 that
                 rate
                 :
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 Gods
                 name
                 ,
                 take
                 your
                 golden
                 Chains
                 for
                 me
                 :
              
               
                 Faith
                 ,
                 I
                 'd
                 not
                 be
                 a
                 King
                 ,
                 not
                 to
                 be
                 free
                 :
              
               
                 Sir
                 Dog
                 ,
                 your
                 humble
                 Servant
                 ,
                 so
                 Godbw'y
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               SOME
               VERSE
               Written
               in
               Septemb.
               1676.
               
            
             
               Presenting
               a
               Book
               to
               COSMELIA
               .
            
             
               
                 GO
                 ,
                 humble
                 Gift
                 ,
                 go
                 to
                 that
                 matchless
                 Saint
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 whom
                 thou
                 only
                 wast
                 a
                 Copy
                 meant
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 ,
                 that
                 's
                 read
                 in
                 thee
                 ,
                 more
                 richly
                 find
              
               
                 Compriz'd
                 in
                 the
                 fair
                 Volume
                 of
                 her
                 mind
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 living
                 System
                 ,
                 where
                 are
                 fully
                 writ
              
               
                 All
                 those
                 high
                 Morals
                 ,
                 which
                 in
                 Books
                 we
                 meet
                 :
              
               
                 Easie
                 ,
                 as
                 in
                 soft
                 Air
                 ,
                 there
                 writ
                 they
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 firm
                 ,
                 as
                 if
                 in
                 Brass
                 they
                 graven
                 were
                 .
              
               
               
                 Nor
                 is
                 her
                 Talent
                 lazily
                 to
                 know
              
               
                 As
                 dull
                 Divines
                 ,
                 and
                 holy
                 Canters
                 do
                 ;
              
               
                 She
                 acts
                 what
                 they
                 only
                 in
                 Pulpits
                 prate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Theory
                 to
                 Practice
                 does
                 translate
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 her
                 own
                 Actions
                 more
                 obey
                 her
                 Will
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 that
                 obeys
                 strict
                 Virtues
                 dictates
                 still
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 does
                 not
                 Virtue
                 from
                 her
                 Duty
                 flow
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 she
                 is
                 good
                 ,
                 because
                 she
                 will
                 be
                 so
                 :
              
               
                 '
                 Her
                 Virtue
                 scorns
                 at
                 a
                 low
                 pitch
                 to
                 flie
                 ,
              
               
                 T
                 is
                 all
                 free
                 Choice
                 ,
                 nought
                 of
                 Necessity
                 :
              
               
                 By
                 such
                 soft
                 Rules
                 are
                 Saints
                 above
                 confin'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Such
                 is
                 the
                 Tie
                 ,
                 which
                 them
                 to
                 Good
                 does
                 bind
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 scatter'd
                 Glories
                 of
                 her
                 happy
                 Sex
              
               
                 In
                 her
                 bright
                 Soul
                 as
                 in
                 their
                 Center
                 mix
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 that
                 they
                 possess
                 but
                 by
                 Retail
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 hers
                 by
                 just
                 Monopoly
                 can
                 call
                 :
              
               
                 Whose
                 sole
                 Example
                 does
                 more
                 Virtues
                 shew
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 Schoolmen
                 ever
                 taught
                 ,
                 or
                 ever
                 knew
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 Act
                 did
                 e're
                 within
                 her
                 Practice
                 fall
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 for
                 the
                 attonement
                 of
                 a
                 Bush
                 could
                 call
                 :
              
               
               
                 No
                 word
                 of
                 hers
                 e're
                 greeted
                 any
                 ear
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 a
                 Saint
                 at
                 her
                 last
                 gasp
                 might
                 hear
                 :
              
               
                 Scarcely
                 her
                 Thoughts
                 have
                 ever
                 sullied
                 been
              
               
                 With
                 the
                 least
                 print
                 ,
                 or
                 stain
                 of
                 native
                 Sin
                 :
              
               
                 Devout
                 she
                 is
                 ,
                 as
                 holy
                 Hermits
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 share
                 their
                 time
                 'twixt
                 Extasie
                 ,
                 and
                 Prayer
                 :
              
               
                 Modest
                 ,
                 as
                 infant
                 Roses
                 in
                 their
                 Bloom
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 in
                 a
                 Blush
                 their
                 fragrant
                 Lives
                 consume
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 chaste
                 ,
                 the
                 Dead
                 themselves
                 are
                 only
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 lie
                 divorc'd
                 from
                 Objects
                 ,
                 and
                 from
                 Power
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 pure
                 ,
                 could
                 Virtue
                 in
                 a
                 Shape
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 would
                 chuse
                 to
                 have
                 no
                 other
                 Form
                 ,
                 but
                 Her
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 much
                 a
                 Saint
                 ,
                 I
                 scarce
                 dare
                 call
                 her
                 so
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 fear
                 to
                 wrong
                 her
                 with
                 a
                 name
                 too
                 low
                 :
              
               
                 Such
                 the
                 Seraphick
                 Brightness
                 of
                 her
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 hardly
                 can
                 believe
                 her
                 Womankind
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 think
                 some
                 nobler
                 Being
                 does
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 to
                 instruct
                 the
                 World
                 ,
                 has
                 left
                 the
                 Sphere
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 condescends
                 to
                 wear
                 a
                 Body
                 here
                 .
              
               
               
                 Or
                 ,
                 if
                 she
                 mortal
                 be
                 ,
                 and
                 meant
                 to
                 show
              
               
                 The
                 greater
                 Art
                 by
                 being
                 form'd
                 below
                 ;
              
            
             
               
                 Sure
                 Heaven
                 preserv'd
                 her
                 by
                 the
                 Fall
                 uncurs'd
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 tell
                 how
                 good
                 the
                 Sex
                 was
                 made
                 at
                 first
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               THE
               PARTING
               .
            
             
               
                 TOO
                 happy
                 had
                 I
                 been
                 indeed
                 ,
                 if
                 Fate
              
               
                 Had
                 made
                 it
                 lasting
                 ,
                 as
                 she
                 made
                 it
                 great
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 't
                 was
                 the
                 Plot
                 of
                 unkind
                 Destiny
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 lift
                 me
                 to
                 ,
                 then
                 snatch
                 me
                 from
                 my
                 Joy
                 :
              
               
                 She
                 rais'd
                 my
                 Hopes
                 ,
                 and
                 brought
                 them
                 just
                 in
                 view
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 then
                 in
                 spight
                 the
                 pleasing
                 Scene
                 withdrew
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 He
                 of
                 old
                 the
                 
                   promis'd
                   Land
                
                 survey'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 he
                 might
                 see
                 ,
                 but
                 never
                 was
                 to
                 tread
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 Heav'n
                 was
                 by
                 that
                 damned
                 Caitiff
                 seen
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 saw
                 't
                 ,
                 but
                 with
                 a
                 mighty
                 Gulf
                 between
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 saw
                 't
                 to
                 be
                 more
                 wretched
                 ,
                 and
                 despair
                 agen
                 :
              
               
               
                 Not
                 Souls
                 of
                 dying
                 Sinners
                 ,
                 when
                 they
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 Assur'd
                 of
                 endless
                 Miseries
                 below
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 Bodies
                 more
                 unwillingly
                 desert
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 I
                 from
                 you
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 my
                 Joys
                 did
                 part
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 some
                 young
                 Merchant
                 ,
                 whom
                 his
                 Sire
                 unkind
              
               
                 Resigns
                 to
                 every
                 faithless
                 Wave
                 ,
                 and
                 Wind
                 ;
              
               
                 If
                 the
                 kind
                 Mistris
                 of
                 his
                 Vows
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 come
                 to
                 bless
                 his
                 Voyage
                 with
                 a
                 Prayer
                 ,
              
               
                 Such
                 Sighs
                 he
                 vents
                 as
                 may
                 the
                 Gale
                 increase
                 ,
              
               
                 Such
                 Flouds
                 of
                 Tears
                 as
                 may
                 the
                 Billows
                 raise
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 at
                 length
                 the
                 launching
                 Vessel
                 flies
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 severs
                 first
                 his
                 Lips
                 ,
                 and
                 then
                 his
                 Eyes
                 ;
              
               
                 Long
                 he
                 looks
                 back
                 to
                 see
                 what
                 he
                 adores
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 while
                 he
                 may
                 ,
                 views
                 the
                 beloved
                 Shores.
              
               
                 Such
                 just
                 concerns
                 I
                 at
                 your
                 Parting
                 had
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 such
                 sad
                 Eyes
                 your
                 turning
                 Face
                 survey'd
                 :
              
               
                 Reviewing
                 ,
                 they
                 pursu'd
                 you
                 out
                 of
                 sight
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 sought
                 to
                 trace
                 you
                 by
                 left
                 Tracks
                 of
                 Light
                 :
              
               
               
                 And
                 when
                 they
                 could
                 not
                 Looks
                 to
                 you
                 convey
                 ,
              
               
                 Tow'rds
                 the
                 lov'd
                 Place
                 they
                 took
                 delight
                 to
                 stray
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 aim'd
                 uncertain
                 Glances
                 still
                 that
                 way
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Complaining
               of
               ABSENCE
               .
            
             
               
                 TEN
                 days
                 (
                 if
                 I
                 forget
                 not
                 )
                 wasted
                 are
              
               
                 (
                 A
                 year
                 in
                 any
                 Lover's
                 Calendar
                 )
              
               
                 Since
                 I
                 was
                 forc'd
                 to
                 part
                 ,
                 and
                 bid
                 adieu
              
               
                 To
                 all
                 my
                 Joy
                 ,
                 and
                 Happiness
                 in
                 you
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 still
                 by
                 the
                 same
                 Hindrance
                 am
                 detain'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 me
                 at
                 first
                 from
                 your
                 lov'd
                 Sight
                 constrain'd
                 ▪
              
               
                 Oft
                 I
                 resolve
                 to
                 meet
                 my
                 Bliss
                 ,
                 and
                 then
              
               
                 My
                 Tether
                 stops
                 ,
                 and
                 pulls
                 me
                 back
                 agen
                 ?
              
               
                 So
                 when
                 our
                 raised
                 Thoughts
                 to
                 Heav'n
                 aspire
                 ,
              
               
                 Earth
                 stifles
                 them
                 ,
                 and
                 choaks
                 the
                 good
                 desire
                 .
              
               
                 Curse
                 on
                 that
                 Man
                 ,
                 who
                 Bus'ness
                 first
                 design'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 't
                 enthral'd
                 a
                 free-born
                 Lover's
                 mind
                 !
              
               
               
                 A
                 curse
                 on
                 Fate
                 ,
                 who
                 thus
                 subjected
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 made
                 me
                 slave
                 to
                 any
                 thing
                 but
                 thee
                 !
              
               
                 Lovers
                 should
                 be
                 as
                 unconfin'd
                 as
                 Air
                 ,
              
               
                 Free
                 as
                 its
                 wild
                 Inhabitants
                 from
                 Care
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 free
                 those
                 happy
                 Lovers
                 are
                 above
                 ,
              
               
                 Exempt
                 from
                 all
                 Concerns
                 but
                 those
                 of
                 Love
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 I
                 ,
                 poor
                 Lover
                 militant
                 below
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Cares
                 ,
                 and
                 Troubles
                 of
                 dull
                 Life
                 must
                 know
                 ;
              
               
                 Must
                 toil
                 for
                 that
                 ,
                 which
                 does
                 on
                 others
                 wait
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 undergo
                 the
                 drudgery
                 of
                 Fate
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 I
                 'll
                 no
                 more
                 to
                 her
                 a
                 Vassal
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 now
                 shalt
                 make
                 ,
                 and
                 rule
                 my
                 Destiny
                 :
              
               
                 Hence
                 troublesome
                 Fatigues
                 !
                 all
                 Bus'ness
                 hence
                 !
              
               
                 This
                 very
                 hour
                 my
                 Freedom
                 shall
                 commence
                 :
              
               
                 Too
                 long
                 that
                 Jilt
                 has
                 thy
                 proud
                 Rival
                 been
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 made
                 me
                 by
                 neglectful
                 Absence
                 sin
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 I
                 'll
                 no
                 more
                 obey
                 its
                 Tyranny
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 that
                 ,
                 nor
                 Fate
                 it self
                 shall
                 hinder
                 me
              
               
                 Henceforth
                 from
                 seeing
                 ,
                 and
                 enjoying
                 thee
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Promising
               a
               VISIT
               .
            
             
               
                 SOoner
                 may
                 Art
                 ,
                 and
                 easier
                 far
                 divide
              
               
                 The
                 soft
                 embracing
                 waters
                 of
                 the
                 Tide
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 with
                 united
                 Friendship
                 still
                 rejoyn
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 part
                 my
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 my
                 Arms
                 ,
                 or
                 Lips
                 from
                 thine
                 :
              
               
                 Sooner
                 it
                 may
                 Time's
                 headlong
                 motion
                 force
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 which
                 it
                 marches
                 with
                 unalter'd
                 course
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 sever
                 this
                 from
                 the
                 succeeding
                 Day
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 from
                 thy
                 happy
                 Presence
                 force
                 my
                 stay
                 .
              
               
                 Not
                 the
                 touch'd
                 Needle
                 (
                 emblem
                 of
                 my
                 Soul
                 )
              
               
                 With
                 greater
                 Rev'rence
                 trembles
                 to
                 its
                 Pole
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 Flames
                 with
                 surer
                 instinct
                 upwards
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 mine
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 their
                 motions
                 tend
                 to
                 you
                 .
              
               
               
                 Fly
                 swift
                 ,
                 ye
                 minutes
                 ,
                 and
                 contract
                 the
                 space
              
               
                 Of
                 Time
                 ,
                 which
                 holds
                 me
                 from
                 her
                 dear
                 Embrace
                 :
              
               
                 When
                 I
                 am
                 there
                 I
                 'll
                 bid
                 you
                 kindly
                 stay
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 bid
                 you
                 rest
                 ,
                 and
                 never
                 glide
                 away
                 .
              
               
                 Thither
                 when
                 Bus'ness
                 gives
                 me
                 a
                 Release
              
               
                 To
                 lose
                 my
                 Cares
                 in
                 soft
                 ,
                 and
                 gentle
                 Ease
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 come
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 arrears
                 of
                 Kindness
                 pay
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 live
                 o're
                 my
                 whole
                 Absence
                 in
                 one
                 day
                 .
              
               
                 Not
                 Souls
                 ,
                 releas'd
                 from
                 humane
                 Bodies
                 ,
                 move
              
               
                 With
                 quicker
                 haste
                 to
                 meet
                 their
                 Bliss
                 above
                 :
              
               
                 Than
                 I
                 ,
                 when
                 freed
                 from
                 Clogs
                 ,
                 that
                 bind
                 me
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 Eager
                 to
                 seize
                 my
                 Happiness
                 ,
                 will
                 go
                 .
              
               
                 Should
                 a
                 fierce
                 Angel
                 arm'd
                 with
                 Thunder
                 stand
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 threaten
                 Vengeance
                 with
                 his
                 brandish'd
                 hand
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 stop
                 the
                 entrance
                 to
                 my
                 Paradise
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 venture
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 slighted
                 Bolts
                 despise
                 .
              
               
                 Swift
                 as
                 the
                 wings
                 of
                 Fear
                 ,
                 shall
                 be
                 my
                 Love
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 me
                 to
                 her
                 with
                 equal
                 speed
                 remove
                 :
              
               
                 Swift
                 ,
                 as
                 the
                 motions
                 of
                 the
                 Eye
                 ,
                 or
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 thither
                 fly
                 ,
                 and
                 leave
                 slow
                 Thought
                 behind
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               THE
               CARELESS
               Good
               Fellow
               .
            
             
               Written
               ,
               March
               9.
               1680.
               
            
             
               SONG
               .
            
             
               
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 
                   APox
                   of
                   this
                   sooling
                   ,
                   and
                   plotting
                   of
                   late
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   a
                   pother
                   ,
                   and
                   stir
                   has
                   it
                   kept
                   in
                   the
                   State
                   ?
                
                 
                   Let
                   the
                   Rabble
                   run
                   mad
                   with
                   Suspicions
                   ,
                   and
                   Fears
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   them
                   scuffle
                   ,
                   and
                   jar
                   ,
                   till
                   they
                   go
                   by
                   the
                   ears
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   Their
                   Grievances
                   never
                   shall
                   trouble
                   my
                   pate
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   I
                   can
                   enjoy
                   my
                   dear
                   Bottle
                   at
                   quiet
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 
                   What
                   Coxcombs
                   were
                   those
                   ,
                   who
                   would
                   barter
                   their
                   ease
                
                 
                   And
                   their
                   Necks
                   for
                   a
                   Toy
                   ,
                   a
                   thin
                   Wafer
                   and
                   Mass
                   ?
                
                 
                   At
                   old
                   Tyburn
                   they
                   never
                   had
                   needed
                   to
                   swing
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   they
                   been
                   but
                   true
                   Subjects
                   to
                   Drink
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   King
                   ;
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   Friend
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Bottle
                   is
                   all
                   my
                   design
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   has
                   no
                   room
                   for
                   Treason
                   ,
                   that
                   's
                   top-full
                   of
                   Wine
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 III.
                 
              
               
                 
                   I
                   mind
                   not
                   the
                   Members
                   and
                   makers
                   of
                   Laws
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   them
                   sit
                   or
                   Prorogue
                   ,
                   as
                   his
                   Majesty
                   please
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   them
                   damn
                   us
                   to
                   Woollen
                   ,
                   I
                   'll
                   never
                   repine
                
                 
                   At
                   my
                   Lodging
                   ,
                   when
                   dead
                   ,
                   so
                   alive
                   I
                   have
                   Wine
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   Yet
                   oft
                   in
                   my
                   Drink
                   I
                   can
                   hardly
                   forbeat
                
                 
                   To
                   curse
                   them
                   for
                   making
                   my
                   Claret
                   so
                   dear
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 IV.
                 
              
               
                 
                   I
                   mind
                   not
                   grave
                   Asses
                   ,
                   who
                   idly
                   debate
                
                 
                   About
                   Right
                   and
                   Succession
                   ,
                   the
                   Trifles
                   of
                   State
                   ;
                
                 
                   We
                   've
                   a
                   good
                   King
                   already
                   :
                   and
                   he
                   deserves
                   laughter
                
                 
                   That
                   will
                   trouble
                   his
                   head
                   with
                   who
                   shall
                   come
                   after
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   Come
                   ,
                   here
                   's
                   to
                   his
                   Health
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                   wish
                   he
                   may
                   be
                
                 
                   As
                   free
                   from
                   all
                   Care
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   Trouble
                   ,
                   as
                   we
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 V.
                 
              
               
                 
                   What
                   care
                   I
                   how
                   Leagues
                   with
                   the
                   Hollander
                   go
                   ?
                
                 
                   Or
                   Intrigues
                   betwixt
                   Sidney
                   ,
                   and
                   Monsieur
                   D'Avaux
                   ?
                
                 
                   What
                   concerns
                   it
                   my
                   Drinking
                   ,
                   if
                   Casal
                   be
                   sold
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   the
                   Conquerour
                   take
                   it
                   by
                   Storming
                   ,
                   or
                   Gold
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   Good
                   Bordeaux
                   alone
                   is
                   the
                   place
                   that
                   I
                   mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   the
                   Fleet
                   's
                   coming
                   ,
                   I
                   pray
                   for
                   a
                   Wind.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 VI.
                 
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Bully
                   of
                   France
                   ,
                   that
                   aspires
                   to
                   Renown
                
                 
                   By
                   dull
                   cutting
                   of
                   Throats
                   ,
                   and
                   vent'ring
                   his
                   own
                   ;
                
                 
                   Let
                   him
                   fight
                   and
                   be
                   damn'd
                   ,
                   and
                   make
                   Matches
                   ,
                   and
                   Treat
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   afford
                   the
                   News-mongers
                   ,
                   and
                   Coffee-house
                   Chat
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   's
                   but
                   a
                   brave
                   Wretch
                   ,
                   while
                   I
                   am
                   more
                   free
                   ,
                
                 
                   More
                   safe
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   thousand
                   times
                   happier
                   than
                   He.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 VII
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Come
                   He
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   Pope
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   Devil
                   to
                   boot
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   come
                   Faggot
                   ,
                   and
                   Stake
                   ;
                   I
                   care
                   not
                   a
                   Groat
                   ;
                
                 
                   Never
                   think
                   that
                   in
                   Smithfield
                   I
                   Porters
                   will
                   heat
                   :
                
                 
                   No
                   ,
                   I
                   swear
                   ,
                   Mr
                   Fox
                   ,
                   pray
                   excuse
                   me
                   for
                   that
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   'll
                   drink
                   in
                   defiance
                   of
                   Gibbet
                   ,
                   and
                   Halter
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   the
                   Profession
                   ,
                   that
                   never
                   will
                   alter
                   .
                
              
            
          
           
             
             
               A
               SATYR
               .
            
             
               The
               Person
               of
               Spencer
               is
               brought
               in
               ,
               Dissuading
               the
               Author
               from
               the
               Study
               of
               POETRY
               ,
               and
               shewing
               how
               little
               it
               is
               esteem'd
               and
               encouraged
               in
               this
               present
               Age.
               
            
             
               
                 ONE
                 night
                 ,
                 as
                 I
                 was
                 pondering
                 of
                 late
              
               
                 On
                 all
                 the
                 mis'ries
                 of
                 my
                 hapless
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 Cursing
                 my
                 rhiming
                 Stars
                 ,
                 raving
                 in
                 vain
              
               
                 At
                 all
                 the
                 Pow'rs
                 ,
                 which
                 over
                 Poets
                 reign
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 came
                 a
                 ghastly
                 Shape
                 ,
                 all
                 pale
                 ,
                 and
                 thin
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 some
                 poor
                 Sinner
                 ,
                 who
                 by
                 Priest
                 had
                 been
                 ,
              
               
                 Under
                 a
                 long
                 Lent
                 's
                 Penance
                 ,
                 starv'd
                 ,
                 and
                 whip'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 par-boil'd
                 Lecher
                 ,
                 late
                 from
                 Hot-house
                 crept
                 :
              
               
               
                 Famish'd
                 his
                 Looks
                 appear'd
                 ,
                 his
                 Eyes
                 sunk
                 in
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 Morning-Gown
                 about
                 him
                 hung
                 his
                 Skin
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 Wreath
                 of
                 Lawrel
                 on
                 his
                 Head
                 he
                 wore
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Book
                 ,
                 inscrib'd
                 the
                 
                   Fairy
                   Queen
                
                 ,
                 he
                 bore
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 
                   By
                   this
                   I
                   knew
                   him
                   ,
                   rose
                   ,
                   and
                   bow'd
                   ,
                   and
                   said
                   ,
                
              
               
                 Hail
                 reverend
                 Ghost
                 !
                 all
                 hail
                 most
                 sacred
                 Shade
                 !
              
               
                 Why
                 this
                 great
                 Visit
                 ?
                 why
                 vouchsaf'd
                 to
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 meanest
                 of
                 thy
                 British
                 Progeny
                 ?
              
               
                 Com'st
                 thou
                 in
                 my
                 uncall'd
                 ,
                 unhallow'd
                 Muse
                 ,
              
               
                 Some
                 of
                 thy
                 mighty
                 Spirit
                 to
                 infuse
                 ?
              
               
                 If
                 so
                 ;
                 lay
                 on
                 thy
                 Hands
                 ,
                 ordain
                 me
                 fit
              
               
                 For
                 the
                 high
                 Cure
                 ,
                 and
                 Ministry
                 of
                 Wit
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 me
                 (
                 I
                 beg
                 )
                 thy
                 great
                 Instructions
                 claim
                 ,
              
               
                 Teach
                 me
                 to
                 tread
                 the
                 glorious
                 paths
                 of
                 Fame
                 :
              
               
                 Teach
                 me
                 (
                 for
                 none
                 does
                 better
                 know
                 than
                 thou
                 )
              
               
                 How
                 ,
                 like
                 thy self
                 ,
                 I
                 may
                 immortal
                 grow
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thus
                 did
                 I
                 speak
                 ,
                 and
                 spoke
                 it
                 in
                 a
                 strain
                 ,
              
               
                 Above
                 my
                 common
                 rate
                 ,
                 and
                 usual
                 vein
                 ;
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 inspir'd
                 by
                 presence
                 of
                 the
                 Bard
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 with
                 a
                 Frown
                 thus
                 to
                 reply
                 was
                 heard
                 ,
              
               
               
                 In
                 stile
                 of
                 Satyr
                 ,
                 such
                 wherein
                 of
                 old
              
               
                 He
                 the
                 fam'd
                 Tale
                 of
                 
                   Mother
                   Hubberd
                
                 told
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 I
                 come
                 ,
                 fond
                 Ideot
                 ,
                 e're
                 it
                 be
                 too
                 late
                 ,
              
               
                 Kindly
                 to
                 warn
                 thee
                 of
                 thy
                 wretched
                 Fate
                 :
              
               
                 Take
                 heed
                 betimes
                 ,
                 repent
                 ,
                 and
                 learn
                 of
                 me
              
               
                 To
                 shun
                 the
                 dang'rous
                 Rocks
                 of
                 Poetry
                 :
              
               
                 Had
                 I
                 the
                 choice
                 of
                 Flesh
                 and
                 Bloud
                 again
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 act
                 once
                 more
                 in
                 Life's
                 tumultuous
                 Scene
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 'd
                 be
                 a
                 Portcr
                 ,
                 or
                 a
                 Scavenger
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 groom
                 ,
                 or
                 any
                 thing
                 ,
                 but
                 Poet
                 here
                 :
              
               
                 Hast
                 thou
                 observ'd
                 some
                 Hawker
                 of
                 the
                 Town
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 through
                 the
                 Streets
                 with
                 dismal
                 Scream
                 and
                 Tone
                 ,
              
               
                 Cries
                 Matches
                 ,
                 Small-coal
                 ,
                 Brooms
                 ,
                 Old
                 Shooes
                 and
                 Boots
                 ,
              
               
                 Socks
                 ,
                 Sermons
                 ,
                 Ballads
                 ,
                 Lies
                 ,
                 Gazetts
                 ,
                 and
                 Votes
                 ?
              
               
                 So
                 unrecorded
                 to
                 the
                 Grave
                 I
                 'd
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 nothing
                 but
                 the
                 Register
                 tell
                 ,
                 who
                 :
              
               
                 Rather
                 that
                 poor
                 unheard
                 of
                 Wretch
                 I
                 'd
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 the
                 most
                 glorious
                 Name
                 in
                 Poetry
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 all
                 its
                 boasted
                 Immortality
                 :
              
               
               
                 Rather
                 than
                 He
                 ,
                 who
                 sung
                 on
                 
                 Phrygia's
                 Shore
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Grecian
                 Bullies
                 fighting
                 for
                 a
                 Whore
                 :
              
               
                 Or
                 He
                 of
                 Thebes
                 ,
                 whom
                 Fame
                 so
                 much
                 extols
              
               
                 For
                 praising
                 Jockies
                 ,
                 and
                 New-market
                 Fools
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 So
                 many
                 now
                 ,
                 and
                 bad
                 the
                 Scriblers
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 scandal
                 to
                 be
                 of
                 the
                 Company
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 foul
                 Disease
                 is
                 so
                 prevailing
                 grown
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 much
                 the
                 Fashion
                 of
                 the
                 Court
                 and
                 Town
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 scarce
                 a
                 man
                 well
                 bred
                 in
                 either's
                 deem'd
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 who
                 has
                 kill'd
                 ,
                 been
                 often
                 clapt
                 ,
                 and
                 oft
                 has
                 rhim'd
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Fools
                 are
                 troubled
                 with
                 a
                 Flux
                 of
                 Brains
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 each
                 on
                 Paper
                 squirts
                 his
                 filthy
                 sense
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 leash
                 of
                 Sonnets
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 dull
                 Lampoon
              
               
                 Set
                 up
                 an
                 Author
                 ,
                 who
                 forthwith
                 is
                 grown
              
               
                 A
                 man
                 of
                 Parts
                 ,
                 of
                 Rhiming
                 ,
                 and
                 Renown
                 :
              
               
                 Ev'n
                 that
                 vile
                 Wretch
                 ,
                 who
                 in
                 lewd
                 Verse
                 each
                 year
              
               
                 Describes
                 the
                 Pageants
                 ,
                 and
                 my
                 good
                 
                   Lord
                   May'r
                
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Works
                 must
                 serve
                 the
                 next
                 Election-day
              
               
                 For
                 making
                 Squibs
                 ,
                 and
                 under
                 Pies
                 to
                 lay
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Yet
                 counts
                 himself
                 of
                 the
                 inspired
                 Train
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 dares
                 in
                 thought
                 the
                 sacred
                 Name
                 profane
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 
                   But
                   is
                   it
                   nought
                
                 (
                 thou'lt
                 say
                 )
                 
                   in
                   Front
                   to
                   stand
                
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   With
                   Lawrel
                   crown'd
                   by
                
                 White
                 ,
                 or
                 Loggan
                 
                   's
                   hand
                
                 ?
              
               
                 
                   Is
                   it
                   not
                   great
                   ,
                   and
                   glorious
                   to
                   be
                   known
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Mark'd
                   out
                   ,
                   and
                   gaz'd
                   at
                   thro
                   the
                   wond'ring
                   Town
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   By
                   all
                   the
                   Ra●…le
                   passing
                   up
                   and
                   down
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   So
                   Oats
                
                 and
                 Bedloe
                 have
                 been
                 pointed
                 at
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 every
                 busie
                 Coxcomb
                 of
                 the
                 State
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 meanest
                 Felons
                 who
                 through
                 Holborn
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 More
                 eyes
                 ,
                 and
                 looks
                 than
                 twenty
                 Poets
                 draw
                 :
              
               
                 If
                 this
                 be
                 all
                 ,
                 go
                 ,
                 have
                 thy
                 posted
                 Name
              
               
                 Fix'd
                 up
                 with
                 Bills
                 of
                 Quack
                 ,
                 and
                 publick
                 Sham
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 the
                 stop
                 of
                 gaping
                 Prentices
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 read
                 by
                 reeling
                 Drunkards
                 ,
                 when
                 they
                 piss
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 else
                 to
                 lie
                 expos'd
                 on
                 trading
                 Stall
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 the
                 bilk'd
                 Owner
                 hires
                 Gazetts
                 to
                 tell
                 ,
              
               
                 Mongst
                 Spaniels
                 lost
                 ,
                 that
                 Authors
                 does
                 not
                 sell.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 Perhaps
                 ,
                 fond
                 Fool
                 ,
                 thou
                 sooth'st
                 thy self
                 in
                 dream
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 hopes
                 of
                 purchasing
                 a
                 lasting
                 Name
                 ?
              
               
                 Thou
                 think'st
                 perhaps
                 thy
                 Trifles
                 shall
                 remain
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 sacred
                 Cowley
                 ,
                 and
                 immortal
                 Ben
                 ?
              
               
                 But
                 who
                 of
                 all
                 the
                 bold
                 Adventurers
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 now
                 drive
                 on
                 the
                 trade
                 of
                 Fame
                 in
                 Verse
              
               
                 Can
                 be
                 ensur'd
                 in
                 this
                 unfaithful
                 Sea
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 there
                 so
                 many
                 lost
                 and
                 shipwrack'd
                 be
                 ?
              
               
                 How
                 many
                 Poems
                 writ
                 in
                 ancient
                 time
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 thy
                 Fore-fathers
                 had
                 in
                 great
                 esteem
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 in
                 the
                 crowded
                 Shops
                 bore
                 any
                 rate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sold
                 like
                 News
                 Books
                 ,
                 and
                 Affairs
                 of
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 Have
                 grown
                 contemptible
                 ,
                 and
                 slighted
                 since
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 
                   Pordage
                   ,
                   Fleckno
                
                 ,
                 or
                 the
                 
                   British
                   Prince
                
                 ?
              
               
                 
                   Quarles
                   ,
                   Chapman
                   ,
                   Heywood
                   ,
                   Withers
                
                 had
                 Applause
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Wild
                 ,
                 and
                 Ogilby
                 in
                 former
                 days
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 now
                 are
                 damn'd
                 to
                 wrapping
                 Drugs
                 ,
                 and
                 Wares
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 curs'd
                 by
                 all
                 their
                 broken
                 Stationers
                 :
              
               
               
                 And
                 so
                 may'st
                 thou
                 perchance
                 pass
                 up
                 and
                 down
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 please
                 a
                 while
                 th'
                 admiring
                 Court
                 ,
                 and
                 Town
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 after
                 shalt
                 in
                 Duck-lane
                 Shops
                 be
                 thrown
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 mould
                 with
                 Silvester
                 ,
                 and
                 Shirley
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 truck
                 for
                 Pots
                 of
                 Ale
                 next
                 
                 Stourbridg-Fair
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 who
                 'l
                 not
                 laugh
                 to
                 see
                 th'
                 immortal
                 Name
              
               
                 To
                 vile
                 Mundungus
                 made
                 a
                 Martyr
                 Flame
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 thy
                 deathless
                 Monuments
                 of
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 Wipe
                 Porters
                 Tails
                 ,
                 or
                 mount
                 in
                 Paper-kite
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 ,
                 grant
                 thy
                 Poetry
                 should
                 find
                 success
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 (
                 which
                 is
                 rare
                 )
                 the
                 squeamish
                 Criticks
                 please
                 ;
              
               
                 Admit
                 ▪
                 it
                 read
                 ▪
                 and
                 prais'd
                 ▪
                 and
                 courted
                 be
              
               
                 By
                 this
                 nice
                 Age
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 Posterity
                 ;
              
               
                 If
                 thou
                 expectest
                 ought
                 but
                 empty
                 Fame
                 ;
              
               
                 Condemn
                 thy
                 Hopes
                 ,
                 and
                 Labours
                 to
                 the
                 Flame
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Rich
                 have
                 now
                 learn'd
                 only
                 to
                 admire
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 ,
                 who
                 to
                 greater
                 Favours
                 does
                 aspire
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 mercenary
                 thought
                 ,
                 and
                 writes
                 to
                 hire
                 :
              
               
                 Would'st
                 thou
                 to
                 raise
                 thine
                 ,
                 and
                 thy
                 Countries
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 Chuse
                 some
                 old
                 English
                 Hero
                 for
                 thy
                 Theme
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Bold
                 Arthur
                 ,
                 or
                 great
                 
                 Edward's
                 greater
                 Son
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 our
                 fifth
                 Harry
                 ,
                 matchless
                 in
                 Renown
                 ,
              
               
                 Make
                 Agincourt
                 ,
                 and
                 Cressy
                 F●…ields
                 outvie
              
               
                 The
                 fam'd
                 Lavinian
                 Shores
                 ,
                 and
                 Walls
                 of
                 Troy
                 ;
              
               
                 What
                 Scipio
                 ,
                 what
                 Moecenas
                 would'st
                 thou
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 Sidney
                 now
                 to
                 thy
                 great
                 Project
                 kind
                 ?
              
               
                 
                   Bless
                   me
                   !
                   how
                   great
                   Genius
                   !
                   how
                   each
                   Line
                
              
               
                 
                   Is
                   big
                   with
                   Sense
                   !
                   how
                   glorious
                   a
                   Design
                
              
               
                 
                   Does
                   thro
                   the
                   whole
                   ,
                   and
                   each
                   Proportion
                   shine
                   !
                
              
               
                 
                   How
                   losty
                   all
                   his
                   Thoughts
                   ,
                   and
                   how
                   inspir'd
                   !
                
              
               
                 
                   Pity
                   ,
                   such
                   wond'rous
                   Parts
                   are
                   not
                   preferr'd
                   :
                
              
               
                 Cries
                 a
                 gay
                 wealthy
                 Sot
                 ,
                 who
                 would
                 not
                 bail
              
               
                 For
                 bare
                 five
                 Pounds
                 the
                 Author
                 out
                 of
                 Jail
                 ,
              
               
                 Should
                 he
                 starve
                 there
                 ,
                 and
                 rot
                 ;
                 who
                 if
                 a
                 Brief
              
               
                 Came
                 out
                 the
                 needy
                 Poets
                 to
                 relieve
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 whole
                 Tribe
                 would
                 searce
                 a
                 Tester
                 give
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 fifty
                 Guinnies
                 for
                 a
                 Whore
                 and
                 Clap
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Peer's
                 well
                 us'd
                 ,
                 and
                 comes
                 off
                 wond'rous
                 cheap
                 :
              
               
               
                 A
                 Poet
                 would
                 be
                 dear
                 ,
                 and
                 out
                 o'
                 th'
                 way
                 .
              
               
                 Should
                 he
                 expect
                 above
                 a
                 Coach
                 man's
                 pay
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 this
                 will
                 any
                 dedicate
                 ,
                 and
                 lye
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 dawb
                 the
                 gaudy
                 Ass
                 with
                 Flattery
                 ?
              
               
                 For
                 this
                 will
                 any
                 prostitute
                 his
                 Sense
              
               
                 To
                 Coxcombs
                 void
                 of
                 Bounty
                 ,
                 as
                 of
                 Brains
                 ?
              
               
                 Yet
                 such
                 is
                 the
                 hard
                 Fate
                 of
                 Writers
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 're
                 forc'd
                 for
                 Alms
                 to
                 each
                 great
                 Name
                 to
                 bow
                 :
              
               
                 Fawn
                 ,
                 like
                 her
                 Lap-dog
                 ,
                 on
                 her
                 tawdry
                 Grace
                 ,
              
               
                 Commend
                 her
                 Beauty
                 ,
                 and
                 bely
                 her
                 Glass
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 which
                 she
                 every
                 morning
                 primes
                 her
                 Face
                 :
              
               
                 Sneak
                 to
                 his
                 Honour
                 ,
                 call
                 him
                 Witty
                 ,
                 Brave
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Just
                 ,
                 tho
                 a
                 known
                 Coward
                 ,
                 Fool
                 ,
                 or
                 knave
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 praise
                 his
                 Lineage
                 ,
                 and
                 Nobility
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Arms
                 at
                 first
                 came
                 from
                 the
                 Company
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 'T
                 is
                 so
                 ,
                 't
                 was
                 ever
                 so
                 ,
                 since
                 heretofore
              
               
                 The
                 blind
                 old
                 Bard
                 ,
                 with
                 Dog
                 and
                 Bell
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 Was
                 fain
                 to
                 sing
                 for
                 Bread
                 from
                 door
                 to
                 door
                 ;
              
               
               
                 The
                 needy
                 Muses
                 all
                 turn'd
                 Gypsies
                 then
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 of
                 the
                 begging
                 Trade
                 e'er
                 since
                 have
                 been
                 :
              
               
                 Should
                 mighty
                 Sappho
                 in
                 these
                 days
                 revive
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 hope
                 upon
                 her
                 stock
                 of
                 Wit
                 to
                 live
                 ;
              
               
                 She
                 must
                 to
                 
                 Creswel's
                 trudg
                 to
                 mend
                 her
                 Gains
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 let
                 her
                 Tail
                 to
                 hire
                 ,
                 as
                 well
                 as
                 Brains
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 Poet
                 ever
                 fin'd
                 for
                 Sheriff
                 ?
                 or
                 who
              
               
                 By
                 Wit
                 and
                 Sense
                 did
                 ever
                 Lord
                 Mayors
                 grow
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 My
                 own
                 hard
                 Usage
                 here
                 I
                 need
                 not
                 press
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 you
                 have
                 every
                 day
                 before
                 your
                 face
              
               
                 Plenty
                 of
                 fresh
                 resembling
                 Instances
                 :
              
               
                 Great
                 
                 Cowley's
                 Muse
                 the
                 same
                 ill
                 Treatment
                 had
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Verse
                 shall
                 live
                 for
                 ever
                 to
                 upbraid
              
               
                 Th'
                 ungrateful
                 World
                 ,
                 that
                 left
                 such
                 Worth
                 unpaid
                 .
              
               
                 Waller
                 himself
                 may
                 thank
                 Inheritance
              
               
                 For
                 what
                 he
                 else
                 had
                 never
                 got
                 by
                 Sense
                 .
              
               
                 On
                 Butler
                 who
                 can
                 think
                 without
                 just
                 Rage
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Glory
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Scandal
                 of
                 the
                 Age
                 ?
              
               
               
                 Fair
                 stood
                 his
                 hopes
                 ,
                 when
                 first
                 he
                 came
                 to
                 Town
                 ,
              
               
                 Met
                 every
                 where
                 with
                 welcomes
                 of
                 Renown
                 ,
              
               
                 Courted
                 ,
                 and
                 lov'd
                 by
                 all
                 ,
                 with
                 wonder
                 read
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 promises
                 of
                 Princely
                 Favour
                 fed
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 Reward
                 for
                 all
                 had
                 he
                 at
                 last
                 ,
              
               
                 After
                 a
                 Life
                 in
                 dull
                 expectance
                 pass'd
                 ?
              
               
                 The
                 Wretch
                 at
                 summing
                 up
                 his
                 mis-spent
                 days
              
               
                 Found
                 nothing
                 left
                 ,
                 but
                 Poverty
                 ,
                 and
                 Praise
                 :
              
               
                 Of
                 all
                 his
                 Gains
                 by
                 Verse
                 he
                 could
                 not
                 save
              
               
                 Enough
                 to
                 purchase
                 Flannel
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 Grave
                 :
              
               
                 Reduc'd
                 to
                 want
                 ,
                 he
                 in
                 due
                 time
                 fell
                 sick
                 ,
              
               
                 Was
                 fain
                 to
                 die
                 ,
                 and
                 be
                 interr'd
                 on
                 tick
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 well
                 might
                 bless
                 the
                 Fever
                 that
                 was
                 sent
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 rid
                 him
                 hence
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 worse
                 Fate
                 prevent
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 You
                 've
                 seen
                 what
                 fortune
                 other
                 Poets
                 share
                 ;
              
               
                 View
                 next
                 the
                 Factors
                 of
                 the
                 Theatre
                 :
              
               
                 That
                 constant
                 Mart
                 ,
                 which
                 all
                 the
                 year
                 does
                 hold
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Staple
                 wit
                 is
                 barter'd
                 ,
                 bought
                 ,
                 and
                 sold
                 ;
              
            
             
               
                 Here
                 trading
                 Scriblers
                 for
                 their
                 Maintainance
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Livelihood
                 trust
                 to
                 a
                 Lott'ry
                 chance
                 :
              
               
               
                 But
                 who
                 his
                 Parts
                 would
                 in
                 the
                 Service
                 spend
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 all
                 his
                 hopes
                 on
                 Vulgar
                 Breath
                 depend
                 ?
              
               
                 Where
                 every
                 Sot
                 ,
                 for
                 paying
                 half
                 a
                 Crown
                 ,
              
               
                 Has
                 the
                 Prerogative
                 to
                 cry
                 him
                 down
                 ?
              
               
                 Sidley
                 indeed
                 may
                 be
                 content
                 with
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 care
                 should
                 an
                 ill-judging
                 Audience
                 damn
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 Settle
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Rest
                 ,
                 that
                 writ
                 for
                 Pence
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 whole
                 Estate
                 's
                 an
                 ounce
                 ,
                 or
                 two
                 of
                 Brains
                 ,
              
               
                 Should
                 a
                 thin
                 House
                 on
                 the
                 third
                 day
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 Must
                 starve
                 ,
                 or
                 live
                 in
                 Tatters
                 all
                 the
                 year
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 what
                 can
                 we
                 expect
                 that
                 's
                 brave
                 and
                 great
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 a
                 poor
                 needy
                 Wretch
                 ,
                 that
                 writes
                 to
                 eat
                 ?
              
               
                 Who
                 the
                 success
                 of
                 the
                 next
                 Play
                 must
                 wait
              
               
                 For
                 Lodging
                 ,
                 Food
                 ,
                 and
                 Cloaths
                 ,
                 and
                 whose
                 chief
                 care
              
               
                 Is
                 how
                 to
                 spunge
                 for
                 the
                 next
                 Meal
                 ,
                 and
                 where
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Hadst
                 thou
                 of
                 old
                 in
                 flourishing
                 Athens
                 liv'd
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 all
                 the
                 learned
                 Arts
                 in
                 Glory
                 thriv'd
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 mighty
                 Sephocles
                 the
                 Stage
                 did
                 sway
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Poets
                 by
                 the
                 State
                 were
                 held
                 in
                 pay
                 ;
              
               
               
                 'T
                 were
                 worth
                 thy
                 Pains
                 to
                 cultivate
                 thy
                 Muse
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 daily
                 wonders
                 then
                 it
                 might
                 produce
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 who
                 would
                 now
                 write
                 Hackney
                 to
                 a
                 Stage
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 's
                 only
                 thought
                 the
                 Nuisance
                 of
                 the
                 Age
                 ?
              
               
                 Go
                 after
                 this
                 ,
                 and
                 beat
                 thy
                 wretched
                 Brains
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 toil
                 to
                 bring
                 in
                 thankless
                 Ideots
                 means
                 :
              
               
                 Turn
                 o're
                 dull
                 Horace
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Classick
                 Fools
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 poach
                 for
                 Sense
                 ,
                 and
                 hunt
                 for
                 idle
                 Rules
                 :
              
               
                 Be
                 free
                 of
                 Tickets
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Play-houses
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 some
                 tawdry
                 Act'ress
                 there
                 by
                 Prize
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 spend
                 thy
                 third
                 Days
                 gains
                 'twixt
                 her
                 clap'd
                 Thighs
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 All
                 Trades
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 Professions
                 here
                 abound
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 Encouragement
                 for
                 all
                 is
                 found
                 :
              
               
                 Here
                 a
                 vile
                 Emp'rick
                 ,
                 who
                 by
                 Licence
                 kills
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 every
                 Week
                 helps
                 to
                 increase
                 the
                 Bills
                 ,
              
               
                 Wears
                 Velvet
                 ,
                 keeps
                 his
                 Coach
                 ,
                 and
                 Whore
                 beside
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 what
                 less
                 Villains
                 must
                 to
                 Tyburn
                 ride
                 .
              
               
                 There
                 a
                 dull
                 trading
                 Sot
                 ,
                 in
                 Wealth
                 o
                 regrown
              
               
                 By
                 thriving
                 Knavery
                 ,
                 can
                 call
                 his
                 own
                 .
              
               
               
                 A
                 dozen
                 Mannors
                 ,
                 and
                 if
                 Fate
                 still
                 bless
                 ,
              
               
                 Expect
                 as
                 many
                 Counties
                 to
                 possess
                 .
              
               
                 Punks
                 ,
                 Panders
                 ,
                 Bawds
                 ,
                 all
                 their
                 due
                 Pensions
                 gain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 every
                 day
                 the
                 Great
                 Mens
                 Bounty
                 drain
                 :
              
               
                 Lavish
                 expence
                 on
                 Wit
                 ,
                 has
                 never
                 yet
              
               
                 Been
                 tax'd
                 amongst
                 the
                 Grievances
                 of
                 State.
              
               
                 The
                 
                   Turky
                   ,
                   Guinny
                   ,
                   India
                
                 Gainers
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 but
                 the
                 Poetick
                 Company
                 :
              
               
                 Each
                 place
                 of
                 Traffick
                 ,
                 
                   Bantam
                   ,
                   Smyrna
                   ,
                   Zant
                
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   Greenland
                   ,
                   Virginia
                   ,
                   Sevil
                   ,
                   Alicant
                   ,
                
              
               
                 And
                 France
                 ,
                 that
                 sends
                 us
                 Dildoes
                 ,
                 Lace
                 ,
                 and
                 Wine
                 ,
              
               
                 Vast
                 profit
                 all
                 ,
                 and
                 large
                 Returns
                 bring
                 in
                 :
              
               
                 Parnassus
                 only
                 is
                 that
                 barren
                 Coast
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 the
                 whole
                 Voyage
                 ,
                 and
                 Adventure
                 's
                 lost
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Then
                 be
                 advis'd
                 ,
                 the
                 slighted
                 Muse
                 forsake
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Coke
                 ,
                 and
                 Dalton
                 for
                 thy
                 study
                 take
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 Fees
                 each
                 Term
                 sweat
                 in
                 the
                 crowded
                 Hall
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 there
                 for
                 Charters
                 ,
                 and
                 crack'd
                 Titles
                 bawl
                 :
              
               
               
                 Where
                 
                   M
                   —
                   d
                
                 thrives
                 ,
                 and
                 pockets
                 more
                 each
                 year
              
               
                 Than
                 forty
                 Laureats
                 of
                 the
                 Theater
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 else
                 to
                 Orders
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Church
                 betake
              
               
                 Thy self
                 ,
                 and
                 that
                 thy
                 future
                 Refuge
                 make
                 :
              
               
                 There
                 fawn
                 on
                 some
                 proud
                 Patron
                 to
                 engage
              
               
                 Th'
                 Advowson
                 of
                 cast
                 Punk
                 ,
                 and
                 Parsonage
                 :
              
               
                 Or
                 sooth
                 the
                 Court
                 ▪
                 and
                 preach
                 up
                 Kingly
                 Right
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 gain
                 a
                 Prebend'ry
                 ,
                 and
                 Mitre
                 by
                 't
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 fine
                 ,
                 turn
                 Pettifogger
                 ,
                 Canonist
                 ,
              
               
                 Civilian
                 ,
                 Pedant
                 ,
                 Mountebank
                 ,
                 or
                 Priest
                 ,
              
               
                 Soldier
                 ,
                 or
                 Merchant
                 ,
                 Fidler
                 ,
                 Painter
                 ,
                 Fencer
                 ,
              
               
                 Jack-pudding
                 ,
                 Juggler
                 ,
                 Player
                 ,
                 or
                 Rope-dancer
                 :
              
               
                 Preach
                 ,
                 Plead
                 ,
                 Cure
                 ,
                 Fight
                 ,
                 Game
                 ,
                 Pimp
                 ,
                 Beg
                 ,
                 Cheat
                 ,
                 or
                 Thieve
                 ;
              
               
                 Be
                 all
                 but
                 Poet
                 ,
                 and
                 there
                 's
                 way
                 to
                 live
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 why
                 do
                 I
                 in
                 vain
                 my
                 Counsel
                 spend
              
               
                 On
                 one
                 whom
                 there
                 's
                 so
                 little
                 hope
                 to
                 mend
                 ?
              
               
                 Where
                 I
                 perhaps
                 as
                 fruitlesly
                 exhort
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 Lenten
                 Doctors
                 ,
                 when
                 they
                 Preach
                 at
                 Court
                 ?
              
               
               
                 Not
                 enter'd
                 Punks
                 from
                 Lust
                 they
                 once
                 have
                 tried
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 Fops
                 ,
                 and
                 Women
                 from
                 Conceit
                 ,
                 and
                 Pride
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 Bawds
                 from
                 Impudence
                 ,
                 Cowards
                 from
                 Fear
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 sear'd
                 unfeeling
                 Sinners
                 past
                 Despair
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 half
                 so
                 hard
                 ,
                 and
                 stubborn
                 to
                 reduce
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 a
                 poor
                 Wretch
                 ,
                 when
                 once
                 poss●…ss'd
                 with
                 Mus●…
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 If
                 therefore
                 ,
                 what
                 I
                 've
                 said
                 ,
                 cannot
                 avail
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 from
                 the
                 Rhiming
                 Folly
                 thee
                 recal
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 spite
                 of
                 all
                 thou
                 wilt
                 be
                 obstinate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 run
                 thy self
                 upon
                 avoidless
                 Fate
                 ;
              
               
                 May'st
                 thou
                 go
                 on
                 unpitied
                 ,
                 till
                 thou
                 be
              
               
                 Brought
                 to
                 the
                 Parish
                 ,
                 Bridge
                 ,
                 and
                 Beggary
                 :
              
               
                 Till
                 urg'd
                 by
                 want
                 ,
                 like
                 broken
                 Scriblers
                 ,
                 thou
              
               
                 Turn
                 Poet
                 to
                 a
                 Booth
                 ,
                 a
                 
                 Smithfield-Show
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 write
                 Heroick
                 Verse
                 for
                 Bartholmew
                 :
              
            
             
               
                 Then
                 slighted
                 by
                 the
                 very
                 Nursery
                 ,
              
               
                 May'st
                 thou
                 at
                 last
                 be
                 forc'd
                 to
                 starve
                 ,
                 like
                 me
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               A
               SATYR
               ,
               In
               Imitation
               of
               the
               Third
               of
               JUVENAL
               .
            
             
               Written
               ,
               May
               ,
               1682.
               
            
             
               
                 The
                 Poet
                 brings
                 in
                 a
                 Friend
                 of
                 his
                 ,
                 giving
                 him
                 an
                 account
                 why
                 he
                 removes
                 from
                 London
                 to
                 live
                 in
                 the
                 Country
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 THO
                 much
                 concern'd
                 to
                 leave
                 my
                 dear
                 old
                 Friend
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 must
                 however
                 his
                 Design
                 commend
              
               
                 Of
                 fixing
                 in
                 the
                 Country
                 :
                 for
                 were
                 I
              
               
                 As
                 free
                 to
                 chuse
                 my
                 Residence
                 ,
                 as
                 he
                 ;
              
               
               
                 The
                 Peake
                 ,
                 the
                 Fens
                 ,
                 the
                 Hundreds
                 ,
                 or
                 Lands-end
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 would
                 prefer
                 to
                 Fleetstreet
                 ,
                 or
                 the
                 Strand
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 place
                 so
                 desart
                 ,
                 and
                 so
                 wild
                 is
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Inconveniencies
                 one
                 would
                 not
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 Rather
                 than
                 the
                 Alarms
                 of
                 midnight
                 Fire
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 falls
                 of
                 Houses
                 ,
                 Knavery
                 of
                 Cits
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Plots
                 of
                 Factions
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 noise
                 of
                 Wits
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thousand
                 other
                 Plagues
                 ,
                 which
                 up
                 and
                 down
              
               
                 Each
                 day
                 and
                 hour
                 infest
                 the
                 cursed
                 Town
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 As
                 Fate
                 wou'd
                 have
                 't
                 ,
                 on
                 the
                 appointed
                 day
              
               
                 Of
                 parting
                 hence
                 ,
                 I
                 met
                 him
                 on
                 the
                 way
                 ,
              
               
                 Hard
                 by
                 Mile-end
                 ,
                 the
                 place
                 so
                 fam'd
                 of
                 late
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Prose
                 ,
                 and
                 Verse
                 for
                 the
                 great
                 
                   Factions
                   Treat
                
                 ;
              
               
                 Here
                 we
                 stood
                 still
                 ,
                 and
                 after
                 Complements
              
               
                 Of
                 course
                 ,
                 and
                 wishing
                 his
                 good
                 Journey
                 hence
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 ask'd
                 what
                 sudden
                 causes
                 made
                 him
                 slie
              
               
                 The
                 once-lov'd
                 Town
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 dear
                 Company
                 :
              
               
                 When
                 ,
                 on
                 the
                 hated
                 Prospect
                 looking
                 back
                 ,
              
               
                 Thus
                 with
                 just
                 rage
                 the
                 good
                 old
                 Timon
                 spake
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Since
                 Virtue
                 here
                 in
                 no
                 repute
                 is
                 had
                 ,
              
               
                 Since
                 Worth
                 is
                 scorn'd
                 ,
                 Learning
                 and
                 Sense
                 un
                 paid
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Knavery
                 the
                 only
                 thriving
                 Trade
                 ;
              
               
                 Finding
                 my
                 slender
                 Fortune
                 every
                 day
              
               
                 Dwindle
                 ,
                 and
                 waste
                 insensibly
                 away
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 ,
                 like
                 a
                 losing
                 Gamester
                 ,
                 thus
                 retreat
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 manage
                 wiselier
                 my
                 last
                 stake
                 of
                 Fate
                 :
              
               
                 While
                 I
                 have
                 strength
                 ,
                 and
                 want
                 no
                 staff
                 to
                 prop
              
               
                 My
                 tott'ring
                 Limbs
                 ,
                 e're
                 Age
                 has
                 made
                 me
                 stoop
              
               
                 Beneath
                 its
                 weight
                 ,
                 e're
                 all
                 my
                 Thread
                 be
                 spun
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Life
                 has
                 yet
                 in
                 store
                 some
                 Sands
                 to
                 run
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 my
                 Resolve
                 to
                 quit
                 the
                 nauseous
                 Town
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Let
                 thriving
                 Morecraft
                 chuse
                 his
                 dwelling
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 Rich
                 with
                 the
                 Spoils
                 of
                 some
                 young
                 spend-thrist
                 Heir
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 the
                 Plot-mongers
                 stay
                 behind
                 ,
                 whose
                 Art
              
               
                 Can
                 Truth
                 to
                 Sham
                 ,
                 and
                 Sham
                 to
                 Truth
                 convert
                 :
              
               
                 Who
                 ●…ver
                 has
                 an
                 House
                 to
                 Build
                 ,
                 or
                 Set
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Wife
                 ,
                 his
                 Conscience
                 ,
                 or
                 his
                 Oath
                 to
                 let
                 :
              
               
               
                 Who
                 ever
                 has
                 ,
                 or
                 hopes
                 for
                 Offices
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Navy
                 ,
                 Guard
                 ,
                 or
                 Custom-house's
                 Place
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 sharping
                 Courtiers
                 stay
                 ,
                 who
                 there
                 are
                 great
              
               
                 By
                 putting
                 the
                 false
                 Dice
                 on
                 King
                 ,
                 and
                 State.
              
               
                 Where
                 they
                 ,
                 who
                 once
                 were
                 Grooms
                 ,
                 and
                 Foot-Boys
                 known
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 now
                 to
                 fair
                 Estates
                 ,
                 and
                 Honours
                 grown
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 need
                 we
                 envy
                 them
                 ,
                 or
                 wonder
                 much
              
               
                 At
                 their
                 fantastick
                 Greatness
                 ,
                 since
                 they
                 're
                 such
                 ,
              
               
                 Whom
                 Fortune
                 oft
                 in
                 her
                 capricious
                 freaks
              
               
                 Is
                 pleas'd
                 to
                 raise
                 from
                 Kennels
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Jakes
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 Wealth
                 ,
                 and
                 Dignity
                 above
                 the
                 rest
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 she
                 is
                 frolick
                 ,
                 and
                 dispos'd
                 to
                 jest
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 I
                 live
                 in
                 London
                 ?
                 What
                 should
                 I
                 do
                 there
                 ?
              
               
                 I
                 cannot
                 lye
                 ,
                 nor
                 flatter
                 ,
                 nor
                 forswear
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 can't
                 commend
                 a
                 Book
                 ,
                 or
                 Piece
                 of
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 Tho
                 a
                 Lord
                 were
                 the
                 Author
                 )
                 dully
                 writ
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 'm
                 no
                 Sir
                 Sydrophel
                 to
                 read
                 the
                 Stars
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 cast
                 Nativities
                 for
                 longing
                 Heirs
                 ,
              
               
               
                 When
                 Fathers
                 shall
                 drop
                 off
                 :
                 no
                 Gadbury
              
               
                 To
                 tell
                 the
                 minute
                 ,
                 when
                 the
                 King
                 shall
                 die
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 you
                 know
                 what
                 —
                 come
                 in
                 :
                 nor
                 can
                 I
                 steer
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 tack
                 about
                 my
                 Conscience
                 ,
                 whensoe're
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 a
                 new
                 Point
                 ,
                 I
                 see
                 Religion
                 veer
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 others
                 pimp
                 to
                 Courtier
                 's
                 Lechery
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 draw
                 no
                 City-Cuckold's
                 Curse
                 on
                 me
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 would
                 I
                 do
                 it
                 ,
                 tho
                 to
                 be
                 made
                 great
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 rais'd
                 to
                 the
                 chief
                 Ministry
                 of
                 State.
              
               
                 Therefore
                 I
                 think
                 it
                 fit
                 to
                 rid
                 the
                 Town
              
               
                 Of
                 one
                 ,
                 that
                 is
                 an
                 useless
                 member
                 grown
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Besides
                 ,
                 who
                 has
                 pretence
                 to
                 Favour
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 he
                 ,
                 who
                 hidden
                 Villany
                 does
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Breast
                 does
                 with
                 some
                 burning
                 Secret
                 glow
                 ?
              
               
                 By
                 none
                 thou
                 shalt
                 preferr'd
                 ,
                 or
                 valued
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 trusts
                 thee
                 with
                 an
                 honest
                 Secresie
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 only
                 may
                 to
                 great
                 mens
                 Friendship
                 reach
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 Great
                 Men
                 ,
                 when
                 he
                 pleases
                 ,
                 can
                 impeach
                 .
              
               
               
                 Let
                 others
                 thus
                 aspire
                 to
                 Dignity
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 me
                 ,
                 I
                 'd
                 not
                 their
                 envied
                 Grandeur
                 buy
              
               
                 For
                 all
                 th'
                 Exchange
                 is
                 worth
                 ,
                 that
                 Pauls
                 will
                 cost
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 was
                 of
                 late
                 in
                 the
                 Scotch
                 Voyage
                 lost
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 would
                 it
                 boot
                 ,
                 if
                 I
                 ,
                 to
                 gain
                 my
                 end
                 ,
              
               
                 Forgo
                 my
                 Quiet
                 ,
                 and
                 my
                 ease
                 of
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 Still
                 fear'd
                 ,
                 at
                 last
                 betray'd
                 by
                 my
                 great
                 Friend
                 .
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Another
                 Cause
                 ,
                 which
                 I
                 must
                 boldly
                 own
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 not
                 the
                 least
                 ,
                 for
                 which
                 I
                 quit
                 the
                 Town
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 to
                 behold
                 it
                 made
                 the
                 Common-shore
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 France
                 does
                 all
                 her
                 Filth
                 ,
                 and
                 Ordure
                 pour
                 :
              
               
                 What
                 Spark
                 of
                 true
                 old
                 English
                 rage
                 can
                 bear
              
               
                 Those
                 ,
                 who
                 were
                 Slaves
                 at
                 home
                 ,
                 to
                 Lord
                 it
                 here
                 ?
              
               
                 We
                 've
                 all
                 our
                 Fashions
                 ,
                 Language
                 ,
                 Complements
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 Musick
                 ,
                 Dances
                 ,
                 Curing
                 ,
                 Cooking
                 thence
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 we
                 shall
                 have
                 their
                 Pois'ning
                 too
                 e're
                 long
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 still
                 in
                 the
                 improvement
                 we
                 go
                 on
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 What
                 would'st
                 thou
                 say
                 ,
                 great
                 Harry
                 ,
                 should'st
                 thou
                 view
              
               
                 Thy
                 gawdy
                 flutt'ring
                 Race
                 of
                 English
                 now
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Their
                 tawdry
                 Cloaths
                 ,
                 Pulvilio's
                 ,
                 Essences
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 Chedreux
                 Perruques
                 ,
                 and
                 those
                 Vanities
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 thou
                 ,
                 and
                 they
                 of
                 old
                 did
                 so
                 despise
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 Would'st
                 thou
                 say
                 to
                 see
                 th'
                 infected
                 Town
              
               
                 With
                 the
                 fowl
                 Spawn
                 of
                 Foreiners
                 o're-run
                 ?
              
               
                 Hither
                 from
                 Paris
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 Parts
                 they
                 come
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Spue
                 ,
                 and
                 Vomit
                 of
                 their
                 Goals
                 at
                 home
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 Court
                 they
                 flock
                 ,
                 and
                 to
                 St.
                 James
                 his
                 Square
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 wriggle
                 into
                 Great
                 Mens
                 Service
                 there
                 :
              
               
                 Foot-boys
                 at
                 first
                 ,
                 till
                 they
                 ,
                 from
                 wiping
                 Shooes
                 ,
              
               
                 Grow
                 by
                 degrees
                 the
                 Masters
                 of
                 the
                 House
                 :
              
               
                 Ready
                 of
                 Wit
                 ,
                 harden'd
                 of
                 Impudence
                 ,
              
               
                 Able
                 with
                 ea●…e
                 to
                 put
                 down
                 either
                 H
                 —
              
               
                 Both
                 the
                 King's
                 Player
                 ,
                 and
                 King's
                 Evidence
                 :
              
               
                 Flippant
                 of
                 Talk
                 ,
                 and
                 voluble
                 of
                 Tongue
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 words
                 at
                 will
                 ,
                 no
                 Lawyer
                 better
                 hung
                 ;
              
               
                 Softer
                 than
                 flattering
                 Court-Parasite
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 City-Trader
                 ,
                 when
                 he
                 means
                 to
                 cheat
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 Calling
                 ,
                 or
                 Profession
                 comes
                 amiss
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 needy
                 Monsieur
                 can
                 be
                 what
                 he
                 please
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Groom
                 ,
                 Page
                 ,
                 Valet
                 ,
                 Quack
                 ,
                 Operator
                 ,
                 Fencer
                 ,
              
               
                 Perfumer
                 ,
                 Pimp
                 ;
                 Jack-pudding
                 ,
                 Juggler
                 ,
                 Dancer
                 :
              
               
                 Give
                 but
                 the
                 word
                 ;
                 the
                 Cur
                 will
                 fetch
                 and
                 bring
                 ,
              
               
                 Come
                 over
                 to
                 the
                 Emperour
                 ,
                 or
                 King
                 :
              
               
                 Or
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 please
                 ,
                 fly
                 o're
                 the
                 Pyramid
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 
                   J
                   —
                   n
                
                 and
                 the
                 rest
                 in
                 vain
                 have
                 tried
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 Can
                 I
                 have
                 patience
                 ,
                 and
                 endure
                 to
                 see
              
               
                 The
                 paltry
                 Forein
                 Wretch
                 take
                 place
                 of
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 Whom
                 the
                 same
                 Wind
                 ,
                 and
                 Vessel
                 brought
                 ashore
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 brought
                 prohibited
                 Goods
                 ,
                 and
                 Dildoes
                 o're
                 ?
              
               
                 Then
                 ,
                 pray
                 ,
                 what
                 mighty
                 Priviledge
                 is
                 there
              
               
                 For
                 me
                 ,
                 that
                 at
                 my
                 Birth
                 drew
                 English
                 Air
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 where
                 's
                 the
                 Benefit
                 to
                 have
                 my
                 Veins
              
               
                 Run
                 British
                 Bloud
                 ,
                 if
                 there
                 's
                 no
                 difference
              
               
                 'Twixt
                 me
                 ,
                 and
                 him
                 ,
                 the
                 Statute
                 Freedom
                 gave
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 made
                 a
                 Subject
                 of
                 a
                 true-born
                 Slave
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 nothing
                 shocks
                 ,
                 and
                 is
                 more
                 loath'd
                 by
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 the
                 vile
                 Rascal
                 's
                 fulsom
                 Flattery
                 :
              
               
                 By
                 help
                 of
                 this
                 false
                 Magnifying
                 Glass
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Louse
                 ,
                 or
                 Flea
                 shall
                 for
                 a
                 Camel
                 pass
                 :
              
               
               
                 Produce
                 an
                 hideous
                 Wight
                 ,
                 more
                 ugly
                 far
              
               
                 Than
                 those
                 ill
                 Shapes
                 ,
                 which
                 in
                 old
                 Hangings
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 'l
                 make
                 him
                 strait
                 a
                 
                   Beau
                   Garzon
                
                 appear
                 :
              
               
                 Commend
                 his
                 Voice
                 ,
                 and
                 Singing
                 ,
                 tho
                 he
                 bray
              
               
                 Worse
                 than
                 Sir
                 
                   Martin
                   Marr-all
                
                 in
                 the
                 Play
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 if
                 he
                 Rhime
                 ;
                 shall
                 praise
                 for
                 Standard
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 More
                 scurvy
                 sense
                 than
                 Pryn
                 ,
                 and
                 Vickars
                 Writ
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 And
                 here
                 's
                 the
                 mischief
                 ,
                 tho
                 we
                 say
                 the
                 same
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 is
                 believ'd
                 ,
                 and
                 we
                 are
                 thought
                 to
                 sham
                 :
              
               
                 Do
                 you
                 but
                 smile
                 ,
                 immediately
                 the
                 Beast
              
               
                 Laughs
                 out
                 aloud
                 ,
                 tho
                 he
                 ne'r
                 heard
                 the
                 Jest
                 ;
              
               
                 Pretend
                 ,
                 you
                 're
                 sad
                 ,
                 he
                 's
                 presently
                 in
                 Tears
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 grieves
                 no
                 more
                 than
                 Marble
                 ,
                 when
                 it
                 wears
              
               
                 Sorrow
                 in
                 Metaphor
                 :
                 but
                 speak
                 of
                 Heat
                 ;
              
               
                 
                   O
                   God!
                   how
                   sultry
                   '
                   t
                   is
                   ?
                
                 he
                 'l
                 cry
                 ,
                 and
                 sweat
              
               
                 In
                 depth
                 of
                 Winter
                 :
                 strait
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 complain
              
               
                 Of
                 Cold
                 ;
                 the
                 Weather
                 glass
                 is
                 sunk
                 again
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 he
                 'l
                 call
                 for
                 his
                 Frize-Campaign
                 ,
                 and
                 swear
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 beyond
                 Eighty
                 ,
                 he
                 's
                 in
                 Greenland
                 here
                 .
              
               
               
                 Thus
                 he
                 shifts
                 Scenes
                 ,
                 and
                 oft'ner
                 in
                 a
                 day
              
               
                 Can
                 change
                 his
                 Face
                 ,
                 than
                 Actors
                 at
                 a
                 Play
                 :
              
               
                 There
                 's
                 nought
                 so
                 mean
                 ,
                 can
                 scape
                 the
                 flatt'ring
                 Sot
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 his
                 Lord's
                 Snuff-box
                 ,
                 nor
                 his
                 Powder-Spot
                 :
              
               
                 If
                 he
                 but
                 Spit
                 ,
                 or
                 pick
                 his
                 Teeth
                 ;
                 he
                 'l
                 cry
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 every
                 thing
                 becomes
                 you
                 ?
                 let
                 me
                 die
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 Lordship
                 does
                 it
                 most
                 judiciously
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 swear
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 fashionable
                 ,
                 if
                 he
                 Sneeze
                 ,
              
               
                 Extremely
                 taking
                 ,
                 and
                 it
                 needs
                 must
                 please
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Besides
                 ,
                 there
                 's
                 nothing
                 sacred
                 ,
                 nothing
                 free
              
               
                 From
                 the
                 hot
                 Satyr's
                 rampant
                 Lechery
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 Wife
                 ,
                 nor
                 Virgin-Daughter
                 can
                 escape
                 ,
              
               
                 Scarce
                 thou
                 thyself
                 ,
                 or
                 Son
                 avoid
                 a
                 Rape
                 :
              
               
                 All
                 must
                 go
                 pad-lock'd
                 :
                 if
                 nought
                 else
                 there
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Suspect
                 thy
                 very
                 Stables
                 Chastity
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 this
                 the
                 Vermin
                 into
                 Secrets
                 creep
                 ,
              
               
                 Thus
                 Families
                 in
                 awe
                 they
                 strive
                 to
                 keep
                 .
              
               
               
                 What
                 living
                 for
                 an
                 English
                 man
                 is
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 such
                 as
                 these
                 get
                 head
                 ,
                 and
                 domineer
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 use
                 and
                 custom
                 't
                 is
                 ,
                 never
                 to
                 share
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Friend
                 ,
                 but
                 love
                 to
                 reign
                 without
                 dispute
                 ,
              
               
                 Without
                 a
                 Rival
                 ,
                 full
                 ,
                 and
                 absolute
                 ?
              
               
                 Soon
                 as
                 the
                 Insect
                 gets
                 his
                 
                 Honour's
                 ear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fly-blows
                 some
                 of
                 's
                 poys'nous
                 malice
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 Strait
                 I
                 'm
                 turn'd
                 off
                 ,
                 kick'd
                 out
                 of
                 doors
                 ,
                 discarded
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 my
                 former
                 Service
                 disregarded
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 leaving
                 these
                 Messieurs
                 ,
                 for
                 fear
                 that
                 I
              
               
                 Be
                 thought
                 of
                 the
                 
                   Silk-Weavers
                   Mutiny
                
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 the
                 loath'd
                 subject
                 let
                 us
                 hasten
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 mention
                 other
                 Grievances
                 in
                 Town
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 further
                 ,
                 what
                 Respect
                 at
                 all
                 is
                 had
              
               
                 Of
                 poor
                 men
                 here
                 ?
                 and
                 how
                 's
                 their
                 Service
                 paid
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho
                 they
                 be
                 ne'r
                 so
                 diligent
                 to
                 wait
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 sneak
                 ,
                 and
                 dance
                 attendance
                 on
                 the
                 Great
                 ?
              
               
                 No
                 mark
                 of
                 Favour
                 is
                 to
                 be
                 obtain'd
              
               
                 By
                 one
                 ,
                 that
                 sues
                 ,
                 and
                 brings
                 an
                 empty
                 hand
                 :
              
               
               
                 And
                 all
                 his
                 merit
                 is
                 but
                 made
                 a
                 Sport
                 ,
              
               
                 Unless
                 he
                 glut
                 some
                 Cormorant
                 at
                 Court.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 'T
                 is
                 now
                 a
                 common
                 thing
                 ,
                 and
                 usual
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 see
                 the
                 Son
                 of
                 some
                 rich
                 Usurer
              
               
                 Take
                 place
                 of
                 Nobles
                 ,
                 keep
                 his
                 first-rate
                 Whore
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 a
                 Vaulting
                 bout
                 ,
                 or
                 two
                 give
                 more
              
               
                 Than
                 a
                 Guard-Captains
                 Pay
                 :
                 mean
                 while
                 the
                 Breed
              
               
                 Of
                 Peers
                 ,
                 reduc'd
                 to
                 Poverty
                 ,
                 and
                 there
              
               
                 Are
                 fain
                 to
                 trudg
                 to
                 the
                 Bank-side
                 ,
                 and
                 there
              
               
                 Take
                 up
                 with
                 Porters
                 leavings
                 ,
                 Suburb-Ware
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 spend
                 that
                 Bloud
                 ,
                 which
                 their
                 great
                 Ancestor
              
               
                 So
                 nobly
                 shed
                 at
                 Cressy
                 heretofore
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 Brothel-Fights
                 in
                 some
                 foul
                 Common-shore
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Produce
                 an
                 Evidence
                 ,
                 tho
                 just
                 he
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 righteous
                 Job
                 ,
                 or
                 Abraham
                 ,
                 or
                 He
                 ,
              
               
                 Whom
                 Heaven
                 ,
                 when
                 whole
                 Nature
                 shipwrack'd
                 was
                 ,
              
               
                 Thought
                 worth
                 the
                 saving
                 ,
                 of
                 all
                 humane
                 Race
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Or
                 t'other
                 ,
                 who
                 the
                 flaming
                 Deluge
                 scap'd
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 
                 Sodom's
                 Lechers
                 Angels
                 would
                 have
                 rap'd
                 ;
              
               
                 
                   How
                   rich
                   he
                   is
                
                 ,
                 must
                 the
                 first
                 question
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Next
                 for
                 his
                 Manners
                 ,
                 and
                 Integrity
                 :
              
               
                 They
                 'l
                 ask
                 ,
                 
                   what
                   Equipage
                   he
                   keeps
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   's
                   reckon'd
                   worth
                   in
                   Money
                   ,
                   and
                   Estate
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   For
                   Shrieve
                   how
                   oft
                   he
                   has
                   been
                   known
                   to
                   fine
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   with
                   how
                   many
                   Dishes
                   he
                   does
                   dine
                   :
                
              
               
                 For
                 look
                 what
                 Cash
                 a
                 person
                 has
                 in
                 store
                 ,
              
               
                 Just
                 so
                 much
                 Credit
                 has
                 he
                 ,
                 and
                 no
                 more
                 :
              
               
                 Should
                 I
                 upon
                 a
                 thousand
                 Bibles
                 Swear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 call
                 each
                 Saint
                 throughout
                 the
                 Calendar
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 vouch
                 my
                 Oath
                 ;
                 it
                 won't
                 be
                 taken
                 here
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Poor
                 flight
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 and
                 Thunderbolts
                 (
                 they
                 think
                 )
              
               
                 And
                 Heav'n
                 it self
                 does
                 at
                 such
                 Trifles
                 wink
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Besides
                 ,
                 what
                 store
                 of
                 gibing
                 scoffs
                 are
                 thrown
              
               
                 On
                 one
                 ,
                 that
                 's
                 poor
                 ,
                 and
                 meanly
                 clad
                 in
                 Town
                 ;
              
               
                 If
                 his
                 Apparel
                 seem
                 but
                 overworn
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Stockings
                 out
                 at
                 heel
                 ,
                 or
                 Breeches
                 torn
                 ?
              
               
               
                 One
                 takes
                 occasion
                 his
                 ript
                 Shooe
                 to
                 flout
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 swears
                 'thas
                 been
                 at
                 Prison-Grates
                 hung
                 out
                 :
              
               
                 Another
                 shrewdly
                 jeers
                 his
                 coarse
                 Crevat
                 ,
              
               
                 Because
                 himself
                 wears
                 Point
                 :
                 a
                 third
                 his
                 Hat
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 most
                 unmercifully
                 shews
                 his
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 it
                 be
                 old
                 ,
                 or
                 does
                 not
                 cock
                 aright
                 :
              
               
                 Nothing
                 in
                 Poverty
                 so
                 ill
                 is
                 born
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 its
                 exposing
                 men
                 to
                 grinning
                 scorn
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 by
                 tawdry
                 Coxcombs
                 piss'd
                 upon
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 made
                 the
                 jesting-stock
                 of
                 each
                 Buffoo●…
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Turn
                   out
                   there
                   ,
                   Friend
                
                 !
                 (
                 cries
                 one
                 at
                 Church
                 )
                 
                   the
                   Pew
                
              
               
                 
                   Is
                   not
                   for
                   such
                   mean
                   scoundrel
                   Curs
                   ,
                   as
                   you
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   for
                   your
                   Betters
                   kept
                
                 :
                 Belike
                 ,
                 some
                 Sot
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 knew
                 no
                 Father
                 ,
                 was
                 on
                 Bulks
                 begot
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 now
                 is
                 rais'd
                 to
                 an
                 Estate
                 ,
                 and
                 Pride
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 having
                 the
                 kind
                 Proverb
                 on
                 his
                 side
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 Gripe
                 and
                 Cheatwel
                 take
                 their
                 Places
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Dash
                 the
                 S●…riv'ners
                 gawdy
                 sparkish
                 Heir
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 wears
                 three
                 ruin'd
                 Orphans
                 on
                 his
                 back
                 :
              
               
                 Mean
                 while
                 you
                 in
                 the
                 Alley
                 stand
                 ,
                 and
                 sneak
                 :
              
               
               
                 And
                 you
                 therewith
                 must
                 rest
                 contented
                 ,
                 since
              
               
                 Almighty
                 Wealth
                 does
                 put
                 such
                 difference
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 Citizen
                 a
                 Son-in-law
                 will
                 take
                 ,
              
               
                 Bred
                 ne'r
                 so
                 well
                 ,
                 that
                 can't
                 a
                 Joynter
                 make
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 man
                 of
                 sense
                 ,
                 that
                 's
                 poor
                 ,
                 e're
                 summon'd
                 is
              
               
                 Amongst
                 the
                 Common-Council
                 to
                 advise
                 ?
              
               
                 At
                 Vestry-Consults
                 when
                 does
                 he
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 choosing
                 of
                 some
                 Parish-Officer
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 making
                 Leather-Buckets
                 for
                 the
                 Choir
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 'T
                 is
                 hard
                 for
                 any
                 man
                 to
                 rise
                 ,
                 that
                 feels
              
               
                 His
                 Virtue
                 clog'd
                 with
                 Poverty
                 at
                 heels
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 harder
                 't
                 is
                 by
                 much
                 in
                 London
                 ,
                 where
              
               
                 A
                 sorry
                 Lodging
                 ,
                 coarse
                 ,
                 and
                 slender
                 Fare
                 ,
              
               
                 Fire
                 ,
                 Water
                 ,
                 Breathing
                 ,
                 every
                 thing
                 is
                 dear
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 such
                 as
                 these
                 an
                 earthen
                 Dish
                 disdain
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 which
                 their
                 Ancestors
                 ,
                 in
                 
                 Edgar's
                 Reign
                 ,
              
               
                 Were
                 serv'd
                 ,
                 and
                 thought
                 it
                 no
                 disgrace
                 to
                 dine
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho
                 they
                 were
                 rich
                 ,
                 had
                 store
                 of
                 Leather-Coin
                 .
              
               
                 Low
                 as
                 their
                 Fortune
                 is
                 ,
                 yet
                 they
                 despise
              
               
                 A
                 man
                 that
                 walks
                 the
                 streets
                 in
                 homely
                 Frize
                 :
              
               
               
                 To
                 speak
                 the
                 truth
                 ,
                 great
                 part
                 of
                 England
                 now
              
               
                 In
                 their
                 own
                 Cloth
                 will
                 scarce
                 vouchsafe
                 to
                 go
                 :
              
               
                 Only
                 ,
                 the
                 Statutes
                 Penalty
                 to
                 save
                 ,
              
               
                 Some
                 few
                 perhaps
                 wear
                 Woollen
                 in
                 the
                 Grave
                 .
              
               
                 Here
                 all
                 go
                 gaily
                 drest
                 ,
                 altho
                 it
                 be
              
               
                 Above
                 their
                 Means
                 ,
                 their
                 Rank
                 ,
                 and
                 Quality
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 most
                 in
                 borrow'd
                 Gallantry
                 are
                 clad
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 which
                 the
                 Tradesmen's
                 Books
                 are
                 still
                 unpaid
                 :
              
               
                 This
                 Fault
                 is
                 common
                 in
                 the
                 meaner
                 sort
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 they
                 must
                 needs
                 affect
                 to
                 bear
                 the
                 Port
              
               
                 Of
                 Gentlemen
                 ,
                 though
                 they
                 want
                 Income
                 for
                 't
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sir
                 ,
                 to
                 be
                 short
                 ,
                 in
                 this
                 expensive
                 Town
              
               
                 There
                 's
                 nothing
                 without
                 Money
                 to
                 be
                 done
                 :
              
               
                 What
                 will
                 you
                 give
                 to
                 be
                 admitted
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 brought
                 to
                 speech
                 of
                 some
                 Court-Minister
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 will
                 you
                 give
                 to
                 have
                 the
                 quarter
                 face
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 squint
                 and
                 nodding
                 go-by
                 of
                 his
                 Grace
                 ?
              
               
                 His
                 Porter
                 ,
                 Groom
                 ,
                 and
                 Steward
                 must
                 have
                 Fees
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 you
                 may
                 see
                 the
                 Tombs
                 ,
                 and
                 Tow'r
                 for
                 less
                 :
              
               
               
                 Hard
                 Fate
                 of
                 Suitors
                 !
                 who
                 must
                 pay
                 ,
                 and
                 pray
              
               
                 To
                 Livery-slaves
                 ,
                 yet
                 oft
                 go
                 scorn'd
                 away
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Who
                 e'reat
                 Barnet
                 ,
                 or
                 S.
                 Albans
                 fears
              
               
                 To
                 have
                 his
                 Lodging
                 drop
                 about
                 his
                 ears
                 ,
              
               
                 Unless
                 a
                 sudden
                 Hurricane
                 besal
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 such
                 a
                 Wind
                 as
                 blew
                 old
                 Noll
                 to
                 Hell
                 ?
              
               
                 Here
                 we
                 build
                 slight
                 ,
                 what
                 scarce
                 out-lasts
                 the
                 Lease
                 ,
              
               
                 Without
                 the
                 helps
                 of
                 Props
                 ,
                 and
                 Buttresses
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 Houses
                 now
                 adays
                 as
                 much
                 require
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 ensur'd
                 from
                 Falling
                 ,
                 as
                 from
                 Fire
                 .
              
               
                 There
                 Buildings
                 are
                 substantial
                 ,
                 tho
                 less
                 neat
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 kept
                 with
                 care
                 both
                 Wind
                 ,
                 and
                 Water-tight
                 :
              
               
                 There
                 you
                 in
                 safe
                 security
                 are
                 blest
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 nought
                 ,
                 but
                 Conscience
                 to
                 disturb
                 your
                 Rest
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 I
                 am
                 for
                 living
                 where
                 no
                 Fires
                 affright
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 Bells
                 rung
                 backward
                 break
                 my
                 sleep
                 at
                 night
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 scarce
                 lie
                 down
                 ,
                 and
                 draw
                 my
                 Curtains
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 strait
                 I'm
                 rous'd
                 by
                 the
                 next
                 House
                 on
                 Fire
                 :
              
               
                 Pale
                 ,
                 and
                 half
                 dead
                 with
                 Fear
                 ,
                 my self
                 I
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 find
                 my
                 Room
                 all
                 over
                 in
                 a
                 blaze
                 :
              
               
               
                 By
                 this
                 'thas
                 seiz'd
                 on
                 the
                 third
                 Stairs
                 ,
                 and
                 I
              
               
                 Can
                 now
                 discern
                 no
                 other
                 Remedy
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 leaping
                 out
                 at
                 Window
                 to
                 get
                 free
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 if
                 the
                 Mischief
                 from
                 the
                 Cellar
                 came
                 ,
              
               
                 Be
                 sure
                 the
                 Garret
                 is
                 the
                 last
                 ,
                 takes
                 flame
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 moveables
                 of
                 
                   P
                   ge
                
                 were
                 a
                 Bed
              
               
                 For
                 him
                 ,
                 and
                 's
                 Wise
                 ,
                 a
                 Piss-pot
                 by
                 its
                 side
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Looking-glass
                 upon
                 the
                 Cupboards
                 Head
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Comb-case
                 ,
                 Candlestick
                 ,
                 and
                 Pewter-spoon
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 want
                 of
                 Plate
                 ,
                 with
                 Desk
                 to
                 write
                 upon
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 Box
                 without
                 a
                 Lid
                 serv'd
                 to
                 contain
              
               
                 Few
                 Authors
                 ,
                 which
                 made
                 up
                 his
                 Vatican
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 there
                 his
                 own
                 immortal
                 Works
                 were
                 laid
                 ,
              
               
                 On
                 which
                 the
                 barbarous
                 Mice
                 for
                 hunger
                 prey'd
                 :
              
               
                 P
                 —
                 had
                 nothing
                 ,
                 all
                 the
                 world
                 does
                 know
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 should
                 he
                 have
                 lost
                 this
                 Nothing
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 one
                 the
                 wretched
                 Bard
                 would
                 have
                 suppli'd
              
               
                 With
                 Lodging
                 ,
                 House-room
                 ,
                 or
                 a
                 Crust
                 of
                 Bread.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 But
                 if
                 the
                 Fire
                 burn
                 down
                 some
                 Great
                 Man's
                 House
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 strait
                 are
                 interessed
                 in
                 the
                 loss
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Court
                 is
                 strait
                 in
                 Mourning
                 sure
                 enough
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Act
                 ,
                 Commencement
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Term
                 put
                 off
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 we
                 Mischances
                 of
                 the
                 Town
                 lament
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Fasts
                 are
                 kept
                 ,
                 like
                 Judgments
                 to
                 prevent
                 .
              
               
                 Out
                 comes
                 a
                 Brief
                 immediately
                 ,
                 with
                 speed
              
               
                 To
                 gather
                 Charity
                 as
                 far
                 as
                 Tweed
                 .
              
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 while
                 't
                 is
                 burning
                 ,
                 some
                 will
                 send
                 him
                 in
              
               
                 Timber
                 ,
                 and
                 Stone
                 to
                 build
                 his
                 House
                 agen
                 :
              
               
                 Others
                 choice
                 Furniture
                 :
                 here
                 some
                 rare
                 piece
              
               
                 Of
                 Rubens
                 ,
                 or
                 Vandike
                 presented
                 is
                 :
              
               
                 There
                 a
                 rich
                 Suit
                 of
                 
                 Moreclack-Tapestry
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Bed
                 of
                 Damask
                 ,
                 or
                 Embroidery
                 :
              
               
                 One
                 gives
                 a
                 fine
                 Scritore
                 ,
                 or
                 Cabinet
                 ,
              
               
                 Another
                 a
                 huge
                 massie
                 Dish
                 of
                 Plate
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 Bag
                 of
                 Gold
                 ;
                 thus
                 he
                 at
                 length
                 gets
                 more
              
               
                 By
                 kind
                 misfortune
                 than
                 he
                 had
                 before
                 :
              
               
               
                 And
                 all
                 suspect
                 it
                 for
                 a
                 laid
                 Design
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 he
                 did
                 himself
                 the
                 Fire
                 begin
                 .
              
               
                 Could
                 you
                 but
                 be
                 advis'd
                 to
                 leave
                 the
                 Town
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 dear
                 Plays
                 ,
                 and
                 drinking
                 Friends
                 be
                 drawn
                 ,
              
               
                 An
                 handsom
                 Dwelling
                 might
                 be
                 had
                 in
                 Kent
                 ,
              
               
                 Surrey
                 ,
                 or
                 Essex
                 ,
                 at
                 a
                 cheaper
                 Rent
              
               
                 Than
                 what
                 you
                 're
                 forc'd
                 to
                 give
                 for
                 one
                 half
                 year
              
               
                 To
                 lie
                 ,
                 like
                 Lumber
                 ,
                 in
                 a
                 Garret
                 here
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 Garden
                 there
                 ,
                 and
                 Well
                 ,
                 that
                 needs
                 no
                 Rope
                 ,
              
               
                 Engine
                 ,
                 or
                 Pains
                 to
                 Crane
                 its
                 Waters
                 up
                 :
              
               
                 Water
                 is
                 there
                 through
                 Natures
                 Pipes
                 convey'd
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 which
                 no
                 Custom
                 ,
                 or
                 Excise
                 is
                 paid
                 :
              
               
                 Had
                 I
                 the
                 smallest
                 Spot
                 of
                 Ground
                 ,
                 which
                 scarce
              
               
                 Would
                 Summer
                 half
                 a
                 dozen
                 Grashoppers
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 larger
                 than
                 my
                 Grave
                 ,
                 tho
                 hence
                 remote
                 ,
              
               
                 Far
                 as
                 St.
                 
                   Michaels
                   Mount
                
                 ,
                 I
                 would
                 go
                 to
                 't
                 ,
              
               
                 Dwell
                 there
                 content
                 ,
                 and
                 thank
                 the
                 Fates
                 to
                 boot
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Here
                 want
                 of
                 Rest
                 a
                 nights
                 more
                 People
                 kills
              
               
                 Than
                 all
                 the
                 College
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 weekly
                 Bills
                 :
              
               
               
                 Where
                 none
                 have
                 privilege
                 to
                 sleep
                 ,
                 but
                 those
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Purses
                 can
                 compound
                 for
                 their
                 Repose
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 I
                 go
                 to
                 bed
                 ,
                 or
                 close
                 my
                 eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Methinks
                 the
                 place
                 the
                 middle
                 Region
                 is
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 I
                 lie
                 down
                 in
                 Storms
                 ,
                 in
                 Thunder
                 rise
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 restless
                 Bells
                 such
                 Din
                 in
                 Steeples
                 keep
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 scarce
                 the
                 Dead
                 can
                 in
                 their
                 Church-yards
                 sleep
                 :
              
               
                 Huzza's
                 of
                 Drunkards
                 ,
                 Bell-mens
                 midnight-Rhimes
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 noise
                 of
                 Shops
                 ,
                 with
                 Hawkers
                 early
                 Screams
                 ,
              
               
                 Besides
                 the
                 Brawls
                 of
                 Coach-men
                 ,
                 when
                 they
                 meet
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 stop
                 in
                 turnings
                 of
                 a
                 narrow
                 Street
                 ,
              
               
                 Such
                 a
                 loud
                 Medly
                 of
                 confusion
                 make
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 drowsie
                 
                   A
                   —
                   r
                
                 on
                 the
                 Bench
                 would
                 wake
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 If
                 you
                 walk
                 out
                 in
                 Bus'ness
                 ne'r
                 so
                 great
                 ,
              
               
                 Ten
                 thousand
                 stops
                 you
                 must
                 expect
                 to
                 meet
                 :
              
               
                 Thick
                 Crouds
                 in
                 every
                 Place
                 you
                 must
                 charge
                 through
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 storm
                 your
                 Passage
                 ,
                 wheresoe'r
                 you
                 go
                 :
              
               
                 While
                 Tides
                 of
                 Followers
                 behind
                 you
                 throng
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 pressing
                 on
                 your
                 heels
                 ,
                 shove
                 you
                 along
                 :
              
               
               
                 One
                 with
                 a
                 Board
                 ,
                 or
                 Rafter
                 hits
                 your
                 Head
                 ,
              
               
                 Another
                 with
                 his
                 Elbow
                 bores
                 your
                 side
                 ;
              
               
                 Some
                 tread
                 upon
                 your
                 Corns
                 ,
                 perhaps
                 in
                 sport
                 ;
              
               
                 Mean
                 while
                 your
                 Legs
                 are
                 cas'd
                 all
                 o're
                 with
                 Dirt.
              
               
                 Here
                 you
                 the
                 March
                 of
                 a
                 slow
                 Funeral
                 wait
                 ,
              
               
                 Advancing
                 to
                 the
                 Church
                 with
                 solemn
                 State
                 :
              
               
                 There
                 a
                 Sedan
                 ,
                 and
                 Lacquies
                 stop
                 your
                 way
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 bears
                 some
                 Punk
                 of
                 Honour
                 to
                 the
                 Play
                 :
              
               
                 Now
                 you
                 some
                 mighty
                 piece
                 of
                 Timber
                 meet
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 tott'ring
                 threatens
                 ruine
                 to
                 the
                 Street
                 :
              
               
                 Next
                 a
                 huge
                 Portland
                 Stone
                 ,
                 for
                 building
                 Pauls
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 self
                 almost
                 a
                 Rock
                 ,
                 on
                 Carriage
                 rowls
                 :
              
               
                 Which
                 ,
                 if
                 it
                 fall
                 ,
                 would
                 cause
                 a
                 Massacre
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 serve
                 at
                 once
                 to
                 murder
                 ,
                 and
                 interr
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 If
                 what
                 I've
                 said
                 can't
                 from
                 the
                 Town
                 affright
                 ,
              
               
                 Consider
                 other
                 dangers
                 of
                 the
                 Night
                 :
              
               
                 When
                 Brickbats
                 are
                 from
                 upper
                 Stories
                 thrown
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 emptied
                 Chamber
                 pots
                 come
                 pouring
                 down
              
               
                 From
                 Garret
                 Windows
                 :
                 you
                 have
                 cause
                 to
                 bless
              
               
                 The
                 gentle
                 Stars
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 come
                 off
                 with
                 Piss
                 :
              
               
               
                 So
                 many
                 Fates
                 attend
                 ,
                 a
                 man
                 had
                 need
                 ,
              
               
                 Ne'r
                 walk
                 without
                 a
                 Surgeon
                 by
                 his
                 side
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 he
                 can
                 hardly
                 now
                 discreet
                 be
                 thought
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 does
                 not
                 make
                 his
                 Will
                 ,
                 ere
                 he
                 go
                 out
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 If
                 this
                 you
                 scape
                 ,
                 twenty
                 to
                 one
                 ,
                 you
                 meet
              
               
                 Some
                 of
                 the
                 drunken
                 Scowrers
                 of
                 the
                 Street
                 ,
              
               
                 Flush'd
                 with
                 success
                 of
                 warlike
                 Deeds
                 perform'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 Constables
                 subdu'd
                 ,
                 and
                 Brothels
                 storm'd
                 :
              
               
                 These
                 ,
                 if
                 a
                 Quarrel
                 ,
                 or
                 a
                 Fray
                 be
                 mist
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 ill
                 at
                 ease
                 a
                 nights
                 ,
                 and
                 want
                 their
                 Rest.
              
               
                 For
                 mischief
                 is
                 a
                 Lechery
                 to
                 some
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 serves
                 to
                 make
                 them
                 sleep
                 like
                 Laudanum
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 heated
                 ,
                 as
                 they
                 are
                 ,
                 with
                 Youth
                 ,
                 and
                 Wine
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 they
                 diseern
                 a
                 Train
                 of
                 Flamboes
                 shine
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 a
                 Great
                 Man
                 with
                 his
                 gilt
                 Coach
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 a
                 strong
                 Guard
                 of
                 Foot-boys
                 in
                 the
                 rear
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Rascals
                 sneak
                 ,
                 and
                 shrink
                 their
                 Heads
                 for
                 fear
                 .
              
               
                 Poor
                 me
                 ,
                 who
                 use
                 no
                 Light
                 to
                 walk
                 about
                 ,
              
               
                 Save
                 what
                 the
                 Parish
                 ,
                 or
                 the
                 Skies
                 hang
                 out
                 ,
              
               
               
                 They
                 value
                 not
                 :
                 't
                 is
                 worth
                 your
                 while
                 to
                 hear
              
               
                 The
                 scuffle
                 ,
                 if
                 that
                 be
                 a
                 scuffle
                 ,
                 where
              
               
                 Another
                 gives
                 the
                 Blows
                 ,
                 I
                 only
                 bear
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 bids
                 me
                 stand
                 :
                 of
                 force
                 I
                 must
                 give
                 way
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 't
                 were
                 a
                 sensless
                 thing
                 to
                 disobey
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 struggle
                 here
                 ,
                 where
                 I
                 'd
                 as
                 good
                 oppose
              
               
                 My self
                 to
                 P
                 —
                 and
                 his
                 Mastiffs
                 loose
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Who
                   's
                   there
                
                 ?
                 he
                 cries
                 ,
                 and
                 takes
                 you
                 by
                 the
                 Throat
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   Dog
                   !
                   are
                   you
                   dumb
                   ?
                   Speak
                   quickly
                   ,
                   else
                   my
                   Foot
                
              
               
                 
                   Shall
                   march
                   about
                   your
                   Buttocks
                   :
                   whence
                   d'
                   ye
                   come
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   From
                   what
                   Bulk-ridden
                   Strumpet
                   reeking
                   home
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   Saving
                   your
                   reverend
                   Pimpship
                   ,
                   where
                   d'
                   ye
                   ply
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   How
                   may
                   onè
                   have
                   a
                   Job
                   of
                   Lechery
                   ?
                
              
               
                 If
                 you
                 say
                 any
                 thing
                 ,
                 or
                 hold
                 your
                 peace
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 silently
                 go
                 off
                 ;
                 't
                 is
                 all
                 a
                 case
                 :
              
               
                 Still
                 he
                 lays
                 on
                 :
                 nay
                 well
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 scape
                 so
                 :
              
               
                 Perhaps
                 he
                 'l
                 clap
                 an
                 Action
                 on
                 you
                 too
              
               
                 Of
                 Battery
                 :
                 nor
                 need
                 he
                 fear
                 to
                 meet
              
               
                 A
                 Jury
                 to
                 his
                 turn
                 ,
                 shall
                 do
                 him
                 right
                 ,
              
               
               
                 And
                 bring
                 him
                 in
                 large
                 Damage
                 for
                 a
                 Shooe
              
               
                 Worn
                 out
                 ,
                 besides
                 the
                 pains
                 ,
                 in
                 kicking
                 you
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Poor
                 Man
                 must
                 expect
                 nought
                 of
                 redress
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Patience
                 :
                 his
                 best
                 way
                 in
                 such
                 a
                 case
              
               
                 Is
                 to
                 be
                 thankful
                 for
                 the
                 Drubs
                 ,
                 and
                 beg
              
               
                 That
                 they
                 would
                 mercifully
                 spare
                 one
                 leg
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 Arm
                 unbroke
                 ,
                 and
                 let
                 him
                 go
                 away
              
               
                 With
                 Teeth
                 enough
                 to
                 eat
                 his
                 Meat
                 next
                 day
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Nor
                 is
                 this
                 all
                 ,
                 which
                 you
                 have
                 cause
                 to
                 fear
                 ,
              
               
                 Oft
                 we
                 encounter
                 midnight
                 Padders
                 here
                 :
              
               
                 When
                 the
                 Exchanges
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Shops
                 are
                 close
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 rich
                 Tradesman
                 in
                 his
                 Counting-house
              
               
                 To
                 view
                 the
                 Profits
                 of
                 the
                 day
                 withdraws
                 .
              
               
                 Hither
                 in
                 flocks
                 from
                 Shooters-Hill
                 they
                 come
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 seek
                 their
                 Price
                 ,
                 and
                 Booty
                 nearer
                 home
                 :
              
               
                 
                   Your
                   Purse
                
                 !
                 they
                 cry
                 ;
                 't
                 is
                 madness
                 to
                 resist
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 strive
                 with
                 a
                 cock'd
                 Pistol
                 at
                 your
                 Breast
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 these
                 each
                 day
                 so
                 strong
                 and
                 numerous
                 grow
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Town
                 can
                 scarce
                 afford
                 them
                 Jail-room
                 now
                 .
              
               
               
                 Happy
                 the
                 times
                 of
                 the
                 old
                 Heptarchy
                 ,
              
               
                 Ere
                 London
                 knew
                 so
                 much
                 of
                 Villany
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 fatal
                 Carts
                 through
                 Holborn
                 seldom
                 went
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Tyburn
                 with
                 few
                 Pilgrims
                 was
                 content
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 less
                 ,
                 and
                 single
                 Prison
                 then
                 would
                 do
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 serv'd
                 the
                 City
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 County
                 too
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 These
                 are
                 the
                 Reasons
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 which
                 drive
                 me
                 hence
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 which
                 I
                 might
                 add
                 more
                 ;
                 would
                 Time
                 dispense
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 hold
                 you
                 longer
                 ;
                 but
                 the
                 Sun
                 draws
                 low
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Coach
                 is
                 hard
                 at
                 hand
                 ,
                 and
                 I
                 must
                 go
                 :
              
               
                 Therefore
                 ,
                 dear
                 Sir
                 ,
                 farewel
                 ;
                 and
                 when
                 the
                 Town
              
               
                 From
                 better
                 Company
                 can
                 spare
                 you
                 down
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 the
                 Country
                 with
                 your
                 Presence
                 blest
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 visit
                 your
                 old
                 Friend
                 amongst
                 the
                 rest
                 ;
              
               
                 There
                 I
                 'll
                 find
                 leisure
                 to
                 unlade
                 my
                 mind
              
               
                 Of
                 what
                 Remarques
                 I
                 now
                 must
                 leave
                 behind
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Fruits
                 of
                 dear
                 Experience
                 ,
                 which
                 with
                 these
              
               
                 Improv'd
                 will
                 serve
                 for
                 hints
                 ,
                 and
                 notices
                 ;
              
            
             
               
                 And
                 when
                 you
                 write
                 again
                 ,
                 may
                 be
                 ofuse
              
               
                 To
                 furnish
                 Satyr
                 for
                 your
                 daring
                 Muse.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
             
               
                 A
                 Dithyrambick
              
               .
               The
               Drunkards
               Speech
               in
               a
               Mask
               .
            
             
               
                 Written
                 in
              
               Aug.
               1677.
               
            
             
               
                 
                   
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                  
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 YES
                 ,
                 you
                 are
                 mighty
                 wise
                 ,
                 I
                 warrant
                 ,
                 mighty
                 wise
                 !
              
               
                 With
                 all
                 your
                 godly
                 Tricks
                 ,
                 and
                 Artifice
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 think
                 to
                 chouse
                 me
                 of
                 my
                 dear
                 and
                 pleasant
                 Vice.
              
               
                 Hence
                 holy
                 Sham
                 !
                 in
                 vain
                 your
                 fruitless
                 Toil
                 ▪
              
               
                 Go
                 ,
                 and
                 some
                 unexperienc'd
                 Fop
                 beguile
                 ,
              
               
               
                 To
                 some
                 raw
                 ent'ring
                 Sinner
                 cant
                 ,
                 and
                 Whine
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 never
                 knew
                 the
                 worth
                 of
                 Drunkenness
                 and
                 Wine
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 've
                 tried
                 and
                 prov'd
                 ,
                 and
                 found
                 it
                 all
                 Divine
                 :
              
               
                 It
                 is
                 resolv'd
                 ,
                 I
                 will
                 drink
                 on
                 ,
                 and
                 die
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 not
                 one
                 minute
                 lose
                 ,
                 not
                 I
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 hear
                 your
                 troublesom
                 Divinity
                 :
              
               
                 Fill
                 me
                 a
                 top-full
                 Glass
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 drink
                 it
                 on
                 the
                 Knee
                 ,
              
               
                 Confusion
                 to
                 the
                 next
                 that
                 spoils
                 good
                 Company
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 That
                 Gulp
                 was
                 worth
                 a
                 Soul
                 ,
                 like
                 it
                 ,
                 it
                 went
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thorowout
                 new
                 Life
                 ,
                 and
                 Vigour
                 sent
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 feel
                 it
                 warm
                 at
                 once
                 my
                 Head
                 ,
                 and
                 Heart
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 feel
                 it
                 all
                 in
                 all
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 in
                 every
                 part
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 the
                 vile
                 Slaves
                 of
                 Bus'ness
                 toil
                 ,
                 and
                 strive
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 want
                 the
                 Leisure
                 ,
                 or
                 the
                 Wit
                 to
                 live
                 ;
              
               
                 While
                 we
                 Life's
                 tedious
                 journey
                 shorter
                 make
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 reap
                 those
                 Joys
                 which
                 they
                 lack
                 sense
                 to
                 take
                 .
              
               
               
                 Thus
                 live
                 the
                 Gods
                 (
                 if
                 ought
                 above
                 our selves
                 there
                 be
                 )
              
               
                 They
                 live
                 so
                 happy
                 ,
                 unconcern'd
                 ,
                 and
                 free
                 :
              
               
                 Like
                 us
                 they
                 sit
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 a
                 careless
                 Brow
              
               
                 Laugh
                 at
                 the
                 petty
                 Jars
                 of
                 Humane
                 kind
                 below
                 :
              
               
                 Like
                 us
                 they
                 spend
                 their
                 Age
                 in
                 gentle
                 Ease
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 us
                 they
                 drink
                 ;
                 for
                 what
                 were
                 all
                 their
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 alas
                 !
              
               
                 If
                 sober
                 ,
                 and
                 compell'd
                 to
                 want
                 that
                 Happiness
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 III.
                 
              
               
                 Assist
                 almighty
                 Wine
                 ,
                 for
                 thou
                 alone
                 hast
                 Power
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 other
                 I
                 'll
                 invoke
                 no
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 Assist
                 ,
                 while
                 with
                 just
                 Praise
                 I
                 thee
                 odore
                 ;
              
               
                 Aided
                 by
                 thee
                 ,
                 I
                 dare
                 thy
                 worth
                 rehearse
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Flights
                 above
                 the
                 common
                 pitch
                 of
                 groveling
                 Verse
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 art
                 the
                 Worlds
                 great
                 Soul
                 ,
                 that
                 heav'nly
                 Fire
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 dost
                 our
                 dull
                 half-kindled
                 mass
                 inspire
                 .
              
               
                 We
                 nothing
                 gallant
                 ,
                 and
                 above
                 our selves
                 produce
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 thou
                 do'st
                 finish
                 Man
                 ,
                 and
                 Reinfuse
                 .
              
               
               
                 Thou
                 art
                 the
                 only
                 source
                 of
                 all
                 ,
                 the
                 world
                 calls
                 great
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 didst
                 the
                 Poets
                 first
                 ,
                 and
                 they
                 the
                 Gods
                 create
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 thee
                 their
                 Rage
                 ,
                 their
                 Heat
                 ,
                 their
                 Flame
                 they
                 owe
                 ,
              
               
                 Thon
                 runst
                 half
                 share
                 with
                 Art
                 ,
                 and
                 Nature
                 too
                 .
              
               
                 They
                 owe
                 their
                 Glory
                 ,
                 and
                 Renown
                 to
                 thee
                 ;
              
               
                 Thou
                 giv'st
                 their
                 Verse
                 ,
                 and
                 them
                 Eternity
                 .
              
               
                 Great
                 Alexander
                 ,
                 that
                 big'st
                 Word
                 of
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 fills
                 her
                 Throat
                 ,
                 and
                 almost
                 rends
                 the
                 same
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Valour
                 found
                 the
                 World
                 too
                 strait
                 a
                 Stage
              
               
                 For
                 his
                 wide
                 Victories
                 ,
                 and
                 boundless
                 Rage
                 ,
              
               
                 Got
                 not
                 Repute
                 by
                 War
                 alone
                 ,
                 but
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 knew
                 ,
                 he
                 ne'r
                 could
                 conquer
                 by
                 Sobriety
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 drunk
                 as
                 well
                 as
                 fought
                 for
                 universal
                 Monarchy
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 IV.
                 
              
               
                 Pox
                 o'
                 that
                 lazy
                 Claret
                 !
                 how
                 it
                 stays
                 ?
              
               
                 Were
                 it
                 again
                 to
                 pass
                 the
                 Seas
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 would
                 sooner
                 be
                 in
                 Cargo
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 now
                 a
                 long
                 East-India
                 Voyage
                 ,
                 half
                 a
                 year
                 .
              
               
               
                 '
                 Sdeath
                 !
                 here
                 's
                 a
                 minute
                 lost
                 ,
                 an
                 Age
                 ,
                 I
                 mean
                 ,
              
               
                 Slipt
                 by
                 ,
                 and
                 ne'r
                 to
                 be
                 retriev'd
                 again
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 pitty
                 suffer
                 not
                 the
                 precious
                 Juyce
                 to
                 die
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 us
                 prevent
                 our
                 own
                 ,
                 and
                 its
                 Mortality
                 :
              
               
                 Like
                 it
                 ,
                 our
                 Life
                 with
                 standing
                 and
                 Sobriety
                 is
                 pall'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 like
                 it
                 too
                 ,
                 when
                 dead
                 ,
                 can
                 never
                 be
                 recall'd
                 .
              
               
                 Push
                 on
                 the
                 Glass
                 ,
                 let
                 it
                 measure
                 out
                 each
                 hour
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 every
                 Sand
                 an
                 Health
                 let
                 's
                 pour
                 :
              
               
                 Swift
                 as
                 the
                 rowling
                 Orbs
                 above
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 let
                 it
                 too
                 as
                 regularly
                 move
                 :
              
               
                 Swift
                 as
                 Heav'ns
                 drunken
                 red-fac'd
                 Traveller
                 ,
                 the
                 Sun
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 never
                 rest
                 ,
                 till
                 his
                 last
                 Race
                 be
                 done
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 time
                 it self
                 be
                 all
                 run
                 out
                 ,
                 and
                 we
              
               
                 Have
                 drunk
                 our selves
                 into
                 Eternity
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 V.
                 
              
               
                 Six
                 in
                 a
                 hand
                 begin
                 !
                 we
                 'll
                 drink
                 it
                 twice
                 a
                 piece
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Health
                 to
                 all
                 that
                 love
                 ,
                 and
                 honour
                 Vice.
              
               
                 Six
                 more
                 as
                 oft
                 to
                 the
                 great
                 Founder
                 of
                 the
                 Vine
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 A
                 God
                 he
                 was
                 ,
                 I
                 'm
                 sure
                 ,
                 or
                 should
                 have
                 been
                 )
              
               
               
                 The
                 second
                 Father
                 of
                 Mankind
                 I
                 meant
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 ,
                 when
                 the
                 angry
                 Pow'rs
                 a
                 Deluge
                 sent
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 for
                 their
                 Crimes
                 our
                 sinful
                 Race
                 was
                 drown'd
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 only
                 bold
                 ,
                 and
                 vent'rous
                 man
                 was
                 found
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 durst
                 be
                 drunk
                 agen
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 new
                 Vice
                 the
                 World
                 replant
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 mighty
                 Patriarch
                 't
                 was
                 of
                 blessed
                 Memory
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 scap'd
                 in
                 the
                 great
                 Wreck
                 of
                 all
                 Mortality
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 stock'd
                 the
                 Globe
                 afresh
                 with
                 a
                 brave
                 drinking
                 Progeny
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 would
                 spightful
                 Nature
                 us
                 reclaim
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 to
                 small
                 Drink
                 our
                 Isle
                 thought
                 fit
                 to
                 damn
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 set
                 us
                 out
                 o'
                 th'
                 reach
                 of
                 Wine
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 hope
                 strait
                 Bounds
                 could
                 our
                 vast
                 Thirst
                 confine
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 taught
                 us
                 first
                 with
                 Ships
                 the
                 Seas
                 to
                 roam
                 ,
              
               
                 Taught
                 us
                 from
                 Forein
                 Lands
                 to
                 fetch
                 supply
                 ,
              
               
                 Rare
                 Art
                 !
                 that
                 makes
                 all
                 the
                 wide
                 world
                 our
                 home
                 ,
              
               
                 Makes
                 every
                 Realm
                 pay
                 Tribute
                 to
                 our
                 Luxury
                 ,
              
            
             
               
               
                 VI.
                 
              
               
                 Adieu
                 poor
                 tott'ring
                 Reason
                 !
                 tumble
                 down
                 !
              
               
                 This
                 Glass
                 shall
                 all
                 thy
                 proud
                 usurping
                 Powers
                 drown
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Wit
                 on
                 thy
                 cast
                 Ruines
                 shall
                 erect
                 her
                 Throne
                 :
              
               
                 Adieu
                 ,
                 thou
                 fond
                 Disturber
                 of
                 our
                 Life
                 !
              
               
                 That
                 check'st
                 our
                 Joys
                 ,
                 with
                 all
                 our
                 Pleasure
                 art
                 at
                 strife
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 've
                 something
                 brisker
                 now
                 to
                 govern
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 more
                 exalted
                 noble
                 Faculty
                 ,
              
               
                 Above
                 thy
                 Logick
                 ,
                 and
                 vain
                 boasted
                 Pedantry
                 .
              
               
                 Inform
                 me
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 can
                 ,
                 ye
                 reading
                 Sots
                 ,
                 what
                 't
                 is
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 guides
                 th'
                 unerring
                 Deities
                 :
              
               
                 They
                 no
                 base
                 Reason
                 to
                 their
                 Actions
                 bring
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 move
                 by
                 some
                 more
                 high
                 ,
                 more
                 heavenly
                 thing
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 are
                 without
                 Deliberation
                 wise
                 :
              
               
                 Ev'n
                 such
                 is
                 this
                 ,
                 at
                 least
                 't
                 is
                 much
                 the
                 same
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 which
                 dull
                 Schoolmen
                 never
                 yet
                 could
                 find
                 a
                 name
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Call
                 ye
                 this
                 madness
                 ?
                 damn
                 that
                 sober
                 Fool
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 'T
                 was
                 sure
                 some
                 dull
                 Philosopher
                 ,
                 some
                 reas'ning
                 Tool
                 )
              
               
                 Who
                 the
                 reproachful
                 Term
                 did
                 first
                 devise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 brought
                 a
                 scandal
                 on
                 the
                 best
                 of
                 Vice.
              
               
                 Go
                 ,
                 ask
                 me
                 ,
                 what
                 's
                 the
                 rage
                 young
                 Prophets
                 feel
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 they
                 with
                 holy
                 Frenzy
                 reel
                 :
              
               
                 Drunk
                 with
                 the
                 Spirits
                 of
                 infus'd
                 Divinity
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 rave
                 ,
                 and
                 stagger
                 ,
                 and
                 are
                 mad
                 ,
                 like
                 me
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 VII
                 .
              
               
                 Oh
                 ,
                 what
                 an
                 Ebb
                 of
                 Drink
                 have
                 we
                 ?
              
               
                 Bring
                 us
                 a
                 Deluge
                 ,
                 fill
                 us
                 up
                 the
                 Sea
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 the
                 vast
                 Ocean
                 be
                 our
                 mighty
                 Cup
                 ;
              
               
                 We
                 'll
                 drink
                 't
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 its
                 Fishes
                 too
                 like
                 Loaches
                 up
                 .
              
               
                 Bid
                 the
                 Canary
                 Fleet
                 land
                 here
                 :
                 we
                 'll
                 pay
              
               
                 The
                 Fraight
                 ,
                 and
                 Custom
                 too
                 defray
                 :
              
               
                 Set
                 every
                 man
                 a
                 Ship
                 ,
                 and
                 when
                 the
                 Store
              
               
                 Is
                 emptied
                 ;
                 let
                 them
                 strait
                 dispatch
                 ,
                 and
                 Sail
                 for
                 more
                 :
              
               
               
                 'T
                 is
                 gone
                 :
                 and
                 now
                 have
                 at
                 the
                 Rhine
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 all
                 its
                 petty
                 Rivulets
                 of
                 Wine
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 
                 Empire
                 's
                 Forces
                 with
                 the
                 Spanish
                 well
                 combine
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 'll
                 make
                 their
                 Drink
                 too
                 in
                 confederacy
                 joyn
                 .
              
               
                 '
                 Ware
                 France
                 the
                 next
                 :
                 this
                 Round
                 Bourdeaux
                 shall
                 swallow
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   Champagn
                   ,
                   Langon
                
                 ,
                 and
                 Burgundy
                 shall
                 follow
                 .
              
               
                 Quick
                 let
                 's
                 forestal
                 Lorain
                 ;
              
               
                 We
                 'll
                 starve
                 his
                 Army
                 ,
                 all
                 their
                 Quarters
                 drain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 without
                 Treaty
                 put
                 an
                 end
                 to
                 the
                 Campagn
                 ,
              
               
                 Go
                 ,
                 set
                 the
                 Universe
                 a
                 tilt
                 ,
                 turn
                 the
                 Globe
                 up
                 ,
              
               
                 Squeeze
                 out
                 the
                 last
                 ,
                 the
                 slow
                 unwilling
                 Drop
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 pox
                 of
                 empty
                 Nature
                 !
                 since
                 the
                 World
                 's
                 drawa
                 dry
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 time
                 we
                 quit
                 mortality
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 time
                 we
                 now
                 give
                 out
                 ,
                 and
                 die
                 ,
              
               
                 Lest
                 we
                 are
                 plagu'd
                 with
                 Dulness
                 and
                 Sobriety
                 .
              
               
                 Beset
                 with
                 Link
                 boys
                 ,
                 we
                 'll
                 in
                 triumph
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Troop
                 of
                 stagg'ring
                 Ghosts
                 down
                 to
                 the
                 Shades
                 below
                 :
              
               
               
                 Drunk
                 we
                 'll
                 march
                 off
                 ,
                 and
                 reel
                 into
                 the
                 Tomb
                 ,
              
               
                 Natures
                 convenient
                 dark
                 Retiring
                 Room
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 there
                 ,
                 from
                 Noiso
                 remov'd
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 tumultuous
                 strife
                 ,
              
               
                 Sleep
                 out
                 the
                 dull
                 Fatigue
                 ,
                 and
                 long
                 Debauch
                 of
                 Life
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 [
                 Tries
                 to
                 go
                 off
                 ,
                 but
                 tumbles
                 down
                 ,
                 and
                 falls
                 asleep
                 .
              
            
             
               FINIS
               .
            
          
        
      
       
         
           
             
             
             
               REMAINS
               OF
               Mr.
               
                 John
                 Oldham
              
               IN
               VERSE
               and
               PROSE
               .
            
             
               LONDON
               :
               Printed
               for
               
                 Jo.
                 Hindmarsh
              
               ,
               Bookseller
               to
               his
               Royal
               Highness
               ,
               at
               the
               Black
               Bull
               in
               Cornil
               ,
               1684.
               
            
          
           
             
             
             
               Advertisement
               .
            
             
               
                 THe
                 Author
                 of
                 these
                 following
                 Poems
                 being
                 dead
                 ,
                 the
                 Publisher
                 thought
                 fit
                 to
                 acquaint
                 the
                 World
                 ,
                 that
                 the
                 reason
                 why
                 he
                 exposed
                 them
                 now
                 in
                 Print
                 ,
                 was
                 not
                 so
                 much
                 for
                 his
                 own
                 Interest
                 (
                 tho
                 a
                 Bookseller
                 that
                 disclaims
                 Interest
                 for
                 a
                 pretence
                 ,
                 will
                 no
                 more
                 be
                 believed
                 now
                 adays
                 ,
                 than
                 a
                 thorough
                 paced
                 Phanatick
                 ,
                 that
                 pretends
                 he
                 makes
                 a
                 journey
                 to
              
               New
               England
               
                 purely
                 for
                 conscience
                 sake
                 )
                 but
                 for
                 securing
                 the
                 reputation
                 of
                 Mr.
              
               Oldham
               ;
               
                 which
                 might
                 otherwise
                 have
                 suffered
                 from
                 worse
                 hands
                 ,
                 and
                 out
                 of
                 a
                 desire
                 he
                 has
                 to
                 print
                 the
                 last
                 Remains
                 of
                 his
                 friend
                 since
                 he
                 had
                 the
                 good
                 fortune
                 to
                 publish
                 his
                 first
                 Pieces
                 .
              
            
             
             
               
                 He
                 confesses
                 that
                 it
                 is
                 the
                 greatest
                 piece
                 of
                 injustice
                 to
                 publish
                 the
                 posthumous
                 Works
                 of
                 Authors
                 ,
                 especially
                 such
                 ,
                 that
                 we
                 may
                 suppose
                 they
                 had
                 brought
                 to
                 the
                 file
                 and
                 sent
                 out
                 with
                 more
                 advantages
                 into
                 the
                 World
                 ,
                 had
                 they
                 not
                 been
                 prevented
                 by
                 untimely
                 death
                 ;
                 and
                 therefore
                 assures
                 you
                 he
                 had
                 never
                 presumed
                 to
                 print
                 these
                 following
                 Miscellanies
                 ,
                 had
                 they
                 not
                 already
                 been
                 countenanced
                 by
                 men
                 of
                 unquestionable
                 repute
                 and
                 esteem
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 He
                 is
                 not
                 of
                 the
                 same
                 perswasion
                 with
                 several
                 others
                 of
                 his
                 own
                 profession
                 ,
                 that
                 never
                 care
                 how
                 much
                 they
                 lessen
                 the
                 reputation
                 of
                 the
                 Poet
                 ,
                 if
                 they
                 can
                 but
                 inhance
                 the
                 value
                 of
                 the
                 Book
                 ;
                 that
                 ransackt
                 he
                 Studies
                 of
                 the
                 deceased
                 ,
                 and
                 print
                 all
                 that
                 passed
                 under
                 the
                 Author's
                 hands
                 ,
                 from
                 Fifteen
                 to
                 Forty
                 ,
                 and
                 upwards
                 :
                 and
                 (
                 as
                 the
                 incomparable
                 Mr.
              
               Cowley
               
                 has
                 
                 exprest
                 it
                 )
                 think
                 a
                 rude
                 heap
                 of
                 ill
                 placed
                 Stones
                 a
                 better
                 Monument
                 than
                 a
                 neat
                 Tomb
                 of
                 Marble
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 For
                 the
                 Description
                 of
                 the
                 Country
                 P
                 —
                 (
                 the
                 only
                 part
                 in
                 this
                 Book
                 that
                 he
                 judges
                 liable
                 to
                 exception
                 )
                 he
                 makes
                 you
                 no
                 Apology
                 at
                 all
                 ;
                 For
                 to
                 men
                 of
                 candor
                 and
                 judgment
                 any
                 thing
                 that
                 comes
                 from
                 Mr.
              
               Oldham
               
                 will
                 certainly
                 be
                 acceptable
                 ;
                 to
                 others
                 that
                 are
                 resolved
                 to
                 damn
                 at
                 first
                 sight
                 he
                 thinks
                 a
                 defence
                 of
                 this
                 nature
                 signifies
                 no
                 more
                 than
                 a
                 Plantiffs
                 perswasions
                 to
                 a
                 hungry
                 Judg
                 after
                 twelve
                 .
                 However
                 he
                 is
                 very
                 confident
                 that
                 the
                 rest
                 of
                 Mr.
              
               Oldham's
               
                 pieces
                 will
                 abundantly
                 atone
                 for
                 one
                 unfinished
                 draught
                 ,
                 and
                 that
                 no
                 man
                 of
                 sense
                 and
                 reason
                 will
                 quarel
                 at
                 one
                 bad
                 half
                 Crown
                 ,
                 in
                 a
                 good
                 ,
                 round
                 ,
                 substantial
                 lump
                 of
                 Money
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
             
               To
               the
               MEMORY
               of
               Mr.
               OLDHAM
               .
            
             
               
                 FArewel
                 ,
                 too
                 little
                 and
                 too
                 lately
                 known
                 ,
              
               
                 Whom
                 I
                 began
                 to
                 think
                 and
                 call
                 my
                 own
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 sure
                 our
                 Souls
                 were
                 near
                 ally'd
                 ;
                 and
                 thine
              
               
                 Cast
                 in
                 the
                 same
                 Poetick
                 mould
                 with
                 mine
                 .
              
               
                 One
                 common
                 Note
                 on
                 either
                 Lyre
                 did
                 strike
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Knaves
                 and
                 Fools
                 we
                 both
                 abhorr'd
                 alike
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 same
                 Goal
                 did
                 both
                 our
                 Studies
                 drive
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 last
                 set
                 out
                 the
                 soonest
                 did
                 arrive
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 Nisus
                 fell
                 upon
                 the
                 slippery
                 place
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 his
                 young
                 Friend
                 perform'd
                 and
                 won
                 the
                 Race
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 early
                 ripe
                 !
                 to
                 thy
                 abundant
                 store
              
               
                 What
                 could
                 advancing
                 Age
                 have
                 added
                 more
                 ?
              
               
                 It
                 might
                 (
                 what
                 Nature
                 never
                 gives
                 the
                 young
                 )
              
               
                 Have
                 taught
                 the
                 numbers
                 of
                 thy
                 native
                 Tongue
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 Satyr
                 needs
                 not
                 those
                 ,
                 and
                 Wit
                 will
                 shine
              
               
                 Through
                 the
                 harsh
                 cadence
                 of
                 a
                 rugged
                 line
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 noble
                 Error
                 ,
                 and
                 but
                 seldom
                 made
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 Poets
                 are
                 by
                 too
                 much
                 force
                 betray'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 generous
                 fruits
                 ,
                 though
                 gather'd
                 ere
                 their
                 prime
              
               
                 Still
                 shew'd
                 a
                 quickness
                 ;
                 and
                 maturing
                 time
              
               
                 But
                 mellows
                 what
                 we
                 write
                 to
                 the
                 dull
                 sweets
                 of
                 Rime
                 .
              
               
                 Once
                 more
                 ,
                 hail
                 and
                 farewel
                 ;
                 farewel
                 thou
                 young
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 ah
                 too
                 short
                 ,
                 Marcellus
                 of
                 our
                 Tongue
                 ;
              
               
                 Thy
                 Brows
                 with
                 Ivy
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 Laurels
                 bound
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 Fate
                 and
                 gloomy
                 Night
                 encompass
                 thee
                 around
                 .
              
            
             
               JOHN
               DRYDEN
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Authori
               Epitaphium
               .
            
             
               
                 HOc
                 ,
                 ô
                 Viator
                 ,
                 marmore
                 conditae
              
               
                 Charae
                 recumbunt
                 Exuviae
                 brevem
              
               
                 Viventis
                 (
                 oh
                 !
                 sors
                 dura
                 )
                 vitam
                 ,
              
               
                 Praecoce
                 coelum
                 animâ
                 petentis
                 .
              
               
                 Nec
                 praepedita
                 est
                 Mens
                 celeris
                 diù
                 ,
              
               
                 Quin
                 Pustularum
                 mille
                 tumoribus
              
               
                 Eff●…oruit
                 ,
                 portisque
                 mille
              
               
                 Praepes
                 iter
                 patefecit
                 altum
                 .
              
               
                 Musarum
                 Alumnus
                 jàm
                 fuit
                 ,
                 artibus
              
               
                 Instructus
                 almis
                 ,
                 quas
                 ,
                 studio
                 pio
                 ,
              
               
                 Atque
                 aure
                 quàm
                 fidâ
                 repostas
                 ,
              
               
                 Oxonij
                 coluit
                 Parentis
                 .
              
               
                 Hic
                 quadriennis
                 praemia
                 Filii
              
               
                 Dignus
                 recepit
                 ,
                 Vellera
                 candida
                 ,
              
               
                 Collati
                 Honoris
                 signa
                 ,
                 necnon
              
               
                 Innocui
                 simulacra
                 cordis
                 .
              
               
                 Sed
                 manè
                 montis
                 summa
                 cacumina
              
               
                 Ascendit
                 ardens
                 ,
                 Pierio
                 jugo
              
               
                 Insedit
                 ,
                 atque
                 errore
                 multo
              
               
                 Ipsum
                 Helicona
                 scatere
                 vidit
                 .
              
               
                 Nunc
                 pura
                 veri
                 Flumina
                 perspicit
                 ,
              
               
                 Nunc
                 mira
                 Mundi
                 semina
                 concipit
                 ,
              
               
                 Pulchrasque
                 primaevi
                 figuras
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 speculo
                 species
                 creante
                 .
              
               
                 At
                 Tu
                 ,
                 Viator
                 ,
                 Numina
                 poscito
                 ,
              
               
                 Ut
                 dissolutis
                 reliquijs
                 ,
                 vaga
              
               
                 Dùm
                 mens
                 remigret
                 ,
                 detur
                 —
                 ah
                 !
                 su
              
               
                 Terra
                 levis
                 ,
                 placidusque
                 somnus
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               
                 On
                 the
                 Death
                 of
                 Mr.
              
               John
               Oldham
               ,
               A
               Pindarique
               Pastoral
               Ode
               .
            
             
               
                 Stanza
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 UNdoubtedly
                 't
                 is
                 thy
                 peculiar
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 Ah
                 ,
                 miserable
                 Astragon
                 !
              
               
                 Thou
                 art
                 condemn'd
                 alone
              
               
                 To
                 bear
                 the
                 Burthen
                 of
                 a
                 wretched
                 Life
                 ,
              
               
                 Still
                 in
                 this
                 howling
                 Wilderness
                 to
                 roam
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 all
                 thy
                 Bosom-friends
                 unkindly
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 leave
                 thee
                 to
                 lament
                 them
                 here
                 below
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 dear
                 Alexis
                 would
                 not
                 stay
                 ,
              
               
                 Joy
                 of
                 thy
                 Life
                 ,
                 and
                 Pleasure
                 of
                 thine
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Dear
                 Alexis
                 went
                 away
              
               
                 With
                 an
                 invincible
                 Surprize
                 ;
              
               
                 Th'
                 Angel-like
                 Youth
                 early
                 dislik'd
                 this
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 chearfully
                 submitted
                 to
                 his
                 Fate
                 .
              
               
                 Never
                 did
                 Soul
                 of
                 a
                 Celestial
                 Birth
              
               
                 Inform
                 a
                 purer
                 piece
                 of
                 Earth
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 that
                 't
                 were
                 not
                 in
                 vain
              
               
                 To
                 wish
                 what
                 's
                 past
                 might
                 be
                 retriev'd
                 again
                 !
              
               
                 Thy
                 Dotage
                 ,
                 thy
                 Alexis
                 ,
                 then
              
               
                 Had
                 answer'd
                 all
                 thy
                 Vows
                 and
                 Pray'rs
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Crown'd
                 with
                 pregnant
                 Joys
                 thy
                 silver
                 Hairs
                 ,
              
               
                 Lov'd
                 to
                 this
                 day
                 among
                 the
                 living
                 Sons
                 of
                 Men.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 And
                 thou
                 ,
                 my
                 Friend
                 ,
                 hast
                 left
                 me
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 Menalcas
                 !
                 poor
                 Menalcas
                 !
                 even
                 thou
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Of
                 whom
                 so
                 loudly
                 Fame
                 has
                 spoke
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 Records
                 of
                 her
                 immortal
                 Book
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 disregarded
                 Worth
                 Ages
                 to
                 come
              
               
                 Shall
                 wail
                 with
                 Indignation
                 o'er
                 thy
                 Tomb.
              
               
                 Worthy
                 wert
                 thou
                 to
                 live
                 ,
                 as
                 long
                 as
                 Vice
              
               
                 Should
                 need
                 a
                 Satyr
                 ,
                 that
                 the
                 frantick
                 Age
              
               
                 Might
                 tremble
                 at
                 the
                 Lash
                 of
                 thy
                 poetick
                 Rage
                 .
              
               
                 Th'
                 untutor'd
                 World
                 in
                 after
                 Times
              
               
                 May
                 live
                 uncensur'd
                 for
                 their
                 Crimes
                 ,
              
               
                 Freed
                 from
                 the
                 Dreads
                 of
                 thy
                 reforming
                 Pen
                 ,
              
               
                 Turn
                 to
                 old
                 Chaos
                 once
                 again
                 .
              
               
                 Of
                 all
                 th'
                 instructive
                 Bards
                 ,
                 whose
                 more
                 than
                 Theban
                 Lyre
                 .
              
               
                 Could
                 savage
                 Souls
                 with
                 manly
                 Thoughts
                 inspire
                 ,
              
               
                 Menalcas
                 worthy
                 was
                 to
                 live
                 .
              
               
                 Say
                 ,
                 you
                 his
                 Fellow-Shepherds
                 that
                 survive
                 ,
              
               
                 Tell
                 me
                 ,
                 you
                 mournful
                 Swains
                 ,
              
               
                 Has
                 my
                 ador'd
                 Menalcas
                 left
                 behind
                 ;
              
               
                 In
                 all
                 these
                 pensive
                 Plains
              
               
                 A
                 gentler
                 Shepherd
                 with
                 a
                 braver
                 mind
                 :
              
               
                 Which
                 of
                 you
                 all
                 did
                 more
                 Majestick
                 Show
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 wore
                 the
                 Garland
                 on
                 a
                 sweeter
                 Brow
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 III.
                 
              
               
                 —
                 But
                 wayward
                 Astragon
                 resolves
                 no
                 more
              
               
                 The
                 Loss
                 of
                 his
                 Menalcas
                 to
                 deplore
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 place
                 to
                 which
                 he
                 wisely
                 is
                 withdrawn
              
               
                 Is
                 altogether
                 blest
                 ;
              
               
                 There
                 no
                 Clouds
                 o'erwhelm
                 his
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 Midnight
                 Cares
                 can
                 break
                 his
                 Rest
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 all
                 is
                 everlasting
                 cheerful
                 Dawn
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Poet's
                 Bliss
                 there
                 shall
                 he
                 long
                 possess
                 ,
              
               
                 Perfect
                 Ease
                 and
                 soft
                 Recess
                 ;
              
               
               
                 The
                 treacherous
                 World
                 no
                 more
                 shall
                 him
                 deceive
                 ;
              
               
                 Of
                 Hope
                 and
                 Fortune
                 he
                 has
                 taken
                 Leave
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 in
                 mighty
                 Triumph
                 does
                 he
                 reign
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 His
                 Head
                 adorn'd
                 with
                 Beams
                 of
                 Light
                 )
              
               
                 O'er
                 the
                 unthinking
                 Rabble's
                 Spite
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 dull
                 wealthy
                 Fool
                 's
                 disdain
                 .
              
               
                 Thrice
                 happy
                 he
                 that
                 dies
                 the
                 Muses
                 Friend
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 needs
                 no
                 Obelisque
                 ,
                 no
                 Pyramid
              
               
                 His
                 sacred
                 Dust
                 to
                 hide
                 ;
              
               
                 He
                 needs
                 not
                 for
                 his
                 Memory
                 to
                 provide
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 he
                 might
                 well
                 foresee
                 his
                 Praise
                 can
                 never
                 end
                 .
              
            
             
               Thomas
               Flatman
               .
            
          
           
             
               In
               memory
               of
               the
               Author
               .
            
             
               
                 TAke
                 this
                 short-summon'd
                 loose
                 unfinisht
                 Verse
              
               
                 Cold
                 as
                 thy
                 Tomb
                 ,
                 and
                 suddainas
                 thy
                 Hears
              
               
                 From
                 my
                 sick
                 Thoughts
                 thou
                 canst
                 no
                 better
                 crave
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 scarce
                 drag
                 Life
                 ,
                 and
                 envy
                 thee
                 thy
                 Grave
                 .
              
               
                 Me
                 Phoebus
                 always
                 faintly
                 did
                 inspire
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 gave
                 my
                 narrow
                 Breast
                 more
                 scanty
                 Fire
                 .
              
               
                 My
                 
                 Hybla-Muse
                 through
                 humble
                 Meads
                 sought
                 Spoil
                 ,
              
               
                 Collecting
                 little
                 Sweets
                 with
                 mighty
                 Toil
                 ;
              
               
                 Yet
                 when
                 some
                 Friend
                 's
                 just
                 Fame
                 did
                 Theme
                 afford
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 Voice
                 amongst
                 the
                 tow
                 '
                 ring
                 Swans
                 was
                 heard
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 for
                 such
                 Attendance
                 now
                 I
                 call
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Ink
                 o'erflows
                 with
                 Spleen
                 ,
                 my
                 Blood
                 with
                 Gall
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Yet
                 ,
                 sweet
                 Alexis
                 ,
                 my
                 Esteem
                 of
                 thee
              
               
                 Was
                 equal
                 to
                 thy
                 Worth
                 and
                 Love
                 for
                 me
                 .
              
               
                 Death
                 is
                 thy
                 Gain
                 —
                 that
                 Thought
                 affects
                 me
                 most
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 care
                 not
                 what
                 th'
                 ill-natur'd
                 World
                 has
                 lost
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 Wit
                 with
                 thee
                 expir'd
                 ,
                 how
                 shall
                 I
                 grieve
                 ?
              
               
                 Who
                 grudge
                 th'
                 ingrateful
                 Age
                 what
                 thou
                 didst
                 leave
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Tribute
                 of
                 their
                 Verse
                 let
                 others
                 send
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 mourn
                 the
                 Poet
                 gone
                 ,
                 I
                 mourn
                 the
                 Friend
                 .
              
               
                 Enjoy
                 thy
                 Fate
                 —
                 thy
                 Predecessors
                 come
                 ,
              
               
                 Cowley
                 and
                 Butler
                 to
                 conduct
                 thee
                 home
                 .
              
               
                 Who
                 would
                 not
                 
                   (
                   Butler
                
                 cries
                 )
                 like
                 me
                 engage
              
               
                 New
                 Worlds
                 of
                 Wit
                 to
                 serve
                 a
                 grateful
                 Age
                 ?
              
               
                 For
                 such
                 Rewards
                 what
                 Tasks
                 will
                 Authors
                 shun
                 ?
              
               
                 I
                 pray
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 is
                 my
                 Monument
                 begun
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Enjoy
                 thy
                 Fate
                 ,
                 thy
                 Voice
                 in
                 Anthems
                 raise
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 well
                 tun'd
                 here
                 on
                 Earth
                 to
                 our
                 
                 Apollo's
                 Praise
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 me
                 retire
                 ,
                 while
                 some
                 sublimer
                 Pen
              
               
                 Performs
                 for
                 thee
                 what
                 thou
                 hast
                 done
                 for
                 Homer
                 and
                 for
                 Ben.
                 
              
            
             
               N.
               T.
               
            
          
           
             
               On
               the
               ensuing
               Poems
               of
               Mr.
               
                 John
                 Oldham
              
               ,
               and
               the
               Death
               of
               his
               good
               Friend
               the
               ingenious
               Author
               .
            
             
               
                 OBscure
                 and
                 cloudy
                 did
                 the
                 day
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 Heaven
                 design'd
                 to
                 blot
                 it
                 from
                 the
                 year
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Elements
                 all
                 seem'd
                 to
                 disagree
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 least
                 ,
                 I
                 'm
                 sure
                 ,
                 they
                 were
                 at
                 strife
                 in
                 me
                 :
              
               
               
                 Possest
                 with
                 Spleen
                 ,
                 which
                 Melancholy
                 bred
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 Rumor
                 told
                 me
                 that
                 my
                 Friend
                 was
                 dead
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Oldham
                 honour'd
                 for
                 his
                 early
                 Worth
                 ,
              
               
                 Was
                 cropt
                 ,
                 like
                 a
                 sweet
                 Blossom
                 from
                 the
                 Earth
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 late
                 he
                 grew
                 ,
                 delighting
                 every
                 Eye
              
               
                 In
                 his
                 rare
                 Garden
                 of
                 Philosophy
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 fatal
                 Sound
                 new
                 Sorrows
                 did
                 infuse
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 my
                 Griefs
                 were
                 doubled
                 at
                 the
                 News
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 we
                 with
                 mutual
                 Arms
                 of
                 Friendship
                 strove
                 ,
              
               
                 Friendship
                 the
                 true
                 and
                 solid
                 part
                 of
                 Love
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 he
                 so
                 many
                 Graces
                 had
                 in
                 store
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Fame
                 or
                 Beauty
                 could
                 not
                 bind
                 me
                 more
                 .
              
               
                 His
                 Wit
                 in
                 his
                 immortal
                 Verse
                 appears
                 ,
              
               
                 Many
                 his
                 Vertues
                 were
                 ,
                 tho'
                 few
                 his
                 Years
                 ;
              
               
                 Which
                 were
                 so
                 spent
                 as
                 if
                 by
                 Heaven
                 contriv'd
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 lash
                 the
                 Vices
                 of
                 the
                 longer
                 liv'd
                 .
              
               
                 None
                 was
                 more
                 skilful
                 ,
                 none
                 more
                 learn'd
                 than
                 he
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Poet
                 in
                 its
                 sacred
                 Quality
                 :
              
               
                 Inspir'd
                 above
                 ,
                 and
                 could
                 command
                 each
                 Passion
                 ,
              
               
                 Had
                 all
                 the
                 Wit
                 without
                 the
                 Affectation
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Calm
                 of
                 Nature
                 still
                 possest
                 his
                 Soul
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 canker'd
                 Envy
                 did
                 his
                 Breast
                 controul
                 :
              
               
                 Modest
                 as
                 Virgins
                 that
                 have
                 never
                 known
              
               
                 The
                 jilting
                 Breeding
                 of
                 the
                 nauseous
                 Town
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 easie
                 as
                 his
                 Numbers
                 that
                 sublime
              
               
                 His
                 lofty
                 Strains
                 ,
                 and
                 beautifie
                 his
                 Rhime
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 the
                 Time's
                 Ignomy
                 inspir'd
                 his
                 Pen
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 rowz'd
                 the
                 drowsie
                 Satyr
                 from
                 his
                 Den
                 ;
              
               
                 Then
                 fluttering
                 Fops
                 were
                 his
                 Aversion
                 still
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 felt
                 the
                 Power
                 of
                 his
                 Satyrick
                 Quill
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Spark
                 whose
                 Noise
                 proclaims
                 his
                 empty
                 Pate
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 struts
                 along
                 the
                 Mall
                 with
                 antick
                 Gate
                 ;
              
               
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 Phyllis
                 and
                 the
                 Chloris
                 Fools
              
               
                 Were
                 damn'd
                 by
                 his
                 invective
                 Muse
                 in
                 Shoals
                 .
              
               
                 Who
                 on
                 the
                 Age
                 look'd
                 with
                 impartial
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 aim'd
                 not
                 at
                 the
                 Person
                 ,
                 but
                 the
                 Vice.
              
               
                 To
                 all
                 true
                 Wit
                 he
                 was
                 a
                 constant
                 Friend
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 as
                 he
                 well
                 could
                 judge
                 ,
                 could
                 well
                 commend
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 mighty
                 Homer
                 he
                 with
                 Care
                 perus'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 that
                 great
                 Genius
                 to
                 the
                 World
                 infus'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Immortal
                 Virgil
                 ,
                 and
                 Lucretius
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 Seeds
                 o'
                 th'
                 Soul
                 his
                 Reason
                 knew
                 :
              
               
                 Like
                 Ovid
                 ,
                 could
                 the
                 Ladies
                 Hearts
                 assail
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Horace
                 sing
                 ,
                 and
                 lash
                 with
                 Juvenal
                 .
              
               
                 Unskill'd
                 in
                 nought
                 that
                 did
                 with
                 Learning
                 dwell
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Pride
                 to
                 know
                 he
                 understood
                 it
                 well
                 .
              
               
                 Adieu
                 thou
                 modest
                 Type
                 of
                 perfect
                 Man
                 ;
              
               
                 Ah
                 ,
                 had
                 not
                 thy
                 Perfections
                 that
                 began
              
               
                 In
                 Life's
                 bright
                 Morning
                 been
                 eclips'd
                 so
                 soon
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 all
                 had
                 bask'd
                 and
                 wanton'd
                 in
                 thy
                 Noon
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 Fate
                 grew
                 envious
                 of
                 thy
                 growing
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 knowing
                 Heav'n
                 from
                 whence
                 thy
                 Genius
                 came
                 ,
              
               
                 Assign'd
                 thee
                 by
                 immutable
                 Decree
              
               
                 A
                 glorious
                 Crown
                 of
                 Immortality
                 ,
              
               
                 Snatch't
                 thee
                 from
                 all
                 thy
                 mourning
                 Friends
                 below
                 ,
              
               
                 Just
                 as
                 the
                 Bays
                 were
                 planting
                 on
                 thy
                 Brow.
              
               
                 Thus
                 worldly
                 Merit
                 has
                 the
                 Worlds
                 Regard
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 Poets
                 in
                 the
                 next
                 have
                 their
                 Reward
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Heaven
                 in
                 
                 Oldham's
                 Fortune
                 seem'd
                 to
                 show
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 Recompence
                 was
                 good
                 enough
                 below
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 to
                 prevent
                 the
                 Worlds
                 ingrateful
                 Crimes
                 ,
              
               
                 Enrich'd
                 his
                 Mind
                 ,
                 and
                 bid
                 him
                 die
                 betimes
                 .
              
            
             
               T.
               Durfey
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               On
               the
               Death
               of
               Mr.
               
                 John
                 Oldham
              
               .
            
             
               
                 HEark
                 !
                 is
                 it
                 only
                 my
                 prophetick
                 Fear
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 some
                 Death's
                 sad
                 Alarum
                 that
                 I
                 hear
                 ?
              
               
                 By
                 all
                 my
                 Doubts
                 't
                 is
                 
                 Oldham's
                 fatal
                 Knell
                 ;
              
               
                 It
                 rings
                 aloud
                 ,
                 eternally
                 farewel
                 :
              
               
                 Farewell
                 thou
                 mighty
                 Genius
                 of
                 our
                 Isle
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 forward
                 Parts
                 made
                 all
                 our
                 Nation
                 smile
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 whom
                 both
                 Wit
                 and
                 Knowledge
                 did
                 conspire
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Nature
                 gaz'd
                 as
                 if
                 she
                 did
                 admire
              
               
                 How
                 such
                 few
                 years
                 such
                 Learning
                 could
                 acquire
                 :
              
               
                 Nay
                 seem'd
                 concern'd
                 that
                 we
                 should
                 hardly
                 find
              
               
                 So
                 sharp
                 a
                 Pen
                 ,
                 and
                 so
                 serene
                 a
                 Mind
                 .
              
               
                 Oh
                 then
                 lament
                 ;
                 let
                 each
                 distracted
                 Breast
              
               
                 With
                 universal
                 Sorrow
                 be
                 possest
                 .
              
               
                 Mourn
                 ,
                 mourn
                 ,
                 ye
                 Muses
                 ,
                 and
                 your
                 Songs
                 give
                 o'er
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 now
                 your
                 lov'd
                 Adonis
                 is
                 no
                 more
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 whom
                 ye
                 tutor'd
                 from
                 his
                 Infant-years
                 ,
              
               
                 Cold
                 ,
                 pale
                 and
                 ghastly
                 as
                 the
                 Grave
                 appears
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 whom
                 ye
                 bath'd
                 in
                 your
                 lov'd
                 murmuring
                 Stream
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 daily
                 pleasure
                 ,
                 and
                 your
                 mighty
                 Theme
              
               
                 Is
                 now
                 no
                 more
                 ;
                 the
                 Youth
                 ,
                 the
                 Youth
                 is
                 dead
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 mighty
                 Soul
                 of
                 Poetry
                 is
                 fled
                 ;
              
               
                 Fled
                 e'er
                 his
                 Worth
                 or
                 Merit
                 was
                 half
                 known
                 ;
              
               
                 No
                 sooner
                 seen
                 ,
                 but
                 in
                 a
                 Moment
                 gone
                 :
              
               
                 Like
                 to
                 some
                 tender
                 Plant
                 ,
                 which
                 rear'd
                 with
                 Care
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 length
                 becomes
                 most
                 fragrant
                 ,
                 and
                 most
                 fair
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Long
                 does
                 it
                 thrive
                 ,
                 and
                 long
                 its
                 Pride
                 .
                 maintain
                 ,
              
               
                 Esteem'd
                 secure
                 from
                 Thunder
                 ,
                 Storm
                 or
                 Rain
                 ;
              
               
                 Then
                 comes
                 a
                 Blast
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 the
                 Work
                 is
                 vain
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 Oh!
                 my
                 Friend
                 ,
                 must
                 we
                 no
                 more
                 rehearse
              
               
                 Thy
                 equal
                 Numbers
                 in
                 thy
                 pleasing
                 Verse
                 ?
              
               
                 In
                 Love
                 how
                 soft
                 ,
                 in
                 Satyr
                 how
                 severe
                 ?
              
               
                 In
                 Passion
                 moving
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 Rage
                 austere
                 !
              
               
                 Virgil
                 in
                 Judgment
                 ,
                 Ovid
                 in
                 Delight
                 ,
              
               
                 An
                 easie
                 Thought
                 with
                 a
                 Meonian
                 Flight
                 ;
              
               
                 Horace
                 in
                 Sweetness
                 ,
                 Juvenal
                 in
                 Rage
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 even
                 Biblis
                 must
                 each
                 Heart
                 engage
                 !
              
               
                 Just
                 in
                 his
                 Praises
                 ,
                 and
                 what
                 most
                 desire
                 ,
              
               
                 Wou'd
                 flatter
                 none
                 for
                 Greatness
                 ,
                 Love
                 or
                 Hire
                 ;
              
               
                 Humble
                 ,
                 though
                 courted
                 ,
                 and
                 what
                 's
                 rare
                 to
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 wondrous
                 Worth
                 ,
                 yet
                 wondrous
                 Modesty
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 far
                 from
                 ostentation
                 he
                 did
                 seem
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 he
                 was
                 meanest
                 in
                 his
                 own
                 Esteem
                 .
              
               
                 Alas
                 ,
                 young
                 man
                 ,
                 why
                 wert
                 thou
                 made
                 to
                 be
              
               
                 At
                 once
                 our
                 Glory
                 and
                 our
                 Misery
                 ?
              
               
                 Our
                 Misery
                 in
                 losing
                 thee
                 is
                 more
              
               
                 Than
                 could
                 thy
                 Life
                 our
                 Glory
                 be
                 before
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 shou'd
                 a
                 Soul
                 celestial
                 Joys
                 possess
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 straight
                 be
                 banish'd
                 from
                 that
                 Happiness
                 ,
              
               
                 Oh
                 ,
                 where
                 would
                 be
                 its
                 Pleasure
                 ?
                 where
                 its
                 '
                 Gain
                 ?
              
               
                 TheBliss
                 once
                 tasted
                 but
                 augments
                 the
                 Pain
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 having
                 once
                 so
                 great
                 a
                 Prize
                 in
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 much
                 the
                 heavier
                 must
                 our
                 Sorrows
                 be
                 ?
              
               
                 For
                 if
                 such
                 Flights
                 were
                 in
                 thy
                 younger
                 Days
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 if
                 thou'dst
                 liv'd
                 ,
                 O
                 what
                 had
                 been
                 thy
                 Praise
                 ?
              
               
                 Eternal
                 Wreaths
                 of
                 never-dying
                 Bays
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 those
                 are
                 due
                 already
                 to
                 thy
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 stands
                 enroll'd
                 in
                 the
                 Records
                 of
                 Fame
                 ;
              
               
               
                 And
                 though
                 thy
                 great
                 Remains
                 to
                 Ashes
                 turn
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 lasting
                 Praises
                 we
                 'll
                 supply
                 thy
                 Urn
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 like
                 Sepulchral
                 Lamps
                 shall
                 ever
                 burn
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 hold
                 !
                 methinks
                 ,
                 great
                 Shade
                 ,
                 I
                 see
                 thee
                 rove
              
               
                 Through
                 the
                 smooth
                 Path
                 of
                 Plenty
                 ,
                 Peace
                 and
                 Love
                 ;
              
               
                 Where
                 Ben.
                 salutes
                 thee
                 first
                 ,
                 o'erjoy'd
                 to
                 see
              
               
                 The
                 Youth
                 that
                 sung
                 his
                 Fame
                 and
                 Memory
                 :
              
               
                 Great
                 Spencer
                 next
                 ,
                 with
                 all
                 the
                 learned
                 Train
                 ,
              
               
                 Do
                 greet
                 thee
                 in
                 a
                 Panegyrick
                 Strain
                 :
              
               
                 Adonis
                 is
                 the
                 Joy
                 of
                 all
                 the
                 Plain
                 .
              
            
             
               Tho.
               Andrews
               .
            
          
           
             
               DAMON
               ,
               
                 an
                 ECLOGUE
              
               On
               the
               untimely
               Death
               of
               Mr.
               Oldham
               .
            
             
               
                 Corydon
                 .
              
               
                 Alexis
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 BEneath
                 a
                 dismal
                 Yew
                 the
                 Shepherds
                 sate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 talk'd
                 of
                 
                 Damon's
                 Muse
                 and
                 
                 Damon's
                 Fate
                 :
              
               
                 Their
                 mutual
                 Lamentations
                 gave
                 them
                 Ease
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 sometimes
                 Melancholy
                 it self
                 does
                 please
                 :
              
               
                 Like
                 Philomel
                 abandon'd
                 to
                 distress
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 ev'n
                 their
                 Griefs
                 in
                 Musick
                 they
                 express
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Cor.
                 
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 sing
                 no
                 more
                 since
                 Verses
                 want
                 a
                 Charm
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Muses
                 could
                 not
                 their
                 own
                 Damon
                 arm
                 :
              
               
               
                 At
                 least
                 I
                 'll
                 touch
                 this
                 useless
                 Pipe
                 no
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 Unless
                 ,
                 like
                 Orpheus
                 ,
                 I
                 could
                 Shades
                 restore
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 A.
                 
              
               
                 Rather
                 ,
                 like
                 Orpheus
                 ,
                 celebrate
                 your
                 Friend
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 your
                 Musick
                 Hell
                 it self
                 suspend
                 :
              
               
                 Tax
                 Proserpine
                 of
                 Cruelty
                 and
                 Hate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sing
                 of
                 
                 Damon's
                 Muse
                 ,
                 and
                 
                 Damon's
                 Fate
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 C.
                 
              
               
                 When
                 Damon
                 sung
                 ,
                 he
                 sung
                 with
                 such
                 a
                 Grace
                 ,
              
               
                 Lord
                 ,
                 how
                 the
                 very
                 
                 London-brutes
                 did
                 gaze
                 !
              
               
                 Sharp
                 was
                 his
                 Satyr
                 ,
                 nor
                 allay'd
                 with
                 Gall
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 Rage
                 ,
                 't
                 was
                 generous
                 Indignation
                 all
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 A.
                 
              
               
                 Oh
                 had
                 he
                 liv'd
                 ,
                 and
                 to
                 Perfection
                 grown
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 like
                 Marcellus
                 ,
                 only
                 to
                 be
                 shown
                 ;
              
               
                 He
                 would
                 have
                 charm'd
                 their
                 Sence
                 a
                 nobler
                 way
                 ,
              
               
                 Taught
                 Virgins
                 how
                 to
                 sigh
                 ,
                 and
                 Priests
                 to
                 pray
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 C.
                 
              
               
                 Let
                 Priests
                 and
                 Virgins
                 then
                 to
                 him
                 address
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 their
                 Songs
                 their
                 Gratitude
                 express
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 we
                 that
                 know
                 the
                 Worth
                 of
                 easie
                 Verse
                 ,
              
               
                 Secure
                 the
                 Laurel
                 to
                 adorn
                 his
                 Herse
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 A.
                 
              
               
                 Codrus
                 ,
                 you
                 know
                 ,
                 that
                 sacred
                 Badge
                 does
                 wear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 't
                 were
                 injurious
                 not
                 to
                 leave
                 it
                 there
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 since
                 no
                 Merit
                 can
                 strike
                 Envy
                 dumb
                 ,
              
               
                 Do
                 you
                 with
                 Baccar
                 ,
                 guard
                 and
                 grace
                 his
                 Tomb.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 C.
                 
              
               
                 While
                 you
                 (
                 dear
                 Swain
                 )
                 with
                 unaffected
                 Rhime
                 ,
              
               
                 Majestick
                 ,
                 sad
                 ,
                 and
                 suited
                 to
                 the
                 Time
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Name
                 to
                 future
                 Ages
                 consecrate
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 praising
                 of
                 his
                 Muse
                 ,
                 and
                 mourning
                 of
                 his
                 Fate
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 A.
                 
              
               
                 Alas
                 ,
                 I
                 never
                 must
                 pretend
                 to
                 this
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Pipe
                 scarce
                 knows
                 a
                 Tune
                 but
                 what
                 is
                 his
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 future
                 Ages
                 then
                 for
                 
                 Damon's
                 sake
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 his
                 own
                 Works
                 a
                 just
                 Idaea
                 take
                 .
              
               
               
                 Yet
                 then
                 ,
                 but
                 like
                 Alcides
                 he
                 'll
                 be
                 shown
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 his
                 meanest
                 part
                 his
                 Size
                 be
                 known
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 C.
                 
              
               
                 'T
                 will
                 be
                 your
                 Duty
                 then
                 to
                 set
                 it
                 down
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 A.
                 
              
               
                 Once
                 and
                 but
                 once
                 (
                 so
                 Heav'n
                 and
                 Fate
                 ordain
                 )
              
               
                 I
                 met
                 the
                 gentle
                 Youth
                 upon
                 the
                 Plain
                 ,
              
               
                 Kindly
                 ,
                 cries
                 he
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 Alexis
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 though
                 I
                 know
                 you
                 not
                 you
                 must
                 be
                 he
                 ,
              
               
                 Too
                 long
                 already
                 we
                 have
                 Strangers
                 been
                 ;
              
               
                 This
                 Day
                 ,
                 at
                 least
                 ,
                 our
                 Friendship
                 must
                 begin
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 Business
                 ,
                 that
                 perverse
                 Intruder
                 ,
                 wait
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 above
                 it
                 is
                 poetical
                 and
                 great
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 with
                 Assyrian
                 Nard
                 our
                 Heads
                 did
                 shine
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 rich
                 Sabaean
                 Spice
                 exalts
                 the
                 Wine
                 ;
              
               
                 Which
                 to
                 a
                 just
                 Degree
                 our
                 Spirits
                 fir'd
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 he
                 was
                 by
                 a
                 greater
                 God
                 inspir'd
                 :
              
               
                 Wit
                 was
                 the
                 Theme
                 ,
                 which
                 he
                 did
                 well
                 describe
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Modesty
                 unusual
                 to
                 his
                 Tribe
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 as
                 with
                 ominous
                 Doubts
                 ,
                 and
                 aking
                 Heart
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 Lovers
                 after
                 first
                 Enjoyment
                 part
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 half
                 content
                 ;
                 for
                 this
                 was
                 but
                 a
                 Taste
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 wond'ring
                 how
                 the
                 Minutes
                 flew
                 so
                 fast
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 vow
                 a
                 Friendship
                 that
                 shall
                 ever
                 last
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 we
                 —
                 but
                 Oh
                 how
                 much
                 am
                 I
                 accurs'd
                 !
              
               
                 To
                 think
                 that
                 this
                 last
                 Office
                 is
                 my
                 first
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Occasioned
               by
               the
               present
               Edition
               of
               the
               ensuing
               Poems
               ,
               and
               the
               Death
               of
               the
               ingenious
               Author
               .
            
             
               
                 CUrs'd
                 be
                 the
                 day
                 when
                 first
                 this
                 goodly
                 Isle
              
               
                 Vile
                 Books
                 ,
                 and
                 useless
                 thinking
                 did
                 defile
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 Greek
                 and
                 
                 Latin-Boggs
                 our
                 Time
                 we
                 waste
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 all
                 is
                 Pain
                 and
                 Weariness
                 at
                 best
                 :
              
               
                 Mountains
                 of
                 Whims
                 and
                 Doubts
                 we
                 travel
                 o'er
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 treacherous
                 Fancy
                 dances
                 on
                 before
                 :
              
               
                 Pleas'd
                 with
                 our
                 Danger
                 still
                 we
                 stumble
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 late
                 repent
                 ,
                 and
                 are
                 too
                 soon
                 undone
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 Bodley
                 now
                 in
                 its
                 own
                 Ruines
                 lie
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 th'
                 common
                 Hangman
                 burnt
                 for
                 Heresie
                 .
              
               
                 Avoid
                 the
                 nasty
                 learned
                 Dust
                 ,
                 't
                 will
                 breed
              
               
                 More
                 Plagues
                 than
                 ever
                 Jakes
                 or
                 Dunghils
                 did
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 want
                 of
                 Dulness
                 will
                 the
                 World
                 undo
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 Learning
                 makes
                 us
                 mad
                 and
                 Rebels
                 too
                 .
              
               
                 Learning
                 ,
                 a
                 Jilt
                 which
                 while
                 we
                 do
                 enjoy
                 ,
              
               
                 Slily
                 our
                 Rest
                 and
                 Quiet
                 steals
                 away
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 greedily
                 the
                 Blood
                 of
                 Youth
                 receives
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 nought
                 but
                 Blindness
                 and
                 a
                 Dotage
                 gives
                 .
              
               
                 Worse
                 than
                 the
                 Pox
                 ,
                 or
                 scolding
                 Woman
                 fly
              
               
                 The
                 awkward
                 Madness
                 of
                 Philosophy
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 
                   Bedlam
                   Bess
                   ,
                   Religion
                
                 never
                 more
              
               
                 Phantastick
                 pie-ball'd
                 ,
                 antick
                 Dresses
                 wore
                 :
              
               
                 Opinion
                 ,
                 Pride
                 ,
                 Moroseness
                 gives
                 a
                 Fame
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 Folly
                 ,
                 christen'd
                 with
                 a
                 modish
                 Name
                 .
              
               
               
                 Let
                 dull
                 Divinity
                 no
                 more
                 delight
                 ;
              
               
                 It
                 spoils
                 the
                 Man
                 ,
                 and
                 makes
                 an
                 Hypocrite
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 chief
                 Professors
                 to
                 Preferment
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 Cringe
                 and
                 Scrape
                 ,
                 the
                 basest
                 Simony
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 humble
                 Clown
                 will
                 best
                 the
                 Gospel
                 teach
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 inspir'd
                 Ign'rance
                 sounder
                 Doctrines
                 preach
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 way
                 to
                 Heav'n
                 mere
                 Nature
                 well
                 does
                 shew
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 reasoning
                 and
                 Disputes
                 can
                 never
                 know
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 still
                 proud
                 Tyrant
                 Sence
                 in
                 Pomp
                 appears
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 claims
                 a
                 Tribute
                 of
                 full
                 threescore
                 Years
                 .
              
               
                 Sew'd
                 in
                 a
                 Sack
                 ,
                 with
                 Darkness
                 circl'd
                 round
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 man
                 must
                 be
                 with
                 Snakes
                 and
                 Monkeys
                 drown'd
                 .
              
               
                 Laborious
                 Folly
                 ,
                 and
                 compendious
                 Art
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 waste
                 that
                 Life
                 whose
                 longest
                 Date
                 's
                 too
                 short
                 .
              
               
                 Laborious
                 Folly
                 ,
                 to
                 wind
                 up
                 with
                 Pain
              
               
                 What
                 Death
                 unravels
                 soon
                 ,
                 and
                 renders
                 vain
                 .
              
               
                 We
                 blindly
                 hurry
                 on
                 in
                 mystick
                 ways
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 wisely
                 tread
                 the
                 Paths
                 of
                 solid
                 Praife
                 .
              
               
                 There
                 's
                 nought
                 deserves
                 one
                 precious
                 drop
                 of
                 sweat
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Poetry
                 ,
                 the
                 noblest
                 Gift
                 of
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 after
                 Death
                 does
                 a
                 more
                 lasting
                 Life
                 beget
                 .
              
               
                 Not
                 that
                 which
                 suddain
                 ,
                 frantick
                 Heats
                 produce
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Wine
                 and
                 Pride
                 ,
                 not
                 Heav'n
                 shall
                 raise
                 the
                 Muse.
              
               
                 Not
                 that
                 small
                 Stock
                 which
                 does
                 Translators
                 make
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 Trade
                 poor
                 Bankrupt-Poetasters
                 take
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 such
                 ,
                 when
                 God
                 his
                 Fiat
                 did
                 express
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 powerful
                 Numbers
                 wrought
                 an
                 Universe
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 such
                 great
                 David
                 tun'd
                 his
                 charming
                 Lyre
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 even
                 Saul
                 and
                 Madness
                 could
                 admire
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 such
                 Great
                 Oldham
                 bravely
                 did
                 excell
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 
                 David's
                 Lamentation
                 sung
                 so
                 well
                 .
              
               
               
                 Oldham
                 !
                 the
                 Man
                 that
                 could
                 with
                 Judgment
                 writt
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 
                 Oxford's
                 Glory
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 World's
                 Delight
                 .
              
               
                 Sometimes
                 in
                 boundless
                 keenest
                 Satyr
                 bold
                 ,
              
               
                 Sometimes
                 a
                 soft
                 as
                 those
                 Love-tales
                 he
                 told
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 Vice
                 could
                 praise
                 ,
                 and
                 Vertue
                 too
                 disgrace
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 first
                 Excess
                 of
                 Wit
                 that
                 e'er
                 did
                 please
                 .
              
               
                 Scarce
                 Cowley
                 such
                 Pindarique
                 soaring
                 knew
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 by
                 his
                 Reader
                 still
                 was
                 kept
                 in
                 view
                 .
              
               
                 His
                 Fancy
                 ,
                 like
                 
                 Jove's
                 Eagle
                 liv'd
                 above
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 bearing
                 Thunder
                 still
                 would
                 upward
                 move
                 .
              
               
                 Oh
                 Noble
                 Kingston
                 !
                 had
                 thy
                 lovely
                 Guest
              
               
                 With
                 a
                 large
                 stock
                 of
                 Youth
                 and
                 Life
                 been
                 Blest
                 ;
              
               
                 Not
                 all
                 thy
                 Greatness
                 ,
                 and
                 thy
                 Vertues
                 store
              
               
                 Had
                 surer
                 Comforts
                 been
                 ,
                 or
                 pleased
                 thee
                 more
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 Oh!
                 the
                 date
                 is
                 short
                 of
                 mighty
                 Worth
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Angels
                 never
                 tarry
                 long
                 on
                 Earth
                 .
              
               
                 His
                 soul
                 ,
                 the
                 bright
                 ,
                 the
                 pure
                 Etherial
                 Flame
              
               
                 To
                 those
                 lov'd
                 Regions
                 flew
                 ,
                 from
                 whence
                 it
                 came
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 spight
                 of
                 what
                 Mankind
                 had
                 long
                 believ'd
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Creed
                 says
                 only
                 Poets
                 can
                 be
                 sav'd
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 God
                 has
                 only
                 for
                 a
                 number
                 staid
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 stop
                 the
                 breach
                 ,
                 which
                 Rebel
                 Angels
                 made
              
               
                 For
                 none
                 their
                 absence
                 can
                 so
                 well
                 supply
                 ;
              
               
                 They
                 are
                 all
                 o're
                 Seraphick
                 Harmony
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 ,
                 and
                 not
                 that
                 till
                 then
                 the
                 World
                 shall
                 burn
              
               
                 And
                 its
                 base
                 Dross
                 ,
                 Mankind
                 their
                 fortune
                 mourn
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 all
                 to
                 their
                 old
                 nothing
                 quick
                 return
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 peevish
                 Gritick
                 then
                 shall
                 be
                 asham'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 his
                 Sins
                 of
                 Vanity
                 be
                 damn'd
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Oxon
                 ,
                 
                   May
                   the
                   26th
                   .
                   1684.
                   
                
              
               
                 T.
                 Wood.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
             
               CONTENTS
               .
            
             
               
                 COunterpart
                 to
                 the
                 Satyr
                 against
                 Vertue
                 ,
                 
                   Page
                   1
                
              
               
                 Virg.
                 
                   Eclogue
                   VIII
                
                 .
                 The
                 Enchantment
                 13
              
               
                 To
                 Madam
                 
                   L.
                   E.
                
                 upon
                 her
                 Recovery
                 from
                 a
                 fit
                 of
                 Sickness
                 22
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 Death
                 of
                 Mrs.
                 
                   Katharine
                   Kingscourt
                
                 ,
                 a
                 Child
                 of
                 excellent
                 Parts
                 and
                 Piety
                 31
              
               
                 A
                 Sunday-thought
                 in
                 Sickness
                 34
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 Memory
                 of
                 Mr.
                 
                   Charles
                   Morwent
                   49
                
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 Memory
                 of
                 that
                 worthy
                 Gentleman
                 Mr.
                 
                   Harman
                   Atwood
                   .
                   95
                
              
               
                 Character
                 of
                 a
                 certain
                 ugly
                 Old
                 P
                 —
                 111
              
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
             
               COUNTERPART
               TO
               THE
               SATYR
               against
               VERTUE
               .
            
             
               In
               Person
               of
               the
               Author
               .
            
             
               
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 PArdon
                 me
                 ,
                 Vertue
                 ,
                 whatsoe'er
                 thou
                 art
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 For
                 sure
                 thou
                 of
                 the
                 God-head
                 art
                 a
                 part
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 that
                 is
                 of
                 him
                 must
                 be
              
               
                 The
                 very
                 Deity
                 .
                 )
              
               
                 Pardon
                 ,
                 if
                 I
                 in
                 ought
                 did
                 thee
                 blaspheme
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 injure
                 thy
                 pure
                 Sacred
                 Name
                 :
              
               
                 Accept
                 unfeign'd
                 Repentance
                 ,
                 Prayers
                 and
                 Vows
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 best
                 Atonement
                 of
                 my
                 penitent
                 humble
                 Muse
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 best
                 that
                 Heav'n
                 requires
                 ,
                 or
                 Mankind
                 can
                 produce
                 .
              
               
               
                 All
                 my
                 Attempts
                 hereafter
                 shall
                 at
                 thy
                 Devotion
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Ready
                 to
                 consecrate
                 my
                 Ink
                 and
                 very
                 Blood
                 to
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 Forgive
                 me
                 ,
                 ye
                 blest
                 Souls
                 that
                 dwell
                 above
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 you
                 by
                 its
                 reward
                 the
                 worth
                 of
                 Vertue
                 prove
                 .
              
               
                 Forgive
                 (
                 if
                 you
                 can
                 do
                 't
                 )
                 who
                 know
                 no
                 Passion
                 now
                 but
                 Love.
              
               
                 And
                 you
                 unhappy
                 happy
                 few
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 strive
                 with
                 Life
                 ,
                 and
                 Humane
                 Miseries
                 below
                 ,
              
               
                 Forgive
                 me
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 I
                 in
                 ought
                 disparag'd
                 them
                 ,
                 or
                 else
                 discourag'd
                 you
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 Blest
                 Vertue
                 !
                 whose
                 Almighty
                 Power
              
               
                 Does
                 to
                 our
                 fallen
                 Race
                 restore
              
               
                 All
                 that
                 in
                 Paradise
                 we
                 lost
                 ,
                 and
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 Lifts
                 us
                 to
                 Heaven
                 ,
                 and
                 makes
                 us
                 be
              
               
                 The
                 Heirs
                 and
                 Image
                 of
                 the
                 Deity
                 .
              
               
                 Soft
                 gentle
                 Yoak
                 !
                 which
                 none
                 but
                 resty
                 Fools
                 refuse
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 before
                 Freedom
                 I
                 would
                 ever
                 chuse
                 .
              
               
                 Easie
                 are
                 all
                 the
                 Bonds
                 that
                 are
                 impos'd
                 by
                 thee
                 ;
              
               
                 Easie
                 as
                 those
                 of
                 Lovers
                 are
                 ,
              
               
               
                 (
                 If
                 I
                 with
                 ought
                 less
                 pure
                 may
                 thee
                 compare
                 )
              
               
                 Nor
                 do
                 they
                 force
                 ,
                 but
                 only
                 guide
                 our
                 Liberty
                 :
              
               
                 By
                 such
                 soft
                 Ties
                 are
                 Spirits
                 above
                 confin'd
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 gentle
                 is
                 the
                 Chain
                 which
                 them
                 to
                 Good
                 does
                 bind
                 .
              
               
                 Sure
                 Card
                 ,
                 whereby
                 this
                 frail
                 and
                 tott'ring
                 Bark
                 we
                 steer
              
               
                 Thro'
                 Life's
                 tempestuous
                 Ocean
                 here
                 ;
              
               
                 Thro'
                 all
                 the
                 tossing
                 Waves
                 of
                 Fear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 dangerous
                 Rocks
                 of
                 black
                 Despair
                 .
              
               
                 Safe
                 in
                 thy
                 Conduct
                 unconcern'd
                 we
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 Secure
                 from
                 all
                 the
                 threatning
                 Storms
                 that
                 blow
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 all
                 Attacks
                 of
                 Chance
                 below
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 reach
                 the
                 certain
                 Haven
                 of
                 Felicity
                 above
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 III.
                 
              
               
                 Best
                 Mistress
                 of
                 our
                 Souls
                 !
                 whose
                 Charms
                 and
                 Beauties
                 last
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 are
                 by
                 very
                 Age
                 encreast
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 which
                 all
                 other
                 Glories
                 are
                 defac'd
                 .
              
               
                 Thou'
                 rt
                 thy
                 own
                 Dowry
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 greater
                 far
              
               
               
                 Than
                 All
                 the
                 Race
                 of
                 Woman-kind
                 e'er
                 brought
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho'
                 each
                 of
                 them
                 like
                 the
                 first
                 Wife
                 were
                 fraught
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 half
                 the
                 Universe
                 did
                 for
                 her
                 Portion
                 share
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 tawdry
                 Sex
                 ,
                 which
                 giddy
                 senseless
                 we
              
               
                 Thro'
                 Ignorance
                 so
                 vainly
                 Deifie
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 all
                 but
                 glorious
                 Brutes
                 when
                 un-endow'd
                 with
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 Vice
                 alone
                 ,
                 the
                 truer
                 Jilt
                 ,
                 and
                 worse
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 whose
                 Enjoyment
                 tho'
                 we
                 find
              
               
                 A
                 flitting
                 Pleasure
                 ,
                 yet
                 it
                 leaves
                 behind
              
               
                 A
                 Pain
                 and
                 Torture
                 in
                 the
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 claps
                 the
                 wounded
                 Conscience
                 with
                 incurable
                 Remorse
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 else
                 betrays
                 us
                 to
                 the
                 great
                 Trepans
                 of
                 Humane
                 Kind
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 IV.
                 
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 Vice
                 ,
                 the
                 greater
                 Thraldom
                 ,
                 harder
                 Drudgery
                 ,
              
               
                 Whereby
                 deposing
                 Reason
                 from
                 its
                 gentle
                 Sway
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 That
                 rightful
                 Sovereign
                 which
                 we
                 should
                 obey
                 )
              
               
                 We
                 undergo
                 a
                 various
                 Tyranny
                 ,
              
               
               
                 And
                 to
                 un-number'd
                 servile
                 Passions
                 Homage
                 pay
                 .
              
               
                 These
                 with
                 AEgyptian
                 Rigor
                 us
                 enslave
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 govern
                 with
                 unlimited
                 Command
                 ;
              
               
                 They
                 make
                 us
                 endless
                 Toil
                 pursue
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 still
                 their
                 doubled
                 Tasks
                 renew
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 push
                 on
                 our
                 too
                 hasty
                 Fate
                 ,
                 and
                 build
                 our
                 Grave
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 which
                 is
                 worse
                 ,
                 to
                 keep
                 us
                 from
                 the
                 Promis'd
                 Land.
              
               
                 Nor
                 may
                 we
                 think
                 our
                 Freedom
                 to
                 retrieve
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 struggle
                 with
                 our
                 heavy
                 Yoak
                 in
                 vain
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 we
                 strive
                 to
                 break
                 that
                 Chain
                 ,
              
               
                 Unless
                 a
                 Miracle
                 relieve
                 ;
              
               
                 Unless
                 th'
                 Almighty
                 Wand
                 enlargement
                 give
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 never
                 must
                 expect
                 Delivery
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 Death
                 ,
                 the
                 universal
                 Writ
                 of
                 Ease
                 ,
                 does
                 set
                 us
                 free
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 V.
                 
              
               
                 Some
                 sordid
                 Avarice
                 in
                 Vassallage
                 confines
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 Roman
                 Slaves
                 condemn'd
                 to
                 th'
                 Mimes
                 ;
              
               
                 These
                 are
                 in
                 its
                 harsh
                 Bridewel
                 lash'd
                 and
                 punished
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 hard
                 Labour
                 scarce
                 can
                 earn
                 their
                 Bread.
              
               
                 Others
                 Ambition
                 ,
                 that
                 Imperious
                 Dame
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Exposes
                 cruelly
                 ,
                 like
                 Gladiators
                 ,
                 here
              
               
                 Upon
                 the
                 World's
                 Great
                 Theatre
                 .
              
               
                 Thro'
                 Dangers
                 and
                 thro'
                 Blood
                 they
                 wade
                 to
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 purchase
                 grinning
                 Honor
                 and
                 an
                 empty
                 Name
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 some
                 by
                 Tyrant-Lust
                 are
                 Captive
                 led
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 false
                 Hopes
                 of
                 Pleasure
                 fed
                 ;
              
               
                 'Till
                 tir'd
                 with
                 Slavery
                 to
                 their
                 own
                 Desires
                 ,
              
               
                 Life's
                 o'er-charg'd
                 Lamp
                 goes
                 out
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 a
                 Snuff
                 expires
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 VI.
                 
              
               
                 Consider
                 we
                 the
                 little
                 Arts
                 of
                 Vice
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Stratagems
                 and
                 Artifice
              
               
                 Whereby
                 she
                 does
                 attract
                 her
                 Votaries
                 :
              
               
                 All
                 those
                 Allurements
                 and
                 those
                 Charms
              
               
                 Which
                 pimp
                 Transgressors
                 to
                 her
                 Arms
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 but
                 foul
                 Paint
                 ,
                 and
                 counterfeit
                 Disguise
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 palliate
                 her
                 own
                 conceal'd
                 Deformities
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 false
                 empty
                 Joys
                 betray
                 us
                 to
                 true
                 solid
                 Harms
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 she
                 would
                 her
                 Dowry
                 boast
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 clog'd
                 with
                 Legacies
                 we
                 never
                 gain
                 ,
              
               
               
                 But
                 with
                 unvaluable
                 Cost
                 ;
              
               
                 Which
                 got
                 we
                 never
                 can
                 retain
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 must
                 the
                 greatest
                 part
                 be
                 lost
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 great
                 Bubbles
                 ,
                 Age
                 or
                 Chance
                 ,
                 again
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 vastly
                 over-balanc'd
                 by
                 the
                 Joynture
                 which
                 we
                 make
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 which
                 our
                 Lives
                 ,
                 our
                 Souls
                 ,
                 our
                 All
                 is
                 set
                 at
                 Stake
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 silly
                 Indians
                 ,
                 foolish
                 we
              
               
                 With
                 a
                 known
                 Cheat
                 ,
                 a
                 losing
                 Traffick
                 hold
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 led
                 by
                 an
                 ill-judging
                 Eye
                 ,
              
               
                 W'
                 admire
                 a
                 trifling
                 Pageantry
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 merchandize
                 our
                 Jewels
                 and
                 our
                 Gold
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 worthless
                 Glass
                 and
                 Beads
                 ,
                 or
                 an
                 
                 Exchange's
                 Frippery
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 we
                 a
                 while
                 maintain
                 th'
                 expensive
                 Trade
                 ,
              
               
                 Such
                 mighty
                 Impost
                 on
                 the
                 Cargo's
                 laid
                 ,
              
               
                 Such
                 a
                 vast
                 Custom
                 to
                 be
                 paid
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 're
                 forc'd
                 at
                 last
                 like
                 wretched
                 Bankrupts
                 to
                 give
                 out
                 ,
              
               
                 Clapt
                 up
                 by
                 Death
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 Eternal
                 Durance
                 shut
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 VII
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 art
                 thou
                 ,
                 Fame
                 ,
                 for
                 which
                 so
                 eagerly
                 we
                 strive
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 art
                 thou
                 but
                 an
                 empty
                 Shade
              
               
                 By
                 the
                 Reflection
                 of
                 our
                 Actions
                 made
                 ?
              
               
                 Thou
                 ,
                 unlike
                 others
                 ,
                 never
                 follow'st
                 us
                 alive
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 like
                 a
                 Ghost
                 ,
                 walk'st
                 only
                 after
                 we
                 are
                 dead
                 .
              
               
                 Posthumous
                 Toy
                 !
                 vain
                 aster-Legacy
                 !
              
               
                 Which
                 only
                 ours
                 can
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 we
                 our selves
                 no
                 more
                 are
                 we
                 !
              
               
                 Fickle
                 as
                 vain
                 !
                 who
                 dost
                 on
                 vulgar
                 Breath
                 depend
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 we
                 by
                 dear
                 Experience
                 find
              
               
                 More
                 changeable
                 ,
                 more
                 veering
                 than
                 th'
                 unconstant
                 Wind.
              
               
                 What
                 art
                 thou
                 ,
                 Gold
                 ,
                 that
                 cheat'st
                 the
                 Miser's
                 Eyes
                 ?
              
               
                 Which
                 he
                 does
                 so
                 devoutly
                 idolize
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 whom
                 he
                 all
                 his
                 Rest
                 and
                 Ease
                 does
                 sacrifice
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 Use
                 alone
                 can
                 all
                 thy
                 Value
                 give
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 he
                 from
                 that
                 no
                 Benefit
                 can
                 e'er
                 receive
                 .
              
               
                 Curst
                 Mineral
                 !
                 near
                 Neighb'ring
                 Hell
                 begot
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 all
                 th'
                 Infection
                 of
                 thy
                 damned
                 Neighbourhood
                 hast
                 brought
                 .
              
               
               
                 Thou
                 Bawd
                 to
                 Murthers
                 ,
                 Rapes
                 and
                 Treachery
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 every
                 greater
                 Name
                 of
                 Villany
                 ;
              
               
                 From
                 thee
                 they
                 all
                 derive
                 their
                 Stock
                 and
                 Pedigree
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 the
                 lewd
                 World
                 with
                 all
                 its
                 crying
                 Crimes
                 dost
                 store
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 hardly
                 wilt
                 allow
                 the
                 Devil
                 the
                 cause
                 of
                 more
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 what
                 is
                 Pleasure
                 which
                 does
                 most
                 beguile
                 ?
              
               
                 That
                 Syren
                 which
                 betrays
                 us
                 with
                 a
                 flattering
                 Smile
                 .
              
               
                 We
                 listen
                 to
                 the
                 treacherous
                 Harmony
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 sings
                 but
                 our
                 own
                 Obsequy
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Danger
                 unperceiv'd
                 till
                 Death
                 draw
                 nigh
                 ;
              
               
                 Till
                 drowning
                 we
                 want
                 Pow'r
                 to
                 'scape
                 the
                 fatal
                 Enemy
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 VIII
                 .
              
               
                 How
                 frantick
                 is
                 the
                 wanton
                 Epicure
                 !
              
               
                 Who
                 a
                 perpetual
                 Surfeit
                 will
                 endure
                 ?
              
               
                 Who
                 places
                 all
                 his
                 chiefest
                 Happiness
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 Extravagancies
                 of
                 Excess
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 wise
                 Sobriety
                 esteems
                 but
                 a
                 Disease
                 ?
              
               
                 O
                 mighty
                 envied
                 Happiness
                 to
                 eat
                 !
              
               
               
                 Which
                 fond
                 mistaken
                 Sots
                 call
                 Great
                 !
              
               
                 Poor
                 Frailty
                 of
                 our
                 Flesh
                 !
                 which
                 we
                 each
                 day
              
               
                 Must
                 thus
                 repair
                 for
                 fear
                 of
                 ruinous
                 Decay
                 !
              
               
                 Degrading
                 of
                 our
                 Nature
                 ,
                 where
                 vile
                 Brutes
                 are
                 fain
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 and
                 keep
                 up
                 Man
                 !
              
               
                 Which
                 ,
                 when
                 the
                 Paradise
                 above
                 we
                 gain
                 ,
              
               
                 Heav'n
                 thinks
                 too
                 great
                 an
                 Imperfection
                 to
                 retain
                 !
              
               
                 By
                 each
                 Disease
                 the
                 sickly
                 Joy's
                 destroy'd
                 ;
              
               
                 At
                 every
                 Meal
                 it
                 's
                 nauseous
                 and
                 cloy'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Empty
                 at
                 best
                 ,
                 as
                 when
                 in
                 Dream
                 enjoy'd
                 ;
              
               
                 When
                 ,
                 cheated
                 by
                 a
                 slumbering
                 Imposture
                 ,
                 we
              
               
                 Fancy
                 a
                 Feast
                 ,
                 and
                 great
                 Regalio's
                 by
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 think
                 we
                 taste
                 ,
                 and
                 think
                 we
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 riot
                 on
                 imaginary
                 Luxury
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 IX
                 .
              
               
                 Grant
                 me
                 ,
                 O
                 Vertue
                 ,
                 thy
                 more
                 solid
                 lasting
                 Joy
                 ;
              
               
                 Grant
                 me
                 the
                 better
                 Pleasures
                 of
                 the
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 Pleasures
                 ,
                 which
                 only
                 in
                 pursuit
                 of
                 thee
                 we
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 Fortune
                 cannot
                 marr
                 ,
                 nor
                 Chance
                 destroy
                 .
              
               
               
                 One
                 Moment
                 in
                 thy
                 blest
                 Enjoyment
                 is
              
               
                 Worth
                 an
                 Eternity
                 of
                 that
                 tumultuous
                 Bliss
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 we
                 derive
                 from
                 Sense
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 often
                 cloys
                 ,
                 and
                 must
                 resign
                 to
                 Impotence
                 .
              
               
                 Grant
                 me
                 but
                 this
                 ,
                 how
                 will
                 I
                 triumph
                 in
                 my
                 happy
                 State
                 ?
              
               
                 Above
                 the
                 Changes
                 and
                 Reverse
                 of
                 Fate
                 ;
              
               
                 Above
                 her
                 Favors
                 and
                 her
                 Hate
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 scorn
                 the
                 worthless
                 Treasures
                 of
                 Peru
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 those
                 of
                 t'
                 other
                 Indies
                 too
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 pity
                 
                 Caesar's
                 Self
                 with
                 all
                 his
                 Trophies
                 and
                 his
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 vile
                 brutish
                 Herd
                 of
                 Epicures
                 contemn
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 Under-shrievalties
                 of
                 Life
                 not
                 worth
                 a
                 Name
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 will
                 I
                 only
                 owe
                 my
                 Bliss
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 others
                 ,
                 to
                 a
                 Multitude
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Company
                 keeps
                 up
                 a
                 forced
                 Happiness
                 ;
              
               
                 Should
                 all
                 Mankind
                 surcease
                 to
                 live
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 none
                 but
                 individual
                 I
                 survive
                 ,
              
               
                 Alone
                 I
                 would
                 be
                 happy
                 ,
                 and
                 enjoy
                 my
                 Solitude
                 .
              
               
               
                 Thus
                 shall
                 my
                 Life
                 in
                 pleasant
                 Minutes
                 wear
                 ,
              
               
                 Calm
                 as
                 the
                 Minutes
                 of
                 the
                 Evening
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 gentle
                 as
                 the
                 motions
                 of
                 the
                 upper
                 Air
                 ;
              
               
                 Soft
                 as
                 my
                 Muse
                 ,
                 and
                 unconfin'd
                 as
                 she
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 flowing
                 in
                 the
                 Numbers
                 of
                 Pindarique
                 Liberty
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 I
                 see
                 pale
                 gastly
                 Death
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 grand
                 inevitable
                 Test
                 which
                 all
                 must
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 best
                 distinguishes
                 the
                 blest
                 and
                 wretched
                 here
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 smile
                 at
                 all
                 it
                 Horrors
                 ,
                 court
                 my
                 welcome
                 Destiny
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 yield
                 my
                 willing
                 Soul
                 up
                 in
                 an
                 eafie
                 Sigh
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Epicures
                 that
                 see
                 shall
                 envy
                 and
                 confess
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 I
                 ,
                 and
                 those
                 who
                 dare
                 like
                 me
                 be
                 good
                 ,
                 the
                 chiefest
                 Good
                 possess
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Virg.
               
                 ECLOGUE
                 VIII
              
               .
               The
               Enchantment
               .
            
             
               
                 Poet
                 ,
              
               
                 Damon
                 ,
              
               
                 Alpheus
                 ,
              
               
                 Speakers
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 DAmon
                 and
                 Alpheus
                 ,
              
               
                 the
                 two
                 Shepherds
                 Strains
              
               
                 I
                 mean
                 to
                 tell
                 ,
                 and
                 how
                 they
                 charm'd
                 the
                 Plains
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 tell
                 their
                 charming
                 Numbers
                 which
                 the
                 Herd
                 ,
              
               
                 Unmindful
                 of
                 their
                 Grass
                 ,
                 in
                 Throngs
                 admir'd
                 .
              
               
                 At
                 which
                 fierce
                 Savages
                 astonish'd
                 stood
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 every
                 River
                 stopt
                 its
                 list'ning
                 Flood
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 you
                 ,
                 Great
                 Sir
                 ,
                 whether
                 with
                 Cannons
                 Roar
              
               
                 You
                 spread
                 your
                 Terror
                 to
                 the
                 Holland
                 Shore
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 with
                 a
                 gentle
                 and
                 a
                 steady
                 Hand
              
               
                 In
                 Peace
                 and
                 Plenty
                 rule
                 your
                 Native
                 Land.
              
               
                 Shall
                 ever
                 that
                 auspicious
                 Day
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 I
                 your
                 glorious
                 Actions
                 shall
                 declare
                 ?
              
               
               
                 It
                 shall
                 ,
                 and
                 I
                 throughout
                 the
                 World
                 rehearse
              
               
                 Their
                 Fame
                 ,
                 fit
                 only
                 for
                 a
                 
                 Spencer's
                 Verse
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 you
                 my
                 Muse
                 began
                 ,
                 with
                 you
                 shall
                 end
                 :
              
               
                 Accept
                 my
                 Verse
                 that
                 waits
                 on
                 your
                 Command
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 deign
                 this
                 Ivy
                 Wreath
                 a
                 place
                 may
                 find
              
               
                 Amongst
                 the
                 Laurels
                 which
                 your
                 Temples
                 bind
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 at
                 the
                 time
                 that
                 Night
                 's
                 cool
                 shades
                 withdrew
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 left
                 the
                 Grass
                 all
                 hung
                 with
                 Pearly
                 Dew
                 ;
              
               
                 When
                 Damon
                 ,
                 leaning
                 on
                 his
                 Oaken
                 Wand
                 ,
              
               
                 Thus
                 to
                 his
                 Pipe
                 in
                 gentle
                 Lays
                 complain'd
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 D.
                 
              
               
                 Arise
                 ,
                 thou
                 Morning
                 ,
                 and
                 drive
                 on
                 the
                 Day
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 wretched
                 I
                 with
                 fruitless
                 words
                 inveigh
              
               
                 Against
                 false
                 Nisa
                 ,
                 while
                 the
                 Gods
                 I
                 call
              
               
                 With
                 my
                 last
                 Breath
                 ,
                 tho'
                 hopeless
                 to
                 avail
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho'
                 they
                 regard
                 not
                 my
                 Complaints
                 at
                 all
                 .
              
               
                 Strike
                 up
                 my
                 Pipe
                 ,
                 play
                 me
                 in
                 tuneful
                 Strains
              
               
                 What
                 I
                 heard
                 sung
                 on
                 the
                 Maenalian
                 Plains
                 .
              
               
                 Maenalus
                 ever
                 has
                 its
                 warbling
                 Groves
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 talking
                 Pines
                 ,
                 it
                 ever
                 hears
                 the
                 Loves
              
               
               
                 Of
                 Shepherds
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Notes
                 of
                 Mighty
                 Pan
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 first
                 that
                 would
                 not
                 let
                 the
                 Reeds
                 untun'd
                 remain
                 .
              
               
                 Strike
                 up
                 my
                 Pipe
                 ,
                 play
                 me
                 in
                 tuneful
                 Strains
              
               
                 What
                 I
                 heard
                 sung
                 on
                 the
                 Maenalian
                 Plains
                 .
              
               
                 Mopsus
                 weds
                 Nisa
                 ,
                 Gods
                 !
                 what
                 Lover
                 e'er
              
               
                 Need
                 after
                 this
                 have
                 reason
                 to
                 despair
                 ?
              
               
                 Griffins
                 shall
                 now
                 leap
                 Mares
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 next
                 Age
              
               
                 The
                 Deer
                 and
                 Hounds
                 in
                 Friendship
                 shall
                 engage
                 .
              
               
                 Go
                 ,
                 Mopsus
                 ,
                 get
                 the
                 Torches
                 ready
                 soon
                 ;
              
               
                 Thou
                 ,
                 happy
                 Man
                 ,
                 must
                 have
                 the
                 Bride
                 anon
                 .
              
               
                 Go
                 ,
                 Bridegroom
                 ,
                 quickly
                 ,
                 the
                 Nut-scramble
                 make
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Evening-star
                 quits
                 Oeta
                 for
                 thy
                 sake
                 .
              
               
                 Strike
                 up
                 my
                 Pipe
                 ,
                 play
                 me
                 in
                 tuneful
                 Strains
              
               
                 What
                 I
                 heard
                 sung
                 on
                 the
                 Maenalian
                 Plains
                 .
              
               
                 How
                 fitly
                 art
                 thou
                 match'd
                 who
                 wast
                 so
                 nice
                 !
              
               
                 Thou
                 haughty
                 Nymph
                 who
                 did'st
                 all
                 else
                 despise
                 !
              
               
                 Who
                 slight'st
                 so
                 scornfully
                 my
                 Pipe
                 ,
                 my
                 Herd
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 rough-grown
                 Eye-brows
                 ,
                 and
                 unshaven
                 Beard
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 think'st
                 no
                 God
                 does
                 mortal
                 things
                 regard
                 .
              
               
                 Strike
                 up
                 my
                 Pipe
                 ,
                 play
                 me
                 in
                 tuneful
                 Strains
              
               
                 What
                 I
                 heard
                 sung
                 on
                 the
                 Maenalian
                 Plains
                 .
              
               
               
                 I
                 saw
                 thee
                 young
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 thy
                 Beauty
                 's
                 Bloom
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 gather
                 Apples
                 with
                 thy
                 Mother
                 ,
                 come
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 in
                 our
                 Hedge-rows
                 ,
                 I
                 was
                 there
                 with
                 Pride
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 shew
                 you
                 to
                 the
                 best
                 ,
                 and
                 be
                 your
                 Guide
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 I
                 just
                 entring
                 my
                 twelfth
                 Year
                 was
                 found
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 then
                 could
                 reach
                 the
                 tender
                 Boughs
                 from
                 Ground
                 .
              
               
                 Heav'ns
                 !
                 when
                 I
                 saw
                 ,
                 how
                 soon
                 was
                 I
                 undone
                 !
              
               
                 How
                 to
                 my
                 Heart
                 did
                 the
                 quick
                 Poyson
                 run
                 !
              
               
                 Strike
                 up
                 my
                 Pipe
                 ,
                 play
                 me
                 in
                 tuneful
                 Strains
              
               
                 What
                 I
                 heard
                 sung
                 on
                 the
                 Maenalian
                 Plains
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 I
                 'm
                 convinc'd
                 what
                 Love
                 is
                 ;
                 the
                 cold
                 North
              
               
                 Sure
                 in
                 its
                 craggy
                 Mountains
                 brought
                 him
                 forth
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 
                 Africk's
                 wildest
                 Desarts
                 gave
                 him
                 Birth
                 ,
              
               
                 Amongst
                 the
                 Cannibals
                 and
                 Savage
                 Race
                 ;
              
               
                 He
                 never
                 of
                 our
                 Kind
                 ,
                 or
                 Countrey
                 was
                 .
              
               
                 Strike
                 up
                 my
                 Pipe
                 ,
                 play
                 me
                 in
                 tuneful
                 Strains
              
               
                 What
                 I
                 heard
                 sung
                 on
                 the
                 Maenalian
                 Plains
                 .
              
               
                 Dire
                 Love
                 did
                 once
                 a
                 Mother's
                 Hand
                 embrue
              
               
                 In
                 Childrens
                 Blood
                 ;
                 a
                 cruel
                 Mother
                 ,
                 thou
                 ;
              
               
                 Hard
                 't
                 is
                 to
                 say
                 of
                 both
                 which
                 is
                 the
                 worst
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 cruel
                 Mother
                 ,
                 or
                 the
                 Boy
                 accurst
                 .
              
               
               
                 He
                 a
                 curst
                 Boy
                 ,
                 a
                 cruel
                 Mother
                 thou
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Devil
                 a
                 whit
                 to
                 chuse
                 betwixt
                 the
                 two
                 .
              
               
                 Strike
                 up
                 my
                 Pipe
                 ,
                 play
                 me
                 in
                 tuneful
                 Strains
              
               
                 What
                 I
                 heard
                 sung
                 on
                 the
                 Maenalian
                 Plains
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 Wolves
                 by
                 Nature
                 shun
                 the
                 Sheep-folds
                 now
                 :
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 rough
                 Oaks
                 let
                 Oranges
                 now
                 grow
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 the
                 coarse
                 Alders
                 bear
                 the
                 Daffadill
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 costly
                 Amber
                 from
                 the
                 Thorn
                 distill
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 Owls
                 match
                 Swans
                 ,
                 let
                 
                   Tyt'rus
                   Orpheus
                
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 Woods
                 Orpheus
                 ,
                 and
                 Arion
                 on
                 the
                 Sea.
              
               
                 Strike
                 up
                 my
                 Pipe
                 ,
                 play
                 me
                 in
                 tuneful
                 Strains
              
               
                 What
                 I
                 heard
                 sung
                 on
                 the
                 Maenalian
                 Plains
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 all
                 the
                 World
                 turn
                 Sea
                 ,
                 ye
                 Woods
                 adieu
                 !
              
               
                 To
                 some
                 high
                 Mountain's
                 top
                 I
                 'll
                 get
                 me
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thence
                 my self
                 into
                 the
                 Waters
                 throw
                 .
              
               
                 There
                 quench
                 my
                 Flames
                 ,
                 and
                 let
                 the
                 cruel
                 She
              
               
                 Accept
                 this
                 my
                 last
                 dying
                 Will
                 and
                 Legacy
                 .
              
               
                 Cease
                 now
                 my
                 Pipe
                 ,
                 cease
                 now
                 those
                 warbling
                 Strains
              
               
                 Which
                 I
                 heard
                 sung
                 on
                 the
                 Maenalian
                 Plains
                 .
              
               
               
                 This
                 
                 Damon's
                 Song
                 ;
                 relate
                 ye
                 Muses
                 now
              
               
                 Alpheus
                 Reply
                 :
                 All
                 cannot
                 all
                 things
                 do
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 A.
                 
              
               
                 Bring
                 Holy
                 Water
                 ,
                 sprinkle
                 all
                 around
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 see
                 these
                 Altars
                 with
                 soft
                 Fillets
                 bound
                 :
              
               
                 Male-Frankincense
                 ,
                 and
                 juicy
                 Vervain
                 burn
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 try
                 if
                 I
                 by
                 Magick
                 Force
                 can
                 turn
                 here
                 .
              
               
                 My
                 stubborn
                 Love
                 :
                 I
                 'll
                 try
                 if
                 I
                 can
                 fire
              
               
                 His
                 frozen
                 Breast
                 :
                 Nothing
                 but
                 Charms
                 are
                 wanting
              
               
                 Bring
                 Daphnis
                 
                   from
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                   ye
                   Magick
                   Charms
                
                 ;
              
               
                 
                   Bring
                   home
                   lov'd
                
                 Daphnis
                 
                   to
                   my
                   longing
                   Arms.
                
              
               
                 Charms
                 in
                 her
                 wonted
                 Course
                 can
                 stop
                 the
                 Moon
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 her
                 well-fix'd
                 Orb
                 can
                 call
                 her
                 down
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 Charms
                 the
                 mighty
                 Circe
                 (
                 we
                 are
                 told
                 )
              
               
                 Ulysses
                 fam'd
                 Companions
                 chang'd
                 of
                 old
                 .
              
               
                 Snakes
                 by
                 the
                 Vertue
                 of
                 Enchantment
                 forc'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Oft
                 in
                 the
                 Meads
                 with
                 their
                 own
                 Poyson
                 burst
                 .
              
               
                 Bring
                 Daphnis
                 
                   from
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                   ye
                   Magick
                   Charms
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Bring
                   home
                   lov'd
                
                 Daphnis
                 
                   to
                   my
                   longing
                   Arms.
                
              
               
                 First
                 ,
                 these
                 three
                 several
                 Threads
                 I
                 compass
                 round
              
               
                 Thy
                 Image
                 ,
                 thus
                 in
                 Magick
                 Fetters
                 bound
                 :
              
               
               
                 Then
                 round
                 these
                 Altars
                 thrice
                 thy
                 Image
                 bear
                 :
              
               
                 Odd
                 Numbers
                 to
                 the
                 Gods
                 delightful
                 are
                 .
              
               
                 Bring
                 Daphnis
                 
                   from
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                   ye
                   Magick
                   Charms
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Bring
                   home
                   lov'd
                
                 Daphnis
                 
                   to
                   my
                   longing
                   Arms.
                
              
               
                 Go
                 tie
                 me
                 in
                 three
                 knots
                 three
                 Ribands
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 let
                 the
                 Ribands
                 be
                 of
                 diffrent
                 Hue
                 :
              
               
                 Go
                 ,
                 Amaryllis
                 ,
                 tie
                 them
                 strait
                 ,
                 and
                 cry
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 the
                 same
                 time
                 ,
                 "
                 They
                 're
                 true-love-knots
                 ,
                 I
                 tie
                 .
              
               
                 Bring
                 Daphnis
                 
                   from
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                   ye
                   Magick
                   Charms
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Bring
                   home
                   lov'd
                
                 Daphnis
                 
                   to
                   my
                   longing
                   Arms.
                
              
               
                 Look
                 how
                 this
                 Clay
                 grows
                 harder
                 ,
                 and
                 look
                 how
              
               
                 With
                 the
                 same
                 Fire
                 this
                 Wax
                 doth
                 softer
                 grow
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 Daphnis
                 ,
                 let
                 him
                 with
                 my
                 Love
                 do
                 so
                 .
              
               
                 Strow
                 Meal
                 and
                 Salt
                 (
                 for
                 so
                 these
                 Rites
                 require
                 )
              
               
                 And
                 set
                 the
                 crackling
                 Laurel
                 Boughs
                 on
                 fire
                 :
              
               
                 This
                 naughty
                 Daphnis
                 sets
                 my
                 Brest
                 on
                 flame
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 I
                 this
                 Laurel
                 burn
                 in
                 
                 Daphnis's
                 Name
                 .
              
               
                 Bring
                 Daphnis
                 
                   from
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                   ye
                   Magick
                   Charms
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Bring
                   home
                   lov'd
                
                 Daphnis
                 
                   to
                   my
                   longing
                   Atms.
                
              
               
               
                 As
                 a
                 poor
                 Heifer
                 ,
                 wearied
                 in
                 the
                 Chase
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 seeking
                 her
                 lov'd
                 Steer
                 from
                 place
                 to
                 place
                 .
              
               
                 Through
                 Woods
                 ,
                 through
                 Groves
                 ,
                 through
                 Arable
                 ,
                 and
                 Wast
                 ,
              
               
                 On
                 some
                 green
                 River's
                 bank
                 lies
                 down
                 at
                 last
                 .
              
               
                 There
                 Lows
                 her
                 Moan
                 ,
                 despairing
                 ,
                 and
                 forlorn
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 tho'
                 belated
                 ,
                 minds
                 not
                 to
                 return
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 
                 Daphnis's
                 Case
                 be
                 such
                 ,
                 and
                 let
                 not
                 me
              
               
                 Take
                 any
                 care
                 to
                 give
                 a
                 Remedy
                 .
              
               
                 Bring
                 Daphnis
                 
                   from
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                   ye
                   magick
                   Charms
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Bring
                   home
                   lov'd
                
                 Daphnis
                 
                   to
                   my
                   longing
                   Arms.
                
              
               
                 These
                 Garments
                 erst
                 the
                 faithless
                 Traitour
                 left
                 ,
              
               
                 Dear
                 Pledges
                 of
                 his
                 Love
                 ,
                 of
                 which
                 I
                 'me
                 reft
                 :
              
               
                 Beneath
                 the
                 Threshold
                 these
                 I
                 bury
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 thee
                 ,
                 O
                 Earth
                 ;
                 these
                 Pledges
                 Daphnis
                 owe.
              
               
                 Bring
                 Daphnis
                 
                   from
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                   ye
                   Magick
                   Charms
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Bring
                   home
                   lov'd
                
                 Daphnis
                 
                   to
                   my
                   longing
                   Arms.
                
              
               
                 Of
                 Maeris
                 I
                 these
                 Herbs
                 and
                 Poysons
                 had
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 Pontus
                 brought
                 :
                 in
                 Pontus
                 store
                 are
                 bred
                 :
              
               
               
                 With
                 these
                 I
                 've
                 oft
                 seen
                 Maeris
                 Wonders
                 do
                 ,
              
               
                 Turn
                 himself
                 Wolf
                 ,
                 and
                 to
                 the
                 Forest
                 go
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 've
                 often
                 seen
                 him
                 Fields
                 of
                 Corn
                 displace
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 whence
                 they
                 grew
                 ,
                 and
                 Ghosts
                 in
                 Church-yards
                 raise
                 .
              
               
                 Bring
                 Daphnis
                 
                   from
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                   ye
                   Magick
                   Charms
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Bring
                   home
                   lov'd
                
                 Daphnis
                 
                   to
                   my
                   longing
                   Arms.
                
              
               
                 Go
                 ,
                 Maid
                 ,
                 go
                 ,
                 bear
                 the
                 Ashes
                 out
                 at
                 door
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 then
                 forthwith
                 into
                 the
                 neighb'ring
                 current
                 pour
                 ,
              
               
                 Over
                 thy
                 Head
                 ,
                 and
                 don
                 't
                 look
                 back
                 be
                 sure
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 try
                 ,
                 what
                 these
                 on
                 Daphnis
                 will
                 prevail
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Gods
                 he
                 minds
                 not
                 ,
                 nor
                 my
                 Charms
                 at
                 all
                 .
              
               
                 Bring
                 Daphnis
                 
                   from
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                   ye
                   Magick
                   Charms
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Bring
                   home
                   lov'd
                
                 Daphnis
                 
                   to
                   my
                   longing
                   Arms.
                
              
               
                 Behold
                 !
                 the
                 Ashes
                 while
                 we
                 lingring
                 stay
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 we
                 neglect
                 to
                 carry
                 them
                 away
                 ,
              
               
                 Have
                 reach'd
                 the
                 Altar
                 ,
                 and
                 have
                 fir'd
                 the
                 Wood
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 lyes
                 upon
                 't
                 :
                 Heav'n
                 send
                 it
                 be
                 for
                 good
                 !
              
               
                 Something
                 I
                 know
                 not
                 what
                 's
                 the
                 matter
                 :
                 Hark!
              
               
                 I
                 hear
                 our
                 Lightfoot
                 in
                 the
                 Entry
                 bark
                 .
              
               
               
                 Shall
                 I
                 believe
                 ,
                 or
                 is
                 it
                 only
                 Dream
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 Lovers
                 fancies
                 are
                 too
                 apt
                 to
                 frame
                 ?
              
               
                 
                   Cease
                   now
                   ye
                   Magick
                   Charms
                   ,
                   behold
                   him
                   come
                   !
                
              
               
                 
                   Cease
                   needless
                   Charms
                   ,
                   my
                
                 Daphnis
                 
                   is
                   at
                   home
                
                 !
              
            
          
           
             
               To
               Madam
               
                 L.
                 E.
              
               upon
               her
               Recovery
               from
               a
               late
               Sickness
               .
            
             
               
                 Madam
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 PArdon
                 ,
                 that
                 with
                 slow
                 Gladness
                 we
                 so
                 late
              
               
                 Your
                 wish'd
                 return
                 of
                 Health
                 congratulate
                 :
              
               
                 Our
                 Joys
                 at
                 first
                 so
                 throng'd
                 to
                 get
                 abroad
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 hinder'd
                 one
                 another
                 in
                 the
                 crowd
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 such
                 haste
                 to
                 tell
                 their
                 Message
                 make
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 only
                 stammer
                 what
                 they
                 meant
                 to
                 speak
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 You
                 the
                 fair
                 Subject
                 which
                 I
                 am
                 to
                 sing
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 whose
                 kind
                 Hands
                 this
                 humble
                 joy
                 I
                 bring
                 :
              
               
                 Aid
                 me
                 ,
                 I
                 beg
                 ,
                 while
                 I
                 this
                 Theme
                 pursue
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 I
                 invoke
                 no
                 other
                 Muse
                 but
                 you
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Long
                 time
                 had
                 you
                 here
                 brightly
                 shone
                 below
              
               
                 With
                 all
                 the
                 Rays
                 kind
                 Heaven
                 could
                 bestow
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 envious
                 Cloud
                 e're
                 offer'd
                 to
                 invade
              
               
                 Your
                 Lustre
                 ,
                 or
                 compel
                 it
                 to
                 a
                 Shade
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 did
                 it
                 yet
                 by
                 any
                 Sign
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 that
                 you
                 thoroughout
                 Immortal
                 were
                 .
              
               
                 Till
                 Heaven
                 (
                 if
                 Heaven
                 could
                 prove
                 so
                 cruel
                 )
                 sent
              
               
                 To
                 interrupt
                 the
                 Growth
                 of
                 your
                 content
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 it
                 grudg'd
                 those
                 Gifts
                 you
                 did
                 enjoy
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 would
                 that
                 Bounty
                 which
                 it
                 gave
                 ,
                 destroy
                 :
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 since
                 your
                 Excellence
                 did
                 envy
                 move
              
               
                 In
                 those
                 high
                 Powers
                 and
                 made
                 them
                 jealous
                 prove
                 .
              
               
                 They
                 thought
                 these
                 Glories
                 should
                 they
                 still
                 have
              
               
                 shin'd
              
               
                 Unsullied
                 ,
                 were
                 too
                 much
                 for
                 Woman-kind
                 .
              
               
                 Which
                 might
                 they
                 write
                 as
                 lasting
                 ,
                 as
                 they
                 're
                 Fair
                 ,
              
               
                 Too
                 great
                 for
                 ought
                 ,
                 but
                 Deities
                 appear
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 Heaven
                 (
                 it
                 may
                 be
                 )
                 was
                 not
                 yet
                 compleat
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 lackt
                 you
                 there
                 to
                 fill
                 your
                 empty
                 Seat.
              
               
               
                 And
                 when
                 it
                 could
                 not
                 fairly
                 woo
                 you
                 hence
                 ,
              
               
                 Turn'd
                 Ravisher
                 ,
                 and
                 offer'd
                 Violence
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sickness
                 did
                 first
                 a
                 formal
                 siege
                 begin
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 sure
                 slowness
                 tryed
                 your
                 Life
                 to
                 win
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 by
                 lingring
                 methods
                 Heaven
                 meant
              
               
                 To
                 chase
                 you
                 hence
                 and
                 tire
                 you
                 to
                 consent
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 this
                 in
                 vain
                 ,
                 Fate
                 did
                 to
                 force
                 resort
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 next
                 by
                 Storm
                 shove
                 to
                 attack
                 the
                 fort
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Sleep
                 ,
                 dull
                 as
                 your
                 last
                 ,
                 did
                 you
                 Arrest
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 there
                 Magazines
                 of
                 life
                 possest
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 more
                 the
                 Blood
                 its
                 circling
                 course
                 did
                 run
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 in
                 the
                 veins
                 ,
                 like
                 Isicles
                 ,
                 it
                 hung
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 more
                 the
                 Heart
                 (
                 now
                 void
                 of
                 quickning
                 heat
                 )
              
               
                 The
                 tuneful
                 March
                 of
                 vital
                 Motion
                 beat
                 .
              
               
                 Stiffness
                 did
                 into
                 all
                 the
                 Sinews
                 climb
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 a
                 short
                 Death
                 crept
                 cold
                 through
                 every
                 Limb.
              
               
                 All
                 Signs
                 of
                 Life
                 from
                 sight
                 so
                 far
                 withdrew
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 now
                 thought
                 Popery
                 to
                 pray
                 for
                 you
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 There
                 might
                 you
                 (
                 were
                 not
                 that
                 sense
                 lost
                 )
                 have
                 seen
              
               
                 How
                 your
                 true
                 Death
                 would
                 have
                 resented
                 been
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 Lethargy
                 ,
                 like
                 yours
                 ,
                 each
                 breast
                 did
                 seize
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 by
                 Sympathy
                 catcht
                 your
                 Disease
                 .
              
               
                 Around
                 you
                 silent
                 Imagery
                 appears
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 nought
                 in
                 the
                 Spectators
                 moves
                 ,
                 but
                 Tears
                 .
              
               
                 They
                 pay
                 what
                 grief
                 were
                 to
                 your
                 Funeral
                 due
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 dare
                 hope
                 Heaven
                 would
                 your
                 Life
                 renew
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Mean
                 while
                 ,
                 all
                 means
                 ,
                 all
                 drugs
                 prescribed
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 the
                 decays
                 of
                 Health
                 ,
                 or
                 Strength
                 repair
                 ,
              
               
                 Medicines
                 so
                 powerful
                 they
                 new
                 Souls
                 would
                 save
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Life
                 in
                 long-dead
                 Carcasses
                 retrieve
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 these
                 in
                 vain
                 ,
                 they
                 rougher
                 Methods
                 try
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 your'e
                 Martyr'd
                 that
                 you
                 may
                 not
                 die
                 ;
              
               
                 Sad
                 Scene
                 of
                 Fate
                 !
                 when
                 Tortures
                 were
                 your
                 gain
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 t
                 was
                 a
                 kindness
                 thought
                 to
                 wish
                 you
                 pain
                 !
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 the
                 slackned
                 string
                 of
                 Life
                 run
                 down
                 ,
              
               
                 Could
                 only
                 by
                 the
                 Rack
                 be
                 screwed
                 in
                 tune
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 Heav'n
                 at
                 last
                 (
                 grown
                 conscious
                 that
                 its
                 pow'r
              
               
                 Could
                 scarce
                 what
                 was
                 to
                 die
                 with
                 you
                 restore
                 .
                 )
              
               
               
                 And
                 loth
                 to
                 see
                 such
                 Glories
                 over-come
                 ,
              
               
                 Sent
                 a
                 post
                 Angel
                 to
                 repeal
                 your
                 doom
                 ;
              
               
                 Strait
                 Fate
                 obey'd
                 the
                 Charge
                 which
                 Heaven
                 sent
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 gave
                 this
                 first
                 dear
                 Proof
                 ,
                 it
                 could
                 Repent
                 :
              
               
                 Triumphant
                 Charms
                 !
                 what
                 may
                 not
                 you
                 subdue
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 Fate
                 's
                 your
                 Slave
                 ,
                 and
                 thus
                 submits
                 to
                 you
                 !
              
               
                 It
                 now
                 again
                 the
                 new-broke
                 Thread
                 does
                 knit
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 another
                 Clew
                 her
                 spindle
                 fit
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 life
                 's
                 hid
                 spark
                 which
                 did
                 unquencht
                 remain
                 ,
              
               
                 Caught
                 the
                 fled
                 light
                 and
                 brought
                 it
                 back
                 again
                 :
              
               
                 Thus
                 you
                 reviv'd
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 our
                 Joy
                 with
                 you
                 ,
              
               
                 Reviv'd
                 and
                 found
                 their
                 Resurrection
                 too
                 :
              
               
                 Some
                 only
                 griev'd
                 ,
                 that
                 what
                 was
                 Deathless
                 thought
              
               
                 They
                 saw
                 so
                 near
                 to
                 Fatal
                 ruin
                 brought
                 :
              
               
                 Now
                 crowds
                 of
                 Blessings
                 on
                 that
                 happy
                 hand
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 ,
                 kill
                 could
                 cager
                 Destiny
                 withstand
                 ;
              
               
                 Whose
                 learned
                 Pow'r
                 has
                 rescu'd
                 from
                 the
                 Grave
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Life
                 which
                 't
                 was
                 a
                 Miracle
                 to
                 save
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 Life
                 which
                 were
                 it
                 thus
                 untimely
                 lost
                 ,
              
               
                 Had
                 been
                 the
                 ●…est
                 Spoil
                 Death
                 ere
                 could
                 boast
                 :
              
               
               
                 May
                 he
                 henceforth
                 be
                 God
                 of
                 healing
                 thought
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 whom
                 such
                 good
                 to
                 you
                 and
                 us
                 was
                 brought
                 :
              
               
                 Altars
                 and
                 shrines
                 to
                 him
                 are
                 justly
                 due
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 shew'd
                 himself
                 a
                 God
                 by
                 raising
                 you
                 :
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 say
                 ,
                 fair
                 Saint
                 ,
                 for
                 you
                 alone
                 can
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 Whither
                 your
                 Soul
                 in
                 this
                 short
                 flight
                 did
                 go
                 ;
              
               
                 Went
                 it
                 to
                 antedate
                 that
                 Happiness
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 must
                 at
                 last
                 (
                 though
                 late
                 we
                 hope
                 )
                 possess
                 ?
              
               
                 Inform
                 us
                 lest
                 we
                 should
                 your
                 Fate
                 belye
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 call
                 that
                 Death
                 which
                 was
                 but
                 Extasie
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Queen
                 of
                 Love
                 (
                 we
                 're
                 told
                 )
                 once
                 let
                 us
                 see
                 :
              
               
                 That
                 Goddesses
                 from
                 wounds
                 could
                 not
                 be
                 free
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 you
                 by
                 this
                 unwish'd
                 Occasion
                 show
              
               
                 That
                 they
                 like
                 Mortal
                 us
                 can
                 Sickness
                 know
                 :
              
               
                 Pitty
                 !
                 that
                 Heav'n
                 should
                 all
                 its
                 Titles
                 give
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 not
                 let
                 you
                 with
                 them
                 ever
                 live
                 .
              
               
                 You
                 'd
                 lack
                 no
                 point
                 that
                 makes
                 a
                 Deity
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 you
                 could
                 like
                 it
                 too
                 Immortal
                 be
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 And
                 so
                 you
                 are
                 ;
                 half
                 boasts
                 a
                 Deathless
                 State
                 ;
              
               
                 Although
                 your
                 frailer
                 part
                 must
                 yield
                 to
                 Fate
                 .
              
               
               
                 By
                 every
                 breach
                 in
                 that
                 fair
                 lodging
                 made
                 ,
              
               
                 Its
                 blest
                 Inhabitant
                 is
                 more
                 displaid
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 that
                 white
                 Snow
                 which
                 overspreads
                 your
                 skin
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 trace
                 ye
                 whiter
                 Soul
                 which
                 dwells
                 within
                 ;
              
               
                 Which
                 while
                 you
                 through
                 this
                 shining
                 Hue
                 display
              
               
                 Looks
                 like
                 a
                 Star
                 plac'd
                 in
                 the
                 Milky
                 way
                 :
              
               
                 Such
                 the
                 bright
                 Bodies
                 of
                 the
                 Blessed
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 they
                 for
                 Raiment
                 cloath'd
                 with
                 Light
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 should
                 you
                 visit
                 now
                 the
                 Seats
                 of
                 Bliss
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 need
                 not
                 wear
                 another
                 form
                 but
                 this
                 .
              
               
                 Never
                 did
                 Sickness
                 in
                 such
                 pomp
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 when
                 it
                 thus
                 your
                 Livery
                 did
                 wear
                 ,
              
               
                 Disease
                 it self
                 look'd
                 amiable
                 here
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 Clouds
                 which
                 would
                 obscure
                 the
                 Sun
                 oft
                 gilded
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Shades
                 are
                 taught
                 to
                 shine
                 as
                 bright
                 as
                 he
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Grieve
                 not
                 fair
                 Nymph
                 ,
                 when
                 in
                 your
                 Glass
                 you
                 trace
              
               
                 The
                 marring
                 footsteps
                 of
                 a
                 pale
                 Disease
                 .
              
               
                 Regret
                 not
                 that
                 your
                 cheeks
                 their
                 Roses
                 want
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 a
                 few
                 Days
                 shall
                 in
                 full
                 store
                 replant
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Which
                 ,
                 whilst
                 your
                 Blood
                 withdraws
                 its
                 guilty
                 Red
                 ,
              
               
                 Tells
                 that
                 you
                 own
                 no
                 faults
                 that
                 blushes
                 need
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Sun
                 whose
                 Bounty
                 does
                 each
                 Spring
                 restore
              
               
                 What
                 Winter
                 from
                 the
                 rifled
                 Meadows
                 tore
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 every
                 Morning
                 with
                 an
                 early
                 ray
              
               
                 Paints
                 the
                 young
                 Blushing
                 Cheeks
                 of
                 instant
                 Day
                 :
              
               
                 Whose
                 skill
                 (
                 inimitable
                 here
                 below
                 ,
                 )
              
               
                 Limns
                 those
                 gay
                 Clouds
                 which
                 form
                 Heaven
                 's
                 colour'd
                 bow
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Sun
                 shall
                 soon
                 with
                 Interest
                 repay
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 the
                 lost
                 Beauty
                 Sickness
                 snatch'd
                 a
                 way
                 .
              
               
                 Your
                 Beams
                 like
                 his
                 shall
                 hourly
                 now
                 advance
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 every
                 minute
                 their
                 swift
                 Growth
                 enhance
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Mean
                 while
                 (
                 that
                 you
                 no
                 helps
                 of
                 healths
                 refuse
                 )
              
               
                 Accept
                 these
                 humble
                 Wishes
                 of
                 the
                 Muse
                 :
              
               
                 Which
                 shall
                 not
                 of
                 their
                 Just
                 Petition
                 fail
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 she
                 (
                 and
                 she's
                 a
                 Goddess
                 )
                 ought
                 prevail
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 May
                 no
                 profane
                 Disease
                 henceforth
                 approach
                 ,
              
               
                 This
                 sacred
                 Temple
                 with
                 unhallow'd
                 touch
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 with
                 rude
                 sacriledge
                 its
                 frame
                 debauch
                 .
              
               
               
                 May
                 these
                 fair
                 Members
                 always
                 happy
                 be
              
               
                 In
                 as
                 full
                 Strength
                 and
                 well-set
                 Harmony
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 the
                 new
                 Foundress
                 of
                 your
                 sex
                 could
                 boast
                 ,
              
               
                 Ere
                 she
                 by
                 Sin
                 her
                 first
                 Persecution
                 lost
                 :
              
               
                 May
                 Destiny
                 ,
                 just
                 to
                 your
                 Merits
                 ,
                 twine
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 your
                 smooth
                 Fortunes
                 in
                 a
                 Silken
                 Line
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 that
                 you
                 may
                 at
                 Heaven
                 late
                 arrive
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 it
                 to
                 you
                 its
                 largest
                 Bottom
                 give
                 .
              
               
                 May
                 Heaven
                 with
                 still
                 repeated
                 Favours
                 bless
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 it
                 its
                 Pow'r
                 below
                 its
                 Will
                 confess
                 ;
              
               
                 Till
                 wishes
                 can
                 no
                 more
                 exalt
                 your
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 Poets
                 fancy
                 you
                 more
                 Fortunate
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               On
               the
               Death
               of
               Mrs.
               
                 Katharine
                 Kingscourt
              
               a
               Child
               of
               Excellent
               Parts
               and
               Piety
               .
            
             
               
                 SHE
                 did
                 ,
                 She
                 did
                 —
                 I
                 saw
                 her
                 mount
                 the
                 Skie
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 new
                 Whiteness
                 paint
                 the
                 Galaxy
                 .
              
               
                 Heav'n
                 her
                 methought
                 with
                 all
                 its
                 Eyes
                 did
                 view
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 acknowledg'd
                 all
                 its
                 Eyes
                 too
                 few
                 .
              
               
                 Methought
                 I
                 saw
                 in
                 crowds
                 blest
                 Spirits
                 meet
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 loud
                 Welcomes
                 her
                 arrival
                 greet
                 ;
              
               
                 Which
                 could
                 they
                 grieve
                 ,
                 had
                 gone
                 with
                 grief
                 away
              
               
                 To
                 see
                 a
                 Soul
                 more
                 white
                 ,
                 more
                 pure
                 than
                 they
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Earth
                 was
                 unworthy
                 such
                 a
                 prize
                 as
                 this
                 ,
              
               
                 Only
                 a
                 while
                 Heaven
                 let
                 us
                 share
                 the
                 Bliss
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 her
                 stay
                 with
                 fruitless
                 Tears
                 we
                 'd
                 woo
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 we'd
                 court
                 ,
                 when
                 that
                 our
                 Rival
                 grew
                 .
              
               
               
                 Thanks
                 ,
                 ye
                 kind
                 Powers
                 !
                 who
                 did
                 so
                 long
                 dispense
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 Since
                 you
                 so
                 wish'd
                 her
                 )
                 with
                 her
                 absence
                 thence
                 :
              
               
                 We
                 now
                 resign
                 ,
                 to
                 you
                 alone
                 we
                 grant
              
               
                 The
                 sweet
                 Monopoly
                 of
                 such
                 a
                 Saint
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 pure
                 a
                 Saint
                 ,
                 I
                 scarce
                 dare
                 call
                 her
                 so
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 fear
                 to
                 wrong
                 her
                 with
                 a
                 Name
                 too
                 low
                 :
              
               
                 Such
                 a
                 Seraphick
                 brightness
                 in
                 her
                 shin'd
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 hardly
                 can
                 believe
                 her
                 Woman-kind
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 sure
                 some
                 noble
                 Being
                 left
                 the
                 Sphere
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 deign'd
                 a
                 little
                 to
                 inhabit
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 can't
                 be
                 said
                 to
                 die
                 ,
                 but
                 disappear
                 .
              
               
                 Or
                 if
                 she
                 Mortal
                 was
                 and
                 meant
                 to
                 show
              
               
                 The
                 greater
                 skill
                 by
                 being
                 made
                 below
                 ;
              
               
                 Sure
                 Heav'n
                 preserv'd
                 her
                 by
                 the
                 fall
                 uncurst
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 tell
                 how
                 all
                 the
                 Sex
                 were
                 form'd
                 at
                 first
                 :
              
               
                 Never
                 did
                 yet
                 so
                 much
                 Divinity
              
               
                 In
                 such
                 a
                 small
                 Compendium
                 crouded
                 lye
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 her
                 we
                 credit
                 what
                 the
                 Learned
                 tell
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 many
                 Angels
                 in
                 one
                 point
                 can
                 dwell
                 .
              
               
               
                 More
                 damned
                 Fiends
                 did
                 not
                 in
                 Mary
                 rest
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 lodg'd
                 of
                 Blessed
                 Spirits
                 in
                 her
                 Breast
                 ;
              
               
                 Religion
                 dawn'd
                 so
                 early
                 in
                 her
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 'd
                 think
                 her
                 Saint
                 whilst
                 in
                 the
                 Womb
                 enshrin'd
                 :
              
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 that
                 bright
                 ray
                 which
                 did
                 her
                 Temples
                 paint
                 ,
              
               
                 Proclaim'd
                 her
                 clearly
                 ,
                 while
                 alive
                 ,
                 a
                 Saint
                 .
              
               
                 Scarce
                 had
                 she
                 learnt
                 to
                 lisp
                 Religion's
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 E'er
                 she
                 by
                 her
                 Example
                 preach'd
                 the
                 same
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 taught
                 her
                 
                 Cradle-like
                 the
                 Pulpit
                 to
                 reclaim
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 Action
                 did
                 within
                 her
                 Practice
                 fall
              
               
                 Which
                 for
                 th'
                 Atonement
                 of
                 a
                 Blush
                 could
                 call
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 word
                 of
                 hers
                 e'er
                 greeted
                 any
                 Ear
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 a
                 dying
                 Saint
                 confest
                 might
                 hear
                 .
              
               
                 Her
                 Thoughts
                 had
                 scarcely
                 ever
                 sully'd
                 been
              
               
                 By
                 the
                 least
                 Foot-steps
                 of
                 Original
                 Sin.
              
               
                 Her
                 Life
                 did
                 still
                 as
                 much
                 Devotion
                 breath
              
               
                 As
                 others
                 do
                 at
                 their
                 last
                 Gasp
                 in
                 Death
                 .
              
               
                 Hence
                 on
                 her
                 Tomb
                 of
                 her
                 let
                 not
                 be
                 said
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 long
                 she
                 liv'd
                 ;
                 but
                 thus
                 ,
                 so
                 long
                 she
                 pray'd
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               A
               Sunday-Thought
               in
               Sickness
               .
            
             
               
                 LOrd
                 ,
                 how
                 dreadful
                 is
                 the
                 Prospect
                 of
                 Death
                 at
                 the
                 remotest
                 Distance
                 !
                 How
                 the
                 smallest
                 Apprehension
                 of
                 it
                 can
                 pall
                 the
                 most
                 gay
                 ,
                 airy
                 and
                 brisk
                 Spirits
                 !
                 Even
                 I
                 ,
                 who
                 thought
                 I
                 could
                 have
                 been
                 merry
                 in
                 sight
                 of
                 my
                 Coffin
                 ,
                 and
                 drink
                 a
                 Health
                 with
                 the
              
               Sexton
               
                 in
                 my
                 own
                 Grave
                 ,
                 now
                 tremble
                 at
                 the
                 least
                 Envoy
                 of
                 the
                 King
                 of
                 Terrors
                 .
                 To
                 see
                 but
                 the
                 shaking
                 of
                 my
                 Glass
                 makes
                 me
                 turn
                 pale
                 ,
                 and
                 fear
                 is
                 like
                 to
                 prevent
                 and
                 do
                 the
                 Work
                 of
                 my
                 Distemper
                 .
                 All
                 the
                 Jollity
                 of
                 my
                 Humor
                 and
                 Conversation
                 is
                 turn'd
                 on
                 a
                 suddain
                 into
                 shagrin
                 and
                 melancholy
                 ,
                 black
                 as
                 Despair
                 ,
                 and
                 dark
                 as
                 the
                 Grave
                 .
                 My
                 Soul
                 and
                 Body
                 seem
                 at
                 
                 once
                 laid
                 out
                 ,
                 and
                 I
                 fancy
                 all
                 the
                 Plummets
                 of
                 Eternal
                 Night
                 already
                 hanging
                 upon
                 my
                 Temples
                 .
                 But
                 whence
                 proceed
                 these
                 Fears
                 ?
                 Certainly
                 they
                 are
                 not
                 idle
                 Dreams
                 ,
                 nor
                 the
                 accidental
                 Product
                 of
                 my
                 Disease
                 ,
                 which
                 disorders
                 the
                 Brains
                 ,
                 and
                 fills
                 'em
                 with
                 odd
              
               Chimaera's
               .
               
                 Why
                 should
                 my
                 Soul
                 be
                 averse
                 to
                 its
                 Enlargement
                 ?
                 Why
                 should
                 it
                 be
                 content
                 to
                 be
                 knit
                 up
                 in
                 two
                 Yards
                 of
                 Skin
                 ,
                 when
                 it
                 may
                 have
                 all
                 the
                 World
                 for
                 its
                 Purliew
                 ?
                 'T
                 is
                 not
                 that
                 I
                 'm
                 unwilling
                 to
                 leave
                 my
                 Relations
                 and
                 present
                 Friends
                 :
                 I
                 'm
                 parted
                 from
                 the
                 first
                 already
                 ,
                 and
                 could
                 be
                 sever'd
                 from
                 both
                 the
                 length
                 of
                 the
                 whole
                 Map
                 ,
                 and
                 live
                 with
                 my
                 Body
                 as
                 far
                 distant
                 from
                 them
                 as
                 my
                 Soul
                 must
                 when
                 I
                 'm
                 dead
                 .
                 Neither
                 is
                 it
                 that
                 I
                 'm
                 loth
                 to
                 leave
                 the
                 Delights
                 and
                 Pleasures
                 of
                 the
                 World
                 ;
                 some
                 of
                 them
                 I
                 have
                 tried
                 ,
                 and
                 found
                 
                 empty
                 ,
                 the
                 others
                 covet
                 not
                 ,
                 because
                 unknown
                 .
                 I
                 'm
                 confident
                 I
                 could
                 despise
                 'em
                 all
                 by
                 a
                 Greatness
                 of
              
               Soul
               ,
               
                 did
                 not
                 the
                 Bible
                 oblige
                 me
                 ,
                 and
                 Divines
                 tell
                 me
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 my
                 Duty
                 .
                 It
                 is
                 not
                 neither
                 that
                 I
                 'm
                 unwilling
                 to
                 go
                 hence
                 before
                 I
                 've
                 establish'd
                 a
                 Reputation
                 ,
                 and
                 something
                 to
                 make
                 me
                 survive
                 my self
                 .
                 I
                 could
                 have
                 been
                 content
                 to
                 be
                 Still-born
                 ,
                 and
                 have
                 no
                 more
                 than
                 the
              
               Register
               ,
               or
               Sexton
               
                 to
                 tell
                 that
                 I
                 've
                 ever
                 been
                 in
                 the
                 Land
                 of
                 the
                 Living
                 .
              
               In
               Fine
               ,
               
                 't
                 is
                 not
                 from
                 a
                 Principle
                 of
                 Cowardise
                 ,
                 which
                 the
                 Schools
                 have
                 called
              
               Self-preservation
               ,
               
                 the
                 poor
                 Effect
                 of
                 Instinct
                 and
                 dull
                 pretence
                 of
                 a
                 Brute
                 as
                 well
                 as
                 me
                 .
                 This
                 Unwillingness
                 therefore
                 ,
                 and
                 Aversion
                 to
                 undergo
                 the
                 general
                 Fate
                 ,
                 must
                 have
                 a
                 juster
              
               Original
               ,
               
                 and
                 flow
                 from
                 a
                 more
                 important
                 Cause
                 .
                 I
                 'm
                 well
                 satisfied
                 that
                 this
                 other
                 Being
                 within
                 ,
                 
                 that
                 moves
                 and
                 actuates
                 my
                 Frame
                 of
                 Flesh
                 and
                 Blood
                 ,
                 has
                 a
              
               Life
               
                 beyond
                 it
                 and
                 the
              
               Grave
               ;
               
                 and
                 something
                 in
                 it
                 prompts
                 me
                 to
                 believe
                 its
                 immortality
                 .
                 A
              
               Residence
               
                 it
                 must
                 have
                 somewhere
                 else
                 ,
                 when
                 it
                 has
                 left
                 this
              
               Carcase
               ,
               
                 and
                 another
              
               State
               
                 to
                 pass
                 into
                 ,
                 unchangeable
                 and
                 everlasting
                 as
                 it self
                 after
                 its
              
               Separation
               .
               
                 This
                 Condition
                 must
                 be
                 good
                 or
                 bad
                 according
                 to
                 its
              
               Actions
               and
               Deserts
               
                 in
                 this
                 Life
                 ;
                 for
                 as
                 it
                 ows
                 its
              
               Being
               
                 to
                 some
              
               Infinite
               Power
               
                 that
                 created
                 it
                 ,
                 I
                 well
                 suppose
                 it
                 his
              
               Vassal
               ,
               
                 and
                 oblig'd
                 to
                 live
                 by
                 his
              
               Law
               ;
               
                 and
                 as
                 certainly
                 conclude
                 ,
                 that
                 according
                 to
                 the
                 keeping
                 or
                 breaking
                 of
                 that
              
               Law
               ,
               
                 't
                 is
                 to
                 be
                 rewarded
                 or
                 punish'd
                 hereafter
                 .
                 This
                 Diversity
                 of
              
               Rewards
               and
               Punishments
               ,
               
                 makes
                 the
                 two
                 Places
              
               ,
               Heaven
               and
               Hell
               ,
               
                 so
                 often
                 mention'd
                 in
              
               Scripture
               ,
               
                 and
                 talk'd
                 of
                 
                 in
              
               Pulpits
               :
               
                 Of
                 the
                 later
                 my
              
               Fears
               
                 too
                 cruelly
                 convince
                 me
                 ,
                 and
                 the
              
               Anticipation
               
                 of
                 its
              
               Torment
               ,
               
                 which
                 I
                 already
                 feel
                 in
                 my
                 own
              
               Conscience
               .
               
                 There
                 is
                 ,
                 there
                 is
                 a
              
               Hell
               ,
               
                 and
                 damned
              
               Fiends
               ,
               
                 and
                 a
              
               never-dying
               Worm
               ,
               
                 and
                 that
              
               Sceptick
               
                 that
                 doubts
                 of
                 it
                 ,
                 may
                 find
                 'em
                 all
                 within
                 my
                 single
              
               Breast
               .
               
                 I
                 dare
                 not
                 any
                 longer
                 with
                 the
              
               Atheist
               
                 disbelieve
                 them
                 ,
                 or
                 think
                 'em
                 the
              
               Clergy's
               Bugbears
               ,
               
                 invented
                 as
              
               Nurses
               
                 do
                 frightful
                 Names
                 for
                 their
              
               Children
               ,
               
                 to
                 scare
                 'em
                 into
              
               Quietness
               and
               Obedience
               .
               
                 How
                 oft
                 have
                 I
                 triumph'd
                 in
                 my
                 unconcern'd
                 ,
                 and
                 sear'd
                 insensibility
                 ?
                 How
                 oft
                 boasted
                 of
                 that
                 unhappy
                 suspected
              
               Calm
               ,
               
                 which
                 ,
                 like
                 that
                 of
                 the
              
               dead
               Sea
               ,
               
                 prov'd
                 only
                 my
              
               Curse
               ,
               
                 and
                 〈◊〉
                 treacherous
              
               Ambush
               
                 to
                 those
              
               Storms
               ,
               
                 which
                 at
                 presenc
                 (
                 and
                 will
                 for
                 ever
                 〈◊〉
                 dread
                 )
                 shipwrack
                 my
              
               Quiet
               and
               Hopes
               ▪
               
               
                 How
                 oft
                 have
                 I
                 rejected
                 the
              
               Advice
               
                 of
                 that
              
               Bosom-friend
               ,
               
                 and
                 drown'd
                 its
              
               Alarms
               
                 in
                 the
                 Noise
                 of
                 a
              
               tumultuous
               Debauch
               ,
               
                 or
                 by
                 stupifying
              
               Wine
               
                 (
                 like
                 some
                 condemn'd
                 Malefactor
                 )
                 arm'd
                 my self
                 against
                 the
                 Apprehensions
                 of
                 my
                 certain
              
               Doom
               ?
               
                 Now
                 ,
                 now
                 the
              
               Tyrant
               
                 awakes
                 ,
                 and
                 comes
                 to
                 pay
                 at
                 once
                 all
              
               Arrears
               of
               Cruelty
               .
               
                 At
                 last
                 ,
                 but
                 too
                 late
                 (
                 like
                 drowning
              
               Mariners
               )
               
                 I
                 see
                 the
                 gay
              
               Monsters
               ,
               
                 which
                 inveigled
                 me
                 into
                 my
              
               Death
               and
               Destruction
               .
               
                 Oh
                 the
                 gnawing
                 Remorse
                 of
                 a
                 rash
                 unguarded
                 ,
                 unconsidering
              
               Sinner
               !
               
                 Oh
                 how
                 the
              
               Ghosts
               
                 of
                 former
              
               Crimes
               
                 affright
                 my
                 haunted
              
               Imagination
               ,
               
                 and
                 make
                 me
                 suffer
                 a
                 thousand
              
               Racks
               and
               Martyrdoms
               !
               
                 I
                 see
                 ,
                 methinks
                 ,
                 the
              
               Jaws
               of
               Destruction
               
                 gaping
                 wide
                 to
                 swallow
                 me
                 ;
                 and
                 I
                 ,
                 (
                 like
                 one
                 sliding
                 on
              
               Ice
               )
               
                 tho'
                 I
                 see
                 the
                 Danger
                 ,
                 cannot
                 stop
                 
                 from
                 running
                 into
                 it
                 .
                 My
              
               Fancy
               
                 represents
                 to
                 me
                 a
                 whole
                 Legion
                 of
              
               Devils
               ,
               
                 ready
                 to
                 tear
                 me
                 in
                 pieces
                 ,
                 numberless
                 as
                 my
              
               Sins
               or
               Fears
               ;
               
                 and
                 whither
                 ,
                 Alass
                 !
                 whither
                 shall
              
               I
               
                 fly
                 for
                 Refuge
                 ?
                 Where
                 shall
              
               I
               
                 retreat
                 and
                 take
              
               Sanctuary
               ?
               Shall
               I
               
                 call
                 the
              
               Rocks
               and
               Mountains
               
                 to
                 cover
                 me
                 ,
                 or
                 bid
                 the
                 Earth
                 yawn
                 wide
                 to
                 its
                 Center
                 ,
                 and
                 take
                 me
                 in
                 ?
                 Poor
                 shift
                 of
                 escaping
                 Almighty
              
               Justice
               !
               Distracting
               Frenzy
               !
               
                 that
                 would
                 make
                 me
                 believe
                 Contradictions
                 ,
                 and
                 hope
                 to
                 fly
                 out
                 of
                 the
                 Reach
                 of
                 him
                 whose
              
               Presence
               
                 is
                 every
                 where
                 ,
                 not
                 excluded
              
               Hell
               
                 it self
                 ;
                 for
                 he
                 's
                 there
                 in
                 the
                 Effects
                 of
                 his
              
               Vengeance
               .
               
                 Shall
                 I
                 invoke
                 some
                 Power
                 infinite
                 as
                 that
                 that
                 created
                 me
                 ,
                 to
                 reduce
                 me
                 to
                 nothing
                 again
                 ,
                 and
                 rid
                 me
                 at
                 once
                 of
                 my
              
               Being
               
                 and
                 all
                 that
                 tortures
                 it
                 ?
                 Oh
                 no
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 in
                 vain
                 ,
                 I
                 must
                 be
                 forc'd
                 into
              
               Being
               ,
               
                 to
                 keep
                 me
                 
                 fresh
                 for
              
               Torment
               ,
               
                 and
                 retain
                 Sense
                 only
                 to
                 feel
                 Pain
                 .
              
               I
               
                 must
                 be
                 a
                 dying
                 to
                 all
                 Eternity
                 ,
                 and
                 live
                 ever
                 ,
                 to
                 live
                 ever
                 wretched
                 .
                 Oh
                 that
                 Nature
                 had
                 plac'd
                 me
                 in
                 the
                 Rank
                 of
                 things
                 that
                 have
                 only
                 a
                 bare
              
               Existence
               ,
               
                 or
                 at
                 best
                 an
                 Animal
              
               Life
               ,
               
                 and
                 never
                 given
                 me
                 a
                 Soul
                 and
                 Reason
                 ,
                 which
                 now
                 must
                 contribute
                 to
                 my
              
               Misery
               ,
               
                 and
                 make
                 me
                 envy
              
               Brutes
               and
               Vegetables
               !
               
                 Would
                 the
              
               Womb
               
                 that
                 bare
                 me
                 had
                 been
                 my
              
               Prison
               
                 till
                 now
                 ,
                 or
                 I
                 step'd
                 out
                 of
                 it
                 into
                 my
              
               Grave
               ,
               
                 and
                 sav'd
                 the
                 Expences
                 and
                 Toil
                 of
                 a
                 long
                 and
                 tedious
              
               Journey
               ,
               where
               Life
               
                 affords
                 nothing
                 of
                 Accommodations
                 to
                 invite
                 one's
                 Stay.
                 Happy
                 had
                 I
                 been
                 if
                 had
                 expir'd
                 with
                 my
                 first
              
               Breath
               ,
               
                 and
                 enter'd
                 the
              
               Bill
               of
               Mortality
               
                 as
                 soon
                 as
                 the
              
               World
               :
               
                 Happy
                 if
                 I
                 had
                 been
                 drown'd
                 in
                 my
              
               Font
               ,
               
                 and
                 that
              
               Water
               
                 which
                 was
                 to
                 regenerate
                 ,
                 
                 and
                 give
                 me
              
               New
               Life
               ,
               
                 had
                 prov'd
                 mortal
                 in
                 another
                 sence
                 !
                 I
                 had
                 then
                 died
                 without
                 any
              
               Guilt
               
                 of
                 my
                 own
                 but
                 what
                 I
                 brought
                 into
                 the
                 World
                 with
                 me
                 ,
                 and
                 that
                 too
                 atton'd
                 for
                 ;
                 I
                 mean
                 that
                 which
                 I
                 contracted
                 from
                 my
                 first
              
               Parents
               ,
               
                 my
                 unhappiness
                 rather
                 than
                 Fault
                 ,
                 inasmuch
                 as
                 I
                 was
                 fain
                 to
                 be
                 born
                 of
                 a
              
               sinning
               Race
               :
               
                 Then
                 I
                 had
                 never
                 enhaunc'd
                 it
                 with
                 acquir'd
              
               Guilt
               ,
               
                 never
                 added
                 those
                 innumerable
              
               Crimes
               
                 which
                 must
                 make
                 up
                 my
              
               Indictment
               
                 at
                 the
                 grand
              
               Audit.
               
                 Ungrateful
                 Wretch
                 !
                 I
                 've
                 made
                 my
                 Sins
                 as
                 numerous
                 as
                 those
              
               Blessings
               and
               Mercies
               the
               Almighty
               Bounty
               
                 has
                 conferr'd
                 upon
                 me
                 ,
                 to
                 oblige
                 and
                 lead
                 me
                 to
              
               Repentance
               .
               
                 How
                 have
                 I
                 abus'd
                 and
                 misimployed
                 those
              
               Parts
               and
               Talents
               
                 which
                 might
                 have
                 render'd
                 me
                 serviceable
                 to
              
               Mankind
               ,
               
                 and
                 repaid
                 an
                 interest
                 
                 of
              
               Glory
               
                 to
                 their
              
               Donor
               ?
               
                 How
                 ill
                 do
                 they
                 turn
                 to
                 account
                 which
                 I
                 have
                 made
                 the
              
               Patrons
               of
               Debauchery
               ,
               and
               Pimps
               and
               Panders
               to
               Vice
               ?
               
                 How
                 oft
                 have
                 I
                 broke
                 my
              
               Vows
               
                 to
                 my
              
               Great
               Creator
               ,
               
                 which
                 I
                 would
                 be
                 conscientious
                 of
                 keeping
                 to
                 a
                 silly
              
               Woman
               ,
               a
               Creature
               
                 beneath
                 my self
                 ?
                 What
                 has
                 all
                 my
              
               Religion
               
                 been
                 but
                 an
                 empty
              
               Parade
               
                 and
                 shew
                 ?
                 Either
                 an
                 useful
                 Hypocrisie
                 taken
                 up
                 for
              
               Interest
               ,
               
                 or
                 a
                 gay
                 specious
              
               Formality
               
                 worn
                 in
              
               Complaisance
               to
               Custom
               
                 and
                 the
              
               Mode
               ,
               
                 and
                 as
                 changeable
                 as
                 my
              
               Cloths
               
                 and
                 their
              
               Fashion
               .
               
                 How
                 oft
                 have
                 I
                 gone
                 to
              
               Church
               
                 (
                 the
                 place
                 where
                 we
                 are
                 to
                 pay
                 him
              
               Homage
               and
               Duty
               )
               
                 as
                 to
                 an
                 Assignation
                 or
                 Play
                 ,
                 only
                 for
              
               Diversion
               ;
               
                 or
                 at
                 best
                 ,
                 as
                 I
                 must
                 e'er
                 long
                 (
                 for
                 ought
                 I
                 know
                 )
                 with
                 my
              
               Soul
               
                 sever'd
                 from
                 my
              
               Body
               ?
               
                 How
                 I
                 tremble
                 at
                 the
                 Remembrance
                 !
                 
                 as
                 if
                 I
                 could
                 put
                 the
              
               sham
               upon
               Heaven
               ,
               
                 or
                 a
              
               God
               
                 were
                 to
                 be
                 impos'd
                 on
                 like
                 my
              
               Fellow-Creature
               :
               
                 And
                 dare
                 I
                 ,
                 convicted
                 of
                 these
              
               High
               Treasons
               
                 against
                 the
              
               King
               of
               Glory
               ,
               
                 dare
                 I
                 expect
                 a
              
               Reprieve
               or
               Pardon
               ?
               
                 Has
                 he
              
               Thunder
               ,
               
                 and
                 are
                 not
                 all
                 his
              
               Bolts
               
                 levell'd
                 at
                 my
              
               Head
               ,
               
                 to
                 strike
                 me
                 through
                 the
                 very
              
               Center
               ?
               
                 Yes
                 ,
                 I
                 dare
                 appeal
                 to
                 thee
                 ,
                 boundless
              
               pity
               and
               compassion
               !
               
                 My
                 own
              
               Instances
               
                 already
                 tells
                 me
                 ,
                 that
                 thy
              
               Mercy
               
                 is
                 infinite
                 ;
                 for
                 I
                 've
                 done
                 enough
                 to
                 shock
              
               Long-sufferance
               
                 it self
                 ,
                 and
                 weary
                 out
                 an
              
               Eternal
               Patience
               .
               
                 I
                 beseech
                 thee
                 by
                 thy
                 soft
                 and
                 gentle
              
               Attributes
               of
               Mercy
               and
               Forgiveness
               ,
               
                 by
                 the
                 last
                 dying
              
               Accents
               
                 of
                 my
                 suffering
              
               Deity
               ,
               have
               Pity
               
                 on
                 a
                 poor
                 ,
                 humble
                 ,
                 prostrate
                 and
                 confessing
              
               Sinner
               :
               
                 And
                 thou
                 great
              
               Ransom
               
                 of
                 lost
              
               Mankind
               ,
               
                 who
                 offered'st
                 thy self
                 a
              
               Sacrifice
               
                 to
                 attone
                 our
              
               
               Guilt
               ,
               
                 and
                 redeem
                 our
                 mortgag'd
                 Happiness
                 ,
                 do
                 thou
                 be
                 my
              
               Advocate
               ,
               
                 and
                 intercede
                 for
                 me
                 with
                 the
                 angry
              
               Judge
               .
            
             
               
                 My
                 Pray'rs
                 are
                 heard
                 ,
                 a
                 glorious
                 Light
                 now
                 shone
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 (
                 lo
                 !
                 )
                 an
                 Angel-Post
                 comes
                 hast'ning
                 down
                 :
              
               
                 From
                 Heav'n
                 I
                 see
                 him
                 cut
                 the
                 yielding
                 Air
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 swift
                 ,
                 he
                 seems
                 at
                 once
                 both
                 there
                 and
                 here
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 quick
                 ,
                 my
                 sight
                 in
                 the
                 pursuit
                 was
                 slow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Thought
                 could
                 scarce
                 so
                 soon
                 the
                 Journey
                 go
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 angry
                 Message
                 in
                 his
                 Look
                 appears
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Face
                 no
                 signs
                 of
                 threatning
                 Vengeance
                 wears
                 .
              
               
                 Comly
                 his
                 shape
                 ,
                 of
                 Heavenly
                 Meen
                 and
                 Air
                 ,
              
               
                 Kinder
                 than
                 Smiles
                 of
                 beauteous
                 Virginsare
                 .
              
               
                 Such
                 he
                 was
                 seen
                 by
                 the
                 blest
                 Maid
                 of
                 Old
              
               
                 When
                 he
                 th'
                 Almighty
                 Infant
                 's
                 Birth
                 foretold
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 mighty
                 Volume
                 in
                 one
                 hand
                 is
                 born
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 open'd
                 Leaves
                 the
                 other
                 seems
                 to
                 turn
                 :
              
               
                 Vast
                 Annals
                 of
                 my
                 Sins
                 in
                 Scarlet
                 writ
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 now
                 ●…as'd
                 ,
                 blot
                 out
                 ,
                 and
                 cancell'd
                 quite
                 .
              
               
               
                 Heark
                 how
                 the
                 Heavenly
                 Whisper
                 strikes
                 mine
                 Ear
                 ,
              
               
                 Mortal
                 ,
                 behold
                 thy
                 Crimes
                 all
                 pardon'd
                 here
                 !
              
               
                 Hail
                 Sacred
                 Envoy
                 of
                 th'
                 Eternal
                 King
                 !
              
               
                 Welcom
                 as
                 the
                 blest
                 Tidings
                 thou
                 dost
                 bring
                 .
              
               
                 Welcom
                 as
                 Heav'n
                 from
                 whence
                 thou
                 cam'st
                 but
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 Thus
                 low
                 to
                 thy
                 great
                 God
                 and
                 mine
                 I
                 bow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 might
                 I
                 here
                 ,
                 O
                 might
                 I
                 ever
                 grow
                 ,
              
               
                 Fix'd
                 an
                 unmov'd
                 and
                 endless
                 Monument
              
               
                 Of
                 Gratitude
                 to
                 my
                 Creator
                 sent
                 .
              
            
          
        
      
       
         
           
             
             
               TO
               THE
               MEMORY
               OF
               Mr.
               
                 CHARLES
                 MORWENT
              
               .
            
             
               A
               PINDARIQUE
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Ignis
                   utique
                   quo
                   clariùs
                   effulsit
                   ,
                   citiùs
                   extinguitur
                   ,
                   eripit
                   se
                   aufertque
                   ex
                   oculis
                   subitò
                   perfecta
                   virtus
                   :
                   quicquid
                   est
                   absoluti
                   faciliùs
                   transfluit
                   ,
                   &
                   optimi
                   neutiquam
                   diurnant
                   .
                
              
               
                 Cambden
                 .
                 de
                 Phil.
                 Syd
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 O
                 celeres
                 hominum
                 bonorum
                 dies
                 .
              
               
                 Apul.
                 
              
            
             
               LONDON
               ,
               Printed
               in
               the
               Year
               ,
               1684.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
             
               To
               the
               Memory
               of
               my
               Dear
               Friend
               ,
               Mr.
               
                 Charles
                 Morwent
                 :
                 A
                 PINDARIQUE
              
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Ostendunt
                   terris
                   hunc
                   tantùm
                   fata
                   ,
                   nec
                   ultrà
                
                 
                   Esse
                   sinunt
                   .
                   —
                
                 
                   Virg.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 BEst
                 Friend
                 !
                 could
                 my
                 unbounded
                 Grief
                 but
                 rate
              
               
                 With
                 due
                 proportion
                 thy
                 too
                 cruel
                 Fate
                 ;
              
               
                 Could
                 I
                 some
                 happy
                 Miracle
                 bring
                 forth
                 ,
              
               
                 Great
                 as
                 my
                 Wishes
                 and
                 thy
                 greater
                 Worth
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 Helicon
                 should
                 soon
                 be
                 thine
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 pay
                 a
                 Tribute
                 to
                 thy
                 Shrine
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 learned
                 Sisters
                 all
                 transform'd
                 should
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 longer
                 nine
                 ,
                 but
                 one
                 Melpomene
                 :
              
               
                 Each
                 should
                 into
                 a
                 Niobe
                 relent
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 once
                 thy
                 Mourner
                 and
                 thy
                 Monument
                 .
              
               
               
                 Each
                 should
                 become
              
               
                 Like
                 the
                 fam'd
                 
                 Memnon's
                 speaking
                 Tomb
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 sing
                 thy
                 well-tun'd
                 Praise
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 should
                 we
                 fear
                 their
                 being
                 dumb
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 still
                 would'st
                 make
                 'em
                 vocal
                 with
                 thy
                 Rays
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 O
                 that
                 I
                 could
                 distil
                 my
                 vital
                 Juice
                 in
                 Tears
                 !
              
               
                 Or
                 waste
                 away
                 my
                 Soul
                 in
                 sobbing
                 Airs
                 !
              
               
                 Were
                 I
                 all
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 flow
                 in
                 liquid
                 Elegies
                 :
              
               
                 That
                 every
                 Limb
                 might
                 grieve
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 dying
                 Sorrow
                 still
                 retrieve
                 ;
              
               
                 My
                 Life
                 should
                 be
                 but
                 one
                 long
                 mourning
                 day
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 like
                 moist
                 Vapors
                 melt
                 in
                 Tears
                 away
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 'd
                 soon
                 dissolve
                 in
                 one
                 great
                 Sigh
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 upwards
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 Glad
                 so
                 to
                 be
                 exhal'd
                 to
                 Heav'n
                 and
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Sigh
                 which
                 might
                 well-nigh
                 reverse
                 thy
                 death
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 hope
                 to
                 animate
                 thee
                 with
                 new
                 Breath
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Pow'rful
                 as
                 that
                 which
                 heretofore
                 did
                 give
              
               
                 A
                 Soul
                 to
                 well-form'd
                 Clay
                 ,
                 and
                 made
                 it
                 live
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 III.
                 
              
               
                 Adieu
                 ,
                 blest
                 Soul
                 !
                 whose
                 hasty
                 Flight
                 away
              
               
                 Tells
                 Heaven
                 did
                 ne'er
                 display
              
               
                 Such
                 Happiness
                 to
                 bless
                 the
                 World
                 with
                 stay
                 .
              
               
                 Death
                 in
                 thy
                 Fall
                 betray'd
                 her
                 utmost
                 spice
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 shew'd
                 her
                 shafts
                 most
                 times
                 are
                 levell'd
                 at
                 the
                 white
                 .
              
               
                 She
                 saw
                 thy
                 blooming
                 Ripeness
                 time
                 prevent
                 ;
              
               
                 She
                 saw
                 ,
                 and
                 envious
                 grew
                 ,
                 and
                 straight
                 her
                 arrow
                 sent
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 Buds
                 appearing
                 e'er
                 the
                 Frosts
                 are
                 past
                 ,
              
               
                 Nip'd
                 by
                 some
                 unkind
                 Blast
                 ,
              
               
                 Wither
                 in
                 Penance
                 for
                 their
                 forward
                 haste
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 have
                 I
                 seen
                 a
                 Morn
                 so
                 bright
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 deck'd
                 with
                 all
                 the
                 Robes
                 of
                 Light
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 it
                 scorn'd
                 to
                 think
                 of
                 Night
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 a
                 rude
                 Storm
                 e'er
                 Noon
                 did
                 shroud
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 buried
                 all
                 its
                 early
                 Glories
                 in
                 a
                 Cloud
                 .
              
               
               
                 The
                 day
                 in
                 funeral
                 Blackness
                 mourn'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 to
                 Sighs
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 to
                 Tears
                 it
                 turn'd
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 IV.
                 
              
               
                 But
                 why
                 do
                 we
                 thy
                 Death
                 untimely
                 deem
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 Fate
                 blaspheme
                 ?
              
               
                 We
                 should
                 thy
                 full
                 ripe
                 Vertues
                 wrong
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 think
                 thee
                 young
                 .
              
               
                 Fate
                 ,
                 when
                 she
                 did
                 thy
                 vigorous
                 Growth
                 behold
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 thy
                 forward
                 Glories
                 told
                 ,
              
               
                 Forgot
                 thy
                 tale
                 of
                 Years
                 ,
                 and
                 thought
                 thee
                 old
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 brisk
                 Endowments
                 of
                 thy
                 Mind
              
               
                 Scorning
                 i'
                 th'
                 Bud
                 to
                 be
                 confin'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Out-ran
                 thy
                 Age
                 ,
                 and
                 left
                 slow
                 Time
                 behind
                 ;
              
               
                 Which
                 made
                 thee
                 reach
                 Maturity
                 so
                 soon
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 at
                 first
                 Dawn
                 present
                 a
                 full-spread
                 Noon
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 thy
                 Perfections
                 with
                 thy
                 Soul
                 agree
                 ,
              
               
                 Both
                 knew
                 no
                 Non-age
                 ,
                 knew
                 no
                 Infancy
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 the
                 first
                 Patern
                 of
                 our
                 Race
                 began
              
               
                 His
                 Life
                 in
                 middle-age
                 ,
                 at
                 's
                 Birth
                 a
                 perfect
                 Man.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 V.
                 
              
               
                 So
                 well
                 thou
                 acted'st
                 in
                 thy
                 Span
                 of
                 Days
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 calls
                 at
                 once
                 for
                 Wonder
                 and
                 for
                 Praise
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 prudent
                 Conduct
                 had
                 so
                 learnt
                 to
                 measure
              
               
                 The
                 different
                 whiles
                 of
                 Toil
                 and
                 Leasure
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 time
                 did
                 Action
                 want
                 ,
                 no
                 Action
                 wanted
                 Pleasure
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 busie
                 Industry
                 could
                 Time
                 dilate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 stretch
                 the
                 Thread
                 of
                 Fate
                 :
              
               
                 Thy
                 careful
                 Thrift
                 could
                 only
                 boast
                 the
                 Power
              
               
                 To
                 lengthen
                 Minutes
                 ,
                 and
                 extend
                 an
                 Hour
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 single
                 Sand
                 could
                 e'er
                 flip
                 by
              
               
                 Without
                 its
                 Wonder
                 ,
                 sweet
                 as
                 high
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 every
                 teeming
                 Moment
                 still
                 brought
                 forth
              
               
                 A
                 thousand
                 Rarities
                 of
                 Worth.
              
               
                 While
                 some
                 no
                 other
                 Cause
                 for
                 Life
                 can
                 give
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 a
                 dull
                 Habitude
                 to
                 live
                 :
              
               
                 Thou
                 scorn'dst
                 such
                 Laziness
                 while
                 here
                 beneath
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Liv'dst
                 that
                 time
                 which
                 others
                 only
                 Breath
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 VI.
                 
              
               
                 Next
                 our
                 just
                 Wonder
                 does
                 commence
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 so
                 small
                 Room
                 could
                 hold
                 such
                 Excellence
                 .
              
               
                 Nature
                 was
                 proud
                 when
                 she
                 contriv'd
                 thy
                 Frame
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 thee
                 she
                 labor'd
                 for
                 a
                 Name
                 :
              
               
                 Hence
                 't
                 was
                 she
                 lavish'd
                 all
                 her
                 Sto●…te
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 she
                 meant
                 hereafter
                 to
                 be
                 poor
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 like
                 a
                 Bankrupt
                 ,
                 run
                 o'
                 th
                 Score
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 ●…rious
                 Hand
                 here
                 drew
                 in
                 Straights
                 and
                 joyn'd
              
               
                 All
                 the
                 Perfections
                 lodge●…in
                 Humane
                 kind
                 ;
              
               
                 Teaching
                 her
                 numerous
                 Gifts
                 to
                 lie
              
               
                 Crampt
                 in
                 a
                 short
                 Epitome
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 Stars
                 contracted
                 in
                 a
                 Diamond
                 shine
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Jewels
                 in
                 a
                 narrow
                 Point
                 confine
              
               
                 The
                 Riches
                 of
                 an
                 Indian
                 Mine
              
               
                 Thus
                 subtle
                 Artists
                 can
              
               
                 Draw
                 Nature's
                 larger
                 self
                 within
                 a
                 Span
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 small
                 Frame
                 holds
                 the
                 World
                 ,
                 Earth
                 ,
                 Heav'ns
                 and
                 all
              
               
                 Shrunk
                 to
                 the
                 scant
                 Dimensions
                 of
                 a
                 Ball.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 VII
                 .
              
               
                 Those
                 Parts
                 which
                 never
                 in
                 one
                 Subject
                 dwell
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 some
                 uncommon
                 Excellence
                 foretel
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 Stars
                 did
                 all
                 constellate
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 met
                 together
                 in
                 one
                 Sphere
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Judgment
                 ,
                 Wit
                 and
                 Memory
                 conspir'd
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 themselves
                 and
                 thee
                 admir'd
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 could
                 thy
                 growing
                 Height
                 a
                 longer
                 Stay
                 have
                 known
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 hadst
                 all
                 other
                 Glories
                 ,
                 and
                 thy self
                 out-done
                 .
              
               
                 While
                 some
                 to
                 Knowledge
                 by
                 Degrees
                 arrive
                 ,
              
               
                 Thro
                 tedious
                 Industry
                 improv'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Thine
                 scorn'd
                 by
                 such
                 pedantick
                 Rules
                 to
                 thrive
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 swift
                 as
                 that
                 of
                 Angels
                 mov'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 made
                 us
                 think
                 it
                 was
                 intuitive
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 pregnant
                 Mind
                 ne'er
                 struggl'd
                 in
                 its
                 Birth
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 quick
                 ,
                 and
                 while
                 it
                 did
                 conceive
                 ,
                 brought
                 forth
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 gentle
                 Throes
                 of
                 thy
                 prolifick
                 Brain
              
               
                 Were
                 all
                 unstrain'd
                 ,
                 and
                 without
                 Pain
                 .
              
               
               
                 Thus
                 when
                 Great
                 Jove
                 the
                 Queen
                 of
                 Wisdom
                 bare
              
               
                 So
                 easie
                 and
                 so
                 mild
                 his
                 Travels
                 were
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 VIII
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 were
                 these
                 Fruits
                 in
                 a
                 rough
                 Soil
                 bestown
              
               
                 As
                 Gemms
                 are
                 thick'st
                 in
                 rugged
                 Quarries
                 sown
                 .
              
               
                 Good
                 Nature
                 and
                 good
                 parts
                 so
                 shat'd
                 thy
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Muse
                 and
                 Grace
                 were
                 so
                 combin'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Twashard
                 to
                 guess
                 which
                 with
                 most
                 Lustre
                 shin'd
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Genius
                 did
                 thy
                 whole
                 Comportment
                 act
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 charming
                 Complaisance
                 did
                 so
                 attract
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 every
                 Heart
                 attack'd
                 .
              
               
                 Such
                 a
                 soft
                 Air
                 thy
                 well-tun'd
                 Sweetness
                 sway'd
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 told
                 thy
                 Soul
                 of
                 Harmony
                 was
                 made
                 ;
              
               
                 All
                 rude
                 Aff●…ctions
                 that
                 Disturbers
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 mar
                 or
                 disunite
                 Society
                 ,
              
               
                 Were
                 Foreiners
                 to
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 Love
                 only
                 in
                 their
                 stead
                 took
                 up
                 its
                 Rest
                 ;
              
               
                 Nature
                 made
                 that
                 thy
                 constant
                 Guest
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 seem'd
                 to
                 form
                 no
                 other
                 Passion
                 for
                 thy
                 Breast
              
            
             
               
               
                 IX
                 .
              
               
                 This
                 made
                 thy
                 Courteousness
                 to
                 all
                 extend
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thee
                 to
                 the
                 whole
                 Universe
                 a
                 Friend
                 .
              
               
                 Those
                 which
                 were
                 Strangers
                 to
                 thy
                 native
                 Soil
                 and
                 thee
              
               
                 No
                 Strangers
                 to
                 thy
                 Love
                 could
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Bounds
                 were
                 wide
                 as
                 all
                 Mortality
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Heart
                 no
                 Island
                 was
                 ,
                 disjoyn'd
              
               
                 (
                 Like
                 thy
                 own
                 Nation
                 )
                 from
                 all
                 human
                 kind
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 't
                 was
                 a
                 Continent
                 to
                 other
                 Countreys
                 fixt
              
               
                 As
                 firm
                 by
                 Love
                 ,
                 as
                 they
                 by
                 Earth
                 annext
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 scorn'dst
                 the
                 Map
                 should
                 thy
                 Affection
                 guide
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 theirs
                 who
                 love
                 by
                 dull
                 Geography
                 ,
              
               
                 Friends
                 but
                 to
                 whom
                 by
                 Soil
                 they
                 are
                 ally'd
                 :
              
               
                 Thine
                 reacht
                 to
                 all
                 beside
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 every
                 member
                 of
                 the
                 world
                 's
                 great
                 Family
                 .
              
               
                 Heav'ns
                 Kindness
                 only
                 claims
                 a
                 Name
                 more
                 general
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 we
                 the
                 nobler
                 call
                 ,
              
               
                 Because
                 't
                 is
                 common
                 ,
                 and
                 vouchsas'd
                 to
                 all
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 X.
                 
              
               
                 Such
                 thy
                 Ambition
                 of
                 obliging
                 was
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 seem'dst
                 corrupted
                 with
                 the
                 very
                 Power
                 to
                 please
                 .
              
               
                 Only
                 to
                 let
                 thee
                 gratifie
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 once
                 did
                 bribe
                 and
                 pay
                 thy
                 Courtesie
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Kindness
                 by
                 Acceptance
                 might
                 be
                 bought
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 for
                 no
                 other
                 Wages
                 sought
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 would
                 its
                 own
                 be
                 thought
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 Suiters
                 went
                 unsatisfy'd
                 away
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 left
                 thee
                 more
                 unsatisfy'd
                 than
                 they
                 .
              
               
                 Brave
                 Titus
                 !
                 thou
                 mightst
                 here
                 thy
                 true
                 Portraicture
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 view
                 thy
                 Rival
                 in
                 a
                 private
                 mind
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 heretofore
                 deserv'dst
                 such
                 Praise
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 Acts
                 of
                 Goodness
                 did
                 compute
                 thy
                 days
                 ,
              
               
                 Measur'd
                 not
                 by
                 the
                 
                 Sun
                 's
                 ,
                 but
                 thine
                 own
                 kinder
                 Rays
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 thoughtst
                 each
                 hour
                 out
                 of
                 Life's
                 Journal
                 lost
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 could
                 not
                 some
                 fresh
                 Favor
                 boast
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 reckon'dst
                 Bounties
                 thy
                 best
                 Clepsydras
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 XI
                 .
              
               
                 Some
                 Fools
                 who
                 the
                 great
                 Art
                 of
                 giving
                 want
                 ,
              
               
                 Deflower
                 their
                 Largess
                 with
                 too
                 slow
                 a
                 Grant
                 ;
              
               
                 Where
                 the
                 deluded
                 Suitor
                 dearly
                 buys
              
               
                 What
                 hardly
                 can
                 defray
              
               
                 The
                 Expence
                 of
                 Importunities
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 the
                 Suspense
                 of
                 torturing
                 Delay
                 .
              
               
                 Here
                 was
                 no
                 need
                 of
                 tedious
                 Pray'rs
                 to
                 sue
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 thy
                 too
                 backward
                 Kindness
                 woo
                 .
              
               
                 It
                 moved
                 with
                 no
                 formal
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 theirs
                 whose
                 Pomp
                 does
                 for
                 intreaty
                 wait
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 met
                 the
                 swift'st
                 Desires
                 half
                 way
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Wishes
                 did
                 well
                 nigh
                 anticipate
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 then
                 as
                 modestly
                 withdrew
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 for
                 its
                 due
                 Reward
                 of
                 Thanks
                 would
                 stay
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XII
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 might
                 this
                 Goodness
                 to
                 the
                 happy
                 most
                 accrue
                 ;
              
               
                 Somewhat
                 was
                 to
                 the
                 miserable
                 due
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 they
                 might
                 justly
                 challenge
                 too
                 .
              
               
                 Whate'er
                 mishap
                 did
                 a
                 known
                 Heart
                 oppress
                 ,
              
               
               
                 The
                 same
                 did
                 thine
                 as
                 wretched
                 make
                 ;
              
               
                 Like
                 yielding
                 Waxthine
                 did
                 th'
                 Impressions
                 take
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 paint
                 its
                 Sadness
                 in
                 as
                 lively
                 Dress
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 could'st
                 afflictions
                 from
                 another
                 Breast
                 translate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 forein
                 Grief
                 impropriate
                 ;
              
               
                 Oft-times
                 our
                 Sorrows
                 thine
                 so
                 much
                 have
                 grown
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 scarce
                 were
                 more
                 our
                 own
                 ;
              
               
                 We
                 seem'd
                 exempt
                 ,
                 thou
                 suffer'dst
                 all
                 alone
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XIII
                 .
              
               
                 Our
                 small'st
                 Misfortunes
                 scarce
                 could
                 reach
                 thy
                 Ear
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 made
                 thee
                 give
                 in
                 Alms
                 a
                 Tear
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 our
                 Hearts
                 breath'd
                 their
                 regret
                 in
                 sighs
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 a
                 just
                 Tribute
                 to
                 their
                 Miseries
                 ,
              
               
                 Thine
                 with
                 their
                 mournful
                 Airs
                 did
                 symbolize
                 .
              
               
                 Like
                 throngs
                 of
                 sighs
                 did
                 for
                 its
                 Fibres
                 crowd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 told
                 thy
                 Grief
                 from
                 our
                 each
                 Grief
                 aloud
                 :
              
               
                 Such
                 is
                 the
                 secret
                 Sympathy
              
               
                 We
                 may
                 betwixt
                 two
                 neighb'ring
                 Lutesdesery
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 either
                 by
                 unskilful
                 hand
                 too
                 rudely
                 bent
              
               
                 Its
                 soft
                 Complaint
                 in
                 pensive
                 murmurs
                 vent
                 ,
              
               
               
                 As
                 if
                 it
                 did
                 that
                 Injury
                 resent
                 :
              
               
                 Untoucht
                 the
                 other
                 strait
                 returns
                 the
                 Moan
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 gives
                 an
                 Eccho
                 to
                 each
                 Groan
                 .
              
               
                 From
                 its
                 sweet
                 Bowels
                 a
                 sad
                 Note
                 's
                 convey'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 those
                 which
                 to
                 condole
                 are
                 made
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 its
                 Bowels
                 too
                 a
                 kind
                 Compassion
                 had
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XIV
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 was
                 thy
                 goodness
                 bounded
                 with
                 so
                 small
                 extent
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 in
                 such
                 narrow
                 Limits
                 pent
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 Female
                 Frailty
                 in
                 fond
                 Tears
                 distill
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 think
                 that
                 Moisture
                 which
                 they
                 spill
              
               
                 Can
                 yield
                 Relief
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 shrink
                 the
                 Current
                 of
                 anothers
                 Grief
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 hope
                 that
                 Breath
                 which
                 they
                 in
                 sighs
                 convey
                 ,
              
               
                 Should
                 blow
                 Calamities
                 away
                 .
              
               
                 Thine
                 did
                 a
                 manlier
                 Form
                 express
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 scorn'd
                 to
                 whine
                 at
                 an
                 Unhappiness
                 ;
              
               
                 Thou
                 thought'st
                 it
                 still
                 the
                 noblest
                 Pity
                 to
                 redress
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 friendly
                 Angels
                 their
                 Relief
                 bestow
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 unfortunate
                 below
              
               
               
                 For
                 whom
                 those
                 purer
                 minds
                 no
                 Passion
                 know
                 :
              
               
                 Such
                 Nature
                 in
                 that
                 generous
                 Plant
                 is
                 found
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 every
                 Breach
                 does
                 with
                 a
                 Salve
                 abound
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 wounds
                 it self
                 to
                 cure
                 another's
                 Wound
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 pity
                 to
                 Mankind
                 it
                 sheds
                 its
                 Juice
                 ,
              
               
                 Glad
                 with
                 expence
                 of
                 Blood
                 to
                 serve
                 their
                 Use.
              
               
                 First
                 with
                 kind
                 Tears
                 our
                 Maladies
                 bewails
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 after
                 heals
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 makes
                 those
                 very
                 Tears
                 the
                 remedy
                 produce
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XV.
                 
              
               
                 Nor
                 didst
                 thou
                 to
                 thy
                 Foes
                 less
                 generous
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 If
                 there
                 were
                 any
                 durst
                 that
                 Title
                 wear
                 .
                 )
              
               
                 They
                 could
                 not
                 offer
                 Wrongs
                 so
                 fast
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 were
                 pardon'd
                 with
                 like
                 haste
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 thy
                 acts
                 of
                 Amne●…ty
                 defac't
                 .
              
               
                 Had
                 he
                 who
                 wish'd
                 the
                 Art
                 how
                 to
                 forget
                 ,
              
               
                 Discover'd
                 its
                 new
                 Worth
                 in
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 had
                 a
                 double
                 Value
                 on
                 it
                 set
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 justly
                 scorn'd
                 th'ignobler
                 Art
                 of
                 Memory
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 Wrongs
                 could
                 thy
                 great
                 Soul
                 to
                 Grief
                 expose
              
               
               
                 'T
                 was
                 plac't
                 as
                 much
                 out
                 of
                 the
                 reach
                 of
                 those
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 of
                 material
                 Biows
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 Injuries
                 could
                 thee
                 provoke
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Softness
                 always
                 dampt
                 the
                 stroke
                 :
              
               
                 As
                 Flints
                 on
                 Feather-beds
                 are
                 easiest
                 broke
                 .
              
               
                 Affronts
                 could
                 ne'er
                 thy
                 cool
                 Complexion
                 heat
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 chase
                 thy
                 temper
                 from
                 its
                 setled
                 State
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 still
                 thou
                 stoodst
                 unshockt
                 by
                 all
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 thou
                 hadst
                 unlearnt
                 the
                 Power
                 to
                 hate
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 ,
                 like
                 the
                 Dove
                 ,
                 wert
                 born
                 without
                 a
                 Gall.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 XVI
                 .
              
               
                 Vain
                 Stoicks
                 who
                 disclaim
                 all
                 Human
                 Sense
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 own
                 no
                 Passions
                 to
                 resent
                 Offence
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 pass
                 it
                 by
                 with
                 unconcern'd
                 Neglect
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Vertue
                 on
                 those
                 Principles
                 erect
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 't
                 is
                 not
                 a
                 Perfection
                 ,
                 but
                 Defect
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 these
                 themselves
                 in
                 a
                 dull
                 Patience
                 please
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 their
                 own
                 Statues
                 may
                 possess
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 they
                 themselves
                 when
                 Carcasses
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 only
                 couldst
                 to
                 that
                 high
                 pitch
                 arrive
                 ,
              
               
               
                 To
                 court
                 Abuses
                 ,
                 that
                 thou
                 mightst
                 forgive
                 :
              
               
                 Wrongs
                 thus
                 in
                 thy
                 Esteem
                 seem'd
                 Courtesie
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thou
                 the
                 first
                 was
                 e'er
                 oblig'd
                 by
                 Injury
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XVII
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 may
                 we
                 think
                 these
                 God-like
                 Qualities
              
               
                 Could
                 stand
                 in
                 need
                 of
                 Votaries
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 heretofore
                 had
                 challeng'd
                 Sacrifice
                 .
              
               
                 Each
                 Assignation
                 ,
                 each
                 Converse
              
               
                 Gain'd
                 thee
                 some
                 new
                 Idolaters
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 sweet
                 Obligingness
                 could
                 supple
                 Hate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 out
                 of
                 it
                 its
                 Contrary
                 create
                 .
              
               
                 It
                 s
                 powerful
                 Influence
                 made
                 Quarrels
                 cease
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Fewds
                 dissolv'd
                 into
                 a
                 calmer
                 Peace
                 .
              
               
                 Envy
                 resign'd
                 her
                 Force
                 ,
                 and
                 vanquish'd
                 Spite
              
               
                 Became
                 thy
                 speedy
                 Proselyte
                 .
              
               
                 Malice
                 could
                 cherish
                 Enmity
                 no
                 more
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 those
                 which
                 were
                 thy
                 Foes
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 Now
                 wish'd
                 they
                 might
                 adore
                 .
              
               
                 Caesar
                 may
                 tell
                 of
                 Nations
                 took
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Troops
                 by
                 Force
                 subjected
                 to
                 his
                 Yoke
                 :
              
               
               
                 We
                 read
                 as
                 great
                 a
                 Conqueror
                 in
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 couldst
                 by
                 milder
                 ways
                 all
                 Hearts
                 subdue
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 nobler
                 Conquest
                 of
                 the
                 two
                 ;
              
               
                 Thus
                 thou
                 whole
                 Legions
                 mad'ft
                 the
                 Captives
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 like
                 him
                 too
                 couldst
                 look
                 ,
                 and
                 speak
                 thy
                 Victory
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XVIII
                 .
              
               
                 Hence
                 may
                 we
                 Calculate
                 the
                 Tenderness
              
               
                 Thou
                 didst
                 Express
              
               
                 To
                 all
                 ,
                 whom
                 thou
                 didst
                 with
                 thy
                 Friendship
                 bless
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 think
                 of
                 Passion
                 by
                 new
                 Mothers
                 bore
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 young
                 Offspring
                 of
                 their
                 Womb
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 that
                 of
                 Lovers
                 to
                 what
                 they
                 Adore
                 ,
              
               
                 Ere
                 Duty
                 it
                 become
                 :
              
               
                 We
                 should
                 too
                 mean
                 Ideas
                 frame
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 that
                 which
                 thine
                 might
                 justly
                 claim
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 injure
                 it
                 by
                 a
                 degrading
                 Name
                 :
              
               
                 Conceive
                 the
                 tender
                 Care
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 guardian
                 Angels
                 to
                 their
                 Charge
                 assign'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 think
                 how
                 dear
              
               
                 To
                 Heaven
                 Expiring
                 Martyrs
                 are
                 ;
              
               
               
                 These
                 are
                 the
                 Emblems
                 of
                 thy
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 only
                 Types
                 to
                 shew
                 how
                 thou
                 wast
                 kind
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XIX
                 .
              
               
                 On
                 whom
                 soe're
                 thou
                 didst
                 confer
                 this
                 Tye
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 lasting
                 as
                 Eternity
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 firm
                 as
                 the
                 unbroken
                 Chain
                 of
                 Destiny
                 ,
              
               
                 Embraces
                 would
                 faint
                 shadows
                 of
                 your
                 Union
                 show
              
               
                 Unless
                 you
                 could
                 together
                 grow
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 Union
                 which
                 is
                 from
                 Alliance
                 bred
                 ,
              
               
                 Does
                 not
                 so
                 fastly
                 wed
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho'
                 it
                 with
                 Blood
                 be
                 cemented
                 :
              
               
                 That
                 Link
                 wherewith
                 the
                 Soul
                 and
                 Body's
                 joyn'd
              
               
                 Which
                 twists
                 the
                 double
                 Nature
                 in
                 Mankind
              
               
                 Only
                 so
                 close
                 can
                 bind
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 holy
                 Fire
                 which
                 Romans
                 to
                 their
                 Vesta
                 paid
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 they
                 immortal
                 as
                 the
                 Goddess
                 made
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 noble
                 Flames
                 most
                 fitly
                 parallel
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 thine
                 were
                 just
                 so
                 pure
                 ,
                 and
                 just
                 so
                 durable
                 .
              
               
                 Those
                 feigned
                 Pairs
                 of
                 Faithfulness
                 which
                 claim
              
               
               
                 So
                 high
                 a
                 place
                 in
                 ancient
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 Had
                 they
                 thy
                 better
                 Patern
                 seen
                 ,
              
               
                 They'd
                 made
                 their
                 Friendship
                 more
                 divine
              
               
                 And
                 strove
                 to
                 mend
                 their
                 Characters
                 by
                 thine
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XX.
                 
              
               
                 Yet
                 had
                 this
                 Friendship
                 no
                 advantage
                 been
                 ,
              
               
                 Unless'twere
                 exercis'd
                 within
                 ;
              
               
                 What
                 did
                 thy
                 Love
                 to
                 other
                 Objects
                 tie
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 same
                 made
                 thy
                 own
                 Pow'rs
                 agree
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 reconcil'd
                 thy self
                 to
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 Discord
                 in
                 thy
                 Soul
                 did
                 rest
                 ,
              
               
                 Save
                 what
                 its
                 Harmony
                 increast
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 mind
                 did
                 with
                 such
                 regular
                 Calmness
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 held
                 resemblance
                 with
                 the
                 greater
                 Mind
                 above
                 .
              
               
                 Reason
                 there
                 fix'd
                 its
                 peaceful
                 Throne
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 reign'd
                 alone
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Will
                 its
                 easie
                 Neck
                 to
                 Bondage
                 gave
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 the
                 ruling
                 Faculty
                 became
                 a
                 Slave
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Passions
                 rais'd
                 no
                 Civil
                 Wars
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 discompos'd
                 thee
                 with
                 intestine
                 Jars
                 :
              
               
               
                 All
                 did
                 obey
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 paid
                 Allegiance
                 to
                 its
                 rightful
                 Sway.
              
               
                 All
                 threw
                 their
                 resty
                 Tempers
                 by
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 gentler
                 Figures
                 drew
                 ,
              
               
                 Gentle
                 as
                 Nature
                 in
                 its
                 Infancy
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 when
                 themselves
                 in
                 their
                 first
                 Beings
                 grew
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XXI
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Soul
                 within
                 such
                 silent
                 Pomp
                 did
                 keep
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 Humanity
                 were
                 lull'd
                 asleep
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 gentle
                 was
                 thy
                 Pilgrimage
                 beneath
                 ,
              
               
                 Time's
                 unheard
                 Feet
                 scarce
                 make
                 less
                 Noise
              
               
                 Or
                 the
                 soft
                 Journey
                 which
                 a
                 Planet
                 goes
                 .
              
               
                 Life
                 seem'd
                 all
                 calm
                 as
                 its
                 last
                 Breath
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 still
                 Tranquillity
                 so
                 husht
                 thy
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 some
                 Halcyon
                 were
                 its
                 Guest
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 there
                 had
                 built
                 her
                 Nest
                 ;
              
               
                 It
                 hardly
                 now
                 enjoys
                 a
                 greater
                 Rest.
              
               
                 As
                 that
                 smooth
                 Sea
                 which
                 wears
                 the
                 Name
                 of
                 Pea●…
              
               
                 Still
                 with
                 one
                 even
                 Face
                 appears
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 feels
                 no
                 Tides
                 to
                 change
                 it
                 from
                 its
                 place
                 ,
              
               
               
                 No
                 Waves
                 to
                 alter
                 the
                 fair
                 Form
                 it
                 bears
                 :
              
               
                 As
                 that
                 unspotted
                 Sky
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Nile
                 does
                 want
                 of
                 Rain
                 supply
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 free
                 from
                 Clouds
                 ,
                 from
                 Storms
                 is
                 ever
                 free
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 thy
                 unvary'd
                 mind
                 was
                 always
                 one
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 such
                 clear
                 Serenity
                 still
                 shone
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 caus'd
                 thy
                 little
                 World
                 to
                 seem
                 all
                 temp'rate
                 Zone
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XXII
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 Fools
                 their
                 high
                 Extraction
                 boast
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Greatness
                 ,
                 which
                 no
                 Travel
                 ,
                 but
                 their
                 Mothers
                 ,
                 cost
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 'em
                 extol
                 a
                 swelling
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 their
                 's
                 by
                 Will
                 and
                 Testament
                 became
                 ;
              
               
                 At
                 best
                 but
                 meer
                 Inheritance
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 oft
                 the
                 Spoils
                 as
                 Gift
                 of
                 Chance
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 some
                 ill-plac't
                 Repute
                 on
                 Scutcheons
                 rear
              
               
                 As
                 fading
                 as
                 the
                 Colors
                 which
                 those
                 bear
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 prize
                 a
                 painted
                 Field
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 Wealth
                 as
                 soon
                 as
                 Fame
                 can
                 yield
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 scorn'dst
                 at
                 such
                 low
                 rates
                 to
                 purchase
                 worth
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Nor
                 couldst
                 thou
                 owe
                 it
                 only
                 to
                 thy
                 Birth
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 self-born
                 Greatness
                 was
                 above
                 the
                 Power
              
               
                 Of
                 Parents
                 to
                 entail
                 ,
                 or
                 Fortune
                 to
                 deflower
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Soul
                 ,
                 which
                 like
                 the
                 Sun
                 ,
                 Heaven
                 molded
                 bright
                 ,
              
               
                 Disdain'd
                 to
                 shine
                 with
                 borrow'd
                 Light.
              
               
                 Thus
                 from
                 himself
                 th'
                 Eternal
                 Being
                 grew
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 no
                 other
                 Cause
                 his
                 Grandeur
                 drew
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XXIII
                 .
              
               
                 Howe'er
                 if
                 true
                 Nobility
              
               
                 Rather
                 in
                 Souls
                 than
                 in
                 the
                 Blood
                 does
                 lie
                 :
              
               
                 If
                 from
                 thy
                 better
                 part
                 we
                 Measures
                 take
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 that
                 the
                 Standard
                 of
                 our
                 Value
                 make
                 ,
              
               
                 Jewels
                 and
                 Stars
                 become
                 low
                 Heraldry
              
               
                 To
                 blazon
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Soul
                 was
                 big
                 enough
                 to
                 pity
                 Kings
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 lookt
                 on
                 Empires
                 as
                 poor
                 humble
                 things
                 .
              
               
                 Great
                 as
                 his
                 boundless
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 thought
                 himself
                 in
                 one
                 wide
                 Globe
                 confin'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 another
                 pin'd
                 .
              
               
               
                 Great
                 as
                 that
                 Spirit
                 whose
                 large
                 Powers
                 rowl
              
               
                 Thro'
                 the
                 vast
                 Fabrick
                 of
                 this
                 spatious
                 Bowl
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 tell
                 the
                 World
                 as
                 well
                 as
                 Man
                 can
                 boast
                 a
                 Soul.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 XXIV
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 could
                 not
                 this
                 an
                 Haughtiness
                 beget
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 thee
                 above
                 the
                 common
                 Level
                 set
                 .
              
               
                 Pride
                 ,
                 whose
                 Alloy
                 does
                 best
                 Endowments
                 mar
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 As
                 things
                 most
                 lofty
                 smaller
                 still
                 appear
                 )
              
               
                 With
                 thee
                 did
                 no
                 Alliance
                 bear
                 .
              
               
                 Low
                 Meritsoft
                 are
                 by
                 too
                 high
                 Esteem
                 bely'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 owners
                 lessen
                 while
                 they
                 raise
                 their
                 Price
                 ;
              
               
                 Thine
                 were
                 above
                 the
                 very
                 Guilt
                 of
                 Pride
                 ,
              
               
                 Above
                 all
                 others
                 ,
                 and
                 thy
                 own
                 Hyperbole
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 thee
                 the
                 wid'st
                 Extreams
                 were
                 joyn'd
              
               
                 The
                 loftiest
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 lowliest
                 Mind
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 tho
                 some
                 part
                 of
                 Heav'ns
                 vast
                 Round
                 ,
              
               
                 Appear
                 but
                 low
                 ,
                 and
                 seem
                 to
                 touch
                 the
                 Ground
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 't
                 is
                 well
                 known
                 almost
                 to
                 bound
                 the
                 Spheres
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 truly
                 held
                 to
                 be
                 above
                 the
                 Stars
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 XXV
                 .
              
               
                 While
                 thy
                 brave
                 Mind
                 preserv'd
                 this
                 noble
                 Frame
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 stoodst
                 at
                 once
                 secure
              
               
                 From
                 all
                 the
                 Flattery
                 and
                 Obloquy
                 of
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 s
                 rough
                 and
                 gentler
                 Breath
                 were
                 both
                 to
                 thee
                 the
                 same
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 this
                 could
                 thee
                 exalt
                 ,
                 nor
                 that
                 depress
                 thee
                 lower
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 thou
                 from
                 thy
                 great
                 Soul
                 on
                 both
                 look'dst
                 down
              
               
                 Without
                 the
                 small
                 concernment
                 of
                 a
                 smile
                 or
                 frown
                 .
              
               
                 Heav'n
                 lessdreads
                 that
                 it
                 should
                 fir'd
                 be
              
               
                 By
                 the
                 weak
                 flitting
                 Sparks
                 that
                 upwards
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 Less
                 the
                 bright
                 Goddess
                 of
                 the
                 Night
              
               
                 Fears
                 those
                 loud
                 howlings
                 that
                 revile
                 her
                 Light
              
               
                 Than
                 thou
                 malignant
                 Tongues
                 thy
                 Worth
                 should
                 blast
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 was
                 too
                 great
                 for
                 Envy's
                 Cloud
                 to
                 overcast
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 thy
                 brave
                 Method
                 to
                 despise
                 Contempt
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 make
                 what
                 was
                 the
                 Fault
                 the
                 Punishment
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 more
                 Assaults
                 could
                 weak
                 Detraction
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
               
                 When
                 thou
                 couldst
                 Saint
                 disgrace
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 turn
                 Reproach
                 to
                 Praise
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 Clouds
                 which
                 would
                 obscure
                 the
                 Sun
                 ,
                 oft
                 guilded
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Shades
                 are
                 taught
                 to
                 shine
                 as
                 bright
                 as
                 he
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 Diamonds
                 ,
                 when
                 envious
                 Night
              
               
                 Would
                 shroud
                 their
                 Splendor
                 ,
                 look
                 most
                 bright
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 its
                 Darkness
                 seem
                 to
                 borrow
                 Light.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 XXVI
                 .
              
               
                 Had
                 Heaven
                 compos'd
                 thy
                 mortal
                 Frame
                 ,
              
               
                 Free
                 from
                 Contagion
                 as
                 thy
                 Soul
                 or
                 Fame
                 :
              
               
                 Could
                 Vertue
                 been
                 but
                 Proof
                 against
                 Death's
                 Arms
                 ,
              
               
                 Th'adst
                 stood
                 unvanquisht
                 by
                 these
                 Harms
                 ,
              
               
                 Safe
                 in
                 a
                 Circle
                 made
                 by
                 thy
                 own
                 Charms
                 .
              
               
                 Fond
                 Pleasure
                 ,
                 whose
                 soft
                 Magick
                 oft
                 beguiles
              
               
                 Raw
                 unexperienc'd
                 Souls
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 smooth
                 Flattery
                 cajoles
                 ,
              
               
                 Could
                 ne'er
                 ensnare
                 thee
                 with
                 her
                 Wiles
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 make
                 thee
                 Captive
                 to
                 her
                 soothing
                 Smiles
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 that
                 Pimp
                 of
                 Vice
                 assay'd
                 to
                 please
                 ,
              
               
               
                 In
                 hope
                 to
                 draw
                 thee
                 to
                 its
                 rude
                 Embrace
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Prudence
                 still
                 that
                 Syren
                 past
              
               
                 Without
                 being
                 pinion'd
                 to
                 the
                 Mast
                 :
              
               
                 All
                 its
                 Attempts
                 were
                 ineffectual
                 found
                 ;
              
               
                 Heaven
                 senc'd
                 thy
                 heart
                 with
                 its
                 own
                 Mound
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 forc'd
                 the
                 Tempter
                 still
                 from
                 that
                 forbidden
                 Ground
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XXVII
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 mad
                 Capricio's
                 of
                 the
                 doating
                 Age
              
               
                 Could
                 ne'er
                 in
                 the
                 same
                 Frenzy
                 thee
                 engage
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 mov'd
                 thee
                 rather
                 with
                 a
                 generous
                 Rage
                 .
              
               
                 Gallants
                 ,
                 who
                 their
                 high
                 Breeding
                 prize
                 ,
              
               
                 Known
                 only
                 by
                 their
                 Gallanture
                 and
                 Vice
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Talent
                 is
                 to
                 court
                 a
                 fashionable
                 Sin
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 act
                 some
                 fine
                 Transgression
                 with
                 a
                 janty
                 Meen
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 by
                 such
                 Methods
                 hope
                 the
                 Vogue
                 to
                 win
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 those
                 gay
                 Fops
                 who
                 deem
              
               
                 Their
                 Infamies
                 Accomplishment
                 ,
              
               
                 Grow
                 scandalous
                 to
                 get
                 Esteem
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 Disgrace
                 strive
                 to
                 be
                 eminent
                 .
              
               
               
                 Here
                 thou
                 disdainst
                 the
                 common
                 Road
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 wouldst
                 by
                 ought
                 be
                 wood
              
               
                 To
                 wear
                 the
                 vain
                 Iniquities
                 o'
                 th'
                 Mode
                 .
              
               
                 Vice
                 with
                 thy
                 Practice
                 did
                 so
                 disagree
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 scarce
                 couldst
                 bear
                 it
                 in
                 thy
                 Theory
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 didst
                 such
                 Ignorance
                 'bove
                 Knowledge
                 prize
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 here
                 to
                 be
                 unskill'd
                 ,
                 is
                 to
                 be
                 wise
                 .
              
               
                 Such
                 the
                 first
                 Founders
                 of
                 our
                 Blood
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 yet
                 untempted
                 ,
                 stood
              
               
                 Contented
                 only
                 to
                 know
                 Good.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 XXVIII
                 .
              
               
                 Vertue
                 alone
                 did
                 guide
                 thy
                 Actions
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 by
                 no
                 other
                 Card
                 thy
                 Life
                 didst
                 steer
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 sly
                 decoy
                 would
                 serve
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 thee
                 from
                 its
                 rigid
                 Dictates
                 swerve
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Love
                 ne'er
                 thought
                 her
                 worse
              
               
                 Because
                 thou
                 hadst
                 so
                 few
                 Competitors
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 couldst
                 adore
                 her
                 when
                 ador'd
                 by
                 none
              
               
                 Content
                 to
                 be
                 her
                 Votary
                 alone
                 :
              
               
               
                 When
                 't
                 was
                 proscrib'd
                 the
                 unkind
                 World
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 blind
                 Cells
                 ,
                 and
                 Grotto's
                 hurld
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 thought
                 the
                 Fantom
                 of
                 some
                 crazy
                 Brain
                 ,
              
               
                 Fit
                 for
                 grave
                 Anchorets
                 to
                 entertain
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 thin
                 Chimaera
                 ,
                 whom
                 dull
                 Gown-Men
                 frame
              
               
                 To
                 gull
                 deluded
                 Mortals
                 with
                 an
                 empty
                 Name
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XXIX
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 own'dst
                 no
                 Crimes
                 that
                 shun'd
                 the
                 Light
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Horror
                 might
                 thy
                 Blood
                 affright
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 force
                 it
                 to
                 its
                 known
                 Retreat
                 .
              
               
                 While
                 the
                 pale
                 Cheeks
                 do
                 Penance
                 in
                 their
                 White
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 tell
                 that
                 Blushes
                 are
                 too
                 weak
                 to
                 expiate
                 :
              
               
                 Thy
                 Faults
                 might
                 all
                 be
                 on
                 thy
                 Forehead
                 wore
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 whole
                 World
                 thy
                 Confessor
                 .
              
               
                 Conscience
                 within
                 still
                 kept
                 Assize
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 punish
                 and
                 deter
                 Impieties
                 :
              
               
                 That
                 inbred
                 Judg
                 ,
                 such
                 strict
                 Inspection
                 bore
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 travers'd
                 all
                 thy
                 Actions
                 ore
                 ;
              
               
                 Th'
                 Eternal
                 Judge
                 could
                 scarce
                 do
                 more
                 :
              
               
               
                 Those
                 little
                 Escapades
                 of
                 Vice
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 pass
                 the
                 Cognizance
                 of
                 most
              
               
                 I'
                 th'
                 Crowd
                 of
                 following
                 Sins
                 forgot
                 and
                 lost
                 ,
              
               
                 Could
                 ne're
                 its
                 Sentence
                 or
                 Arraignment
                 miss
                 :
              
               
                 Thou
                 didst
                 prevent
                 the
                 young
                 desires
                 of
                 ill
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 them
                 in
                 their
                 first
                 Motions
                 kill
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 very
                 thoughts
                 in
                 others
                 unconfin'd
              
               
                 And
                 lawless
                 as
                 the
                 Wind
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 couldst
                 to
                 Rule
                 and
                 Order
                 bind
                 .
              
               
                 They
                 durst
                 not
                 any
                 stamp
                 ,
                 but
                 that
                 of
                 Vertue
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 free
                 from
                 stain
                 as
                 thy
                 most
                 publick
                 Actions
                 were
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 wild
                 Debauches
                 hug
                 their
                 darling
                 Vice
              
               
                 And
                 court
                 no
                 other
                 Paradise
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 want
                 of
                 Power
              
               
                 Bids
                 'em
                 discard
                 the
                 stale
                 Amour
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 disabled
                 strength
                 shall
                 force
              
               
                 A
                 short
                 Divorce
                 ,
              
               
                 Miscall
                 that
                 weak
                 forbearance
                 Abstinence
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 wise
                 Morality
                 and
                 better
                 Sence
              
               
               
                 Stiles
                 but
                 at
                 best
                 a
                 sneaking
                 Impotence
                 .
              
               
                 Thine
                 far
                 a
                 Nobler
                 Pitch
                 did
                 fly
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 all
                 free
                 choice
                 ,
                 nought
                 of
                 Necessity
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 didst
                 that
                 puny
                 Soul
                 disdain
              
               
                 Whose
                 half
                 strain
                 Vertue
                 only
                 can
                 restrain
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 wouldst
                 that
                 empty
                 Being
                 own
              
               
                 Which
                 springs
                 from
                 Negatives
                 alone
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 truly
                 thoughst
                 it
                 always
                 Vertues
                 Skeleton
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XXX
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 didst
                 thou
                 those
                 mean
                 Spirits
                 more
                 approve
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 Vertue
                 ,
                 only
                 for
                 its
                 Dowry
                 love
                 ,
              
               
                 Unbrib'd
                 thou
                 didst
                 her
                 sterling
                 self
                 espouse
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 wouldst
                 a
                 better
                 Mistress
                 choose
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 couldst
                 Affection
                 to
                 her
                 bare
                 Idaea
                 pay
              
               
                 The
                 first
                 that
                 e'er
                 caress'd
                 her
                 the
                 Platonick
                 way
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 see
                 her
                 in
                 her
                 own
                 Attractions
                 drest
              
               
                 Did
                 all
                 thy
                 Love
                 arrest
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 lack'd
                 there
                 new
                 Efforts
                 to
                 storm
                 thy
                 Brest
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 generous
                 Loyalty
              
               
                 Would
                 ne'er
                 a
                 Mercenary
                 be
                 ,
              
               
               
                 But
                 chose
                 to
                 serve
                 her
                 still
                 without
                 a
                 Livery
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 wast
                 thou
                 not
                 of
                 Recompense
                 debarr'd
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 countedst
                 Honesty
                 it
                 s
                 own
                 Reward
                 ;
              
               
                 Thou
                 didst
                 not
                 wish
                 a
                 greater
                 Bliss
                 t'
                 accrue
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 to
                 be
                 good
                 to
                 thee
                 was
                 to
                 be
                 happy
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 secret
                 Triumph
                 of
                 thy
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 always
                 thou
                 in
                 doing
                 well
                 didst
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 Were
                 Heaven
                 enough
                 ,
                 were
                 there
                 no
                 other
                 Heaven
                 design'd
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XXXI
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 Vertues
                 few
                 possess
                 but
                 by
                 Retail
              
               
                 In
                 gross
                 could
                 thee
                 their
                 Owner
                 call
                 ;
              
               
                 They
                 all
                 did
                 in
                 thy
                 single
                 Circle
                 fall
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 wast
                 a
                 living
                 System
                 where
                 were
                 wrote
              
               
                 All
                 those
                 high
                 Morals
                 which
                 in
                 Books
                 are
                 sought
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Practice
                 did
                 more
                 Vertues
                 share
              
               
                 Than
                 heretofore
                 the
                 learned
                 Porch
                 e'er
                 knew
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 in
                 the
                 Stagyrites
                 scant
                 Ethics
                 grew
                 :
              
               
                 Devout
                 thou
                 wast
                 as
                 holy
                 Hermits
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 share
                 their
                 time
                 'twixt
                 Extasie
                 and
                 Prayer
                 .
              
               
               
                 Modest
                 as
                 Infant
                 Roses
                 in
                 their
                 bloom
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 in
                 a
                 Blush
                 their
                 Lives
                 consume
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 Chast
                 ,
                 the
                 Dead
                 are
                 only
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 lie
                 divorc'd
                 from
                 Objects
                 ,
                 and
                 from
                 Power
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 pure
                 ,
                 that
                 if
                 blest
                 Saints
                 could
                 be
              
               
                 Taught
                 Innocence
                 ,
                 they
                 'd
                 gladly
                 learn
                 of
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Vertues
                 height
                 in
                 Heaven
                 alone
                 could
                 grow
              
               
                 Nor
                 to
                 ought
                 else
                 would
                 for
                 Accession
                 owe
                 :
              
               
                 It
                 only
                 now
                 's
                 more
                 perfect
                 than
                 it
                 was
                 below
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XXXII
                 .
              
               
                 Hence
                 ,
                 tho'
                 at
                 once
                 thy
                 Soul
                 liv'd
                 here
                 and
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 Heaven
                 alone
                 its
                 Thoughts
                 did
                 share
                 ;
              
               
                 It
                 own'd
                 no
                 home
                 ,
                 but
                 in
                 the
                 active
                 Sphere
                 .
              
               
                 Its
                 Motions
                 always
                 did
                 to
                 that
                 bright
                 Center
                 rowl
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 seem'd
                 t'
                 inform
                 thee
                 only
                 on
                 Parole
                 .
              
               
                 Look
                 how
                 the
                 Needle
                 does
                 to
                 its
                 dear
                 North
                 incline
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 wer
                 't
                 not
                 fixt
                 't
                 would
                 to
                 that
                 Region
                 climb
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 mark
                 what
                 hidden
                 force
              
               
                 Bids
                 the
                 Flame
                 upwards
                 take
                 its
                 course
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 makes
                 it
                 with
                 that
                 Swiftness
                 rise
                 ,
              
               
               
                 As
                 if
                 't
                 were
                 wing'd
                 by
                 th'
                 Air
                 thro'
                 which
                 it
                 flies
                 .
              
               
                 Such
                 a
                 strong
                 Vertue
                 did
                 thy
                 Inclinations
                 bend
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 made
                 'em
                 still
                 to
                 the
                 blest
                 Mansions
                 tend
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 mighty
                 Slave
                 whom
                 the
                 proud
                 Victor's
                 Rage
              
               
                 Shut
                 Pris'ner
                 in
                 a
                 golden
                 Cage
                 ,
              
               
                 Condemn'd
                 to
                 glorious
                 Vassalage
                 ,
              
               
                 Ne'er
                 long'd
                 for
                 dear
                 Enlargement
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 his
                 gay
                 Bondage
                 with
                 less
                 Patience
                 bore
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 this
                 great
                 Spirit
                 brookt
                 its
                 tedious
                 Stay
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 fetter'd
                 here
                 in
                 brittle
                 Clay
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 wish'd
                 to
                 disengage
                 and
                 fly
                 away
                 .
              
               
                 It
                 vext
                 and
                 chaf'd
                 ,
                 and
                 still
                 desir'd
                 to
                 be
              
               
                 Releas'd
                 to
                 the
                 sweet
                 Freedom
                 of
                 Eternity
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XXXIII
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 were
                 its
                 Wishes
                 long
                 unheard
                 ,
              
               
                 Fate
                 soon
                 at
                 its
                 desire
                 appear'd
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 strait
                 for
                 an
                 Assault
                 prepar'd
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 suddain
                 and
                 a
                 swift
                 Disease
              
               
                 First
                 on
                 thy
                 Heart
                 Life's
                 chiefest
                 Fort
                 does
                 seize
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 then
                 on
                 all
                 the
                 Suburb-vitals
                 preys
                 :
              
               
               
                 Next
                 it
                 corrupts
                 thy
                 tainted
                 Blood
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 scatters
                 Poyson
                 thro'
                 its
                 purple
                 Flood
                 .
              
               
                 Sharp
                 Aches
                 in
                 thick
                 Troops
                 it
                 sends
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Pain
                 ,
                 which
                 like
                 a
                 Rack
                 the
                 Nerves
                 extends
                 .
              
               
                 Anguish
                 through
                 every
                 Member
                 flies
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 those
                 inward
                 Gemonies
              
               
                 Whereby
                 frail
                 Flesh
                 in
                 Torture
                 dies
                 .
              
               
                 All
                 the
                 staid
                 Glories
                 of
                 thy
                 Face
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 sprightly
                 Youth
                 lay
                 checkt
                 with
                 manly
                 Grace
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 now
                 impair'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 quite
                 by
                 the
                 rude
                 hand
                 of
                 Sickness
                 mar'd
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Body
                 where
                 due
                 Symmetry
              
               
                 In
                 just
                 proportions
                 once
                 did
                 lie
                 ,
              
               
                 Now
                 hardly
                 could
                 be
                 known
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 s
                 very
                 Figure
                 out
                 of
                 Fashion
                 grown
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 should
                 thy
                 Soul
                 to
                 its
                 old
                 Seat
                 return
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Life
                 once
                 more
                 adjourn
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 would
                 stand
                 amaz'd
                 to
                 see
                 its
                 alter'd
                 Frame
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 doubt
                 (
                 almost
                 )
                 whether
                 its
                 own
                 Carcass
                 were
                 the
                 same
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 XXXIV
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 here
                 thy
                 Sickness
                 does
                 new
                 matter
                 raise
              
               
                 Both
                 for
                 thy
                 Vertue
                 and
                 our
                 Praise
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 here
                 thy
                 Picture
                 look'd
                 most
                 neat
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 deep'st
                 in
                 Shades
                 't
                 was
                 set
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Vertues
                 only
                 thus
                 could
                 fairer
                 be
              
               
                 Advantag'd
                 by
                 the
                 Foil
                 of
                 Misery
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Soul
                 which
                 hasten'd
                 now
                 to
                 be
                 enlarg'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 of
                 its
                 grosser
                 Load
                 discharg'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Began
                 to
                 act
                 above
                 its
                 wonted
                 rate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 gave
                 a
                 Praelude
                 of
                 its
                 next
                 unbody'd
                 State.
              
               
                 So
                 dying
                 Tapers
                 near
                 their
                 Fall
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 their
                 own
                 Lustre
                 lights
                 their
                 Funeral
                 ,
              
               
                 Contract
                 their
                 Strength
                 into
                 one
                 brighter
                 Fire
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 that
                 Blaze
                 triumphantly
                 expire
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 the
                 bright
                 Globe
                 that
                 rules
                 the
                 Skies
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho'
                 he
                 guild
                 Heav'n
                 with
                 a
                 glorious
                 Rise
                 ,
              
               
                 Reserves
                 his
                 choicest
                 Beams
                 to
                 grace
                 his
                 Set
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 then
                 he
                 looks
                 most
                 great
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 then
                 in
                 greatest
                 Splendor
                 dies
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 XXXVI
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 sharpest
                 pains
                 didst
                 with
                 that
                 Courage
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 still
                 thy
                 Looks
                 so
                 unconcern'd
                 didst
                 wear
                 :
              
               
                 Beholders
                 seem'd
                 more
                 indispos'd
                 than
                 thee
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 they
                 were
                 sick
                 in
                 Effigie
                 .
              
               
                 Like
                 some
                 well-fashion'd
                 Arch
                 thy
                 Patience
                 stood
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 purchas'd
                 Firmness
                 from
                 its
                 greater
                 Load
                 .
              
               
                 Those
                 Shapes
                 of
                 Torture
                 ,
                 which
                 to
                 view
                 in
                 Paint
              
               
                 Would
                 make
                 another
                 faint
                 ;
              
               
                 Thou
                 could'st
                 endure
                 in
                 true
                 Reality
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 feel
                 what
                 some
                 could
                 hardly
                 bear
                 to
                 see
                 .
              
               
                 Those
                 Indians
                 who
                 their
                 Kings
                 by
                 Torture
                 chose
                 ,
              
               
                 Subjecting
                 all
                 the
                 Royal
                 Issue
                 to
                 that
                 Test
              
               
                 Could
                 ne'er
                 thy
                 Sway
                 refuse
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 he
                 deserves
                 to
                 reign
                 that
                 suffers
                 best
                 .
              
               
                 Had
                 those
                 fierce
                 Savages
                 thy
                 Patience
                 view'd
                 ,
              
               
                 thou
                 'dst
                 claim'd
                 their
                 Choice
                 alone
                 ▪
              
               
                 They
                 with
                 a
                 Crown
                 had
                 paid
                 thy
                 Fortitude
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 turn'd
                 thy
                 Death
                 bed
                 to
                 a
                 Throne
              
            
             
               
               
                 XXXVII
                 .
              
               
                 All
                 those
                 Heroick
                 Pieties
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Zeal
                 to
                 Truth
                 made
                 them
                 its
                 Sacrifice
                 :
              
               
                 Those
                 nobler
                 Scaevola's
                 ,
                 whose
                 holy
                 Rage
              
               
                 Did
                 their
                 whole
                 selves
                 in
                 cruel
                 Flames
                 engage
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 did
                 amidst
                 their
                 Force
                 unmov'd
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 those
                 Fires
                 but
                 lambent
                 were
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 they
                 had
                 found
                 their
                 Empyreum
                 there
                 .
              
               
                 Might
                 these
                 repeat
                 again
                 their
                 Days
                 beneath
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 'd
                 seen
                 their
                 Fates
                 out-acted
                 by
                 a
                 natural
                 Death
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 each
                 of
                 them
                 to
                 thee
                 resign
                 his
                 Wreath
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 spite
                 of
                 Weakness
                 and
                 harsh
                 Destiny
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 relish
                 Torment
                 ,
                 and
                 enjoy
                 a
                 Misery
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 to
                 caress
                 a
                 Doom
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 make
                 its
                 Sufferings
                 Delights
                 become
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 to
                 triumph
                 o'er
                 Sense
                 and
                 thy
                 Disease
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 amongst
                 Pains
                 to
                 revel
                 in
                 soft
                 Ease
                 :
              
               
                 These
                 wonders
                 did
                 thy
                 Vertues
                 worth
                 enhance
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Sickness
                 to
                 dry
                 Martyrdom
                 advance
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 XXXVIII
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 could
                 not
                 all
                 these
                 Miracles
                 stern
                 Fate
                 avert
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 make
                 't
                 withold
                 the
                 Dart.
              
               
                 Only
                 she
                 paus'd
                 a
                 while
                 with
                 Wonder
                 strook
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 while
                 she
                 doubted
                 if
                 that
                 Destiny
                 was
                 thine
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 turned
                 o'er
                 again
                 the
                 dreadful
                 Book
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 hop'd
                 she
                 had
                 mistook
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 wish'd
                 she
                 might
                 have
                 cut
                 another
                 Line
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 dire
                 Necessity
              
               
                 Soon
                 cry'd
                 't
                 was
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 bad
                 her
                 give
                 the
                 fatal
                 Blow
                 .
              
               
                 Strait
                 she
                 obeys
                 ,
                 and
                 strait
                 the
                 vital
                 Powers
                 grow
              
               
                 Too
                 weak
                 to
                 grapple
                 with
                 a
                 stronger
                 Foe
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 the
                 feeble
                 Strife
                 forgo
                 .
              
               
                 Life's
                 sap'd
                 Foundation
                 every
                 Moment
                 sinks
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 every
                 Breath
                 to
                 lesser
                 compass
                 shrinks
                 ;
              
               
                 Last
                 panting
                 Gasps
                 grow
                 weaker
                 each
                 Rebound
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 the
                 faint
                 Tremblings
                 of
                 a
                 dying
                 Sound
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 doubtful
                 Twilight
                 hovers
                 o'er
                 the
                 Light
                 ,
              
               
                 Ready
                 to
                 usher
                 in
                 Eternal
                 Night
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 XXXIX
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 heré
                 thy
                 Courage
                 taught
                 thee
                 to
                 out-brave
              
               
                 All
                 the
                 slight
                 Horrors
                 of
                 the
                 Grave
                 :
              
               
                 Pale
                 Death's
                 Arrest
              
               
                 Ne'er
                 shock'd
                 thy
                 Breast
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 could
                 it
                 in
                 the
                 dreadfulst
                 Figure
                 drest
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 ugly
                 Skeleton
                 may
                 guilty
                 Spirits
                 daunt
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 the
                 dire
                 Ghosts
                 of
                 Crimes
                 departed
                 haunt
                 ,
              
               
                 Arm'd
                 with
                 bold
                 Innocence
                 thou
                 couldst
                 that
                 Mormo
                 dare
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 on
                 the
                 bare-fac'd
                 King
                 of
                 Terrors
                 stare
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 free
                 from
                 all
                 Effects
                 as
                 from
                 the
                 Cause
                 of
                 Fear
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Soul
                 so
                 willing
                 from
                 thy
                 Body
                 went
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 both
                 parted
                 by
                 Consent
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 Murmur
                 ,
                 no
                 Complaining
                 ,
                 no
                 Delay
                 ,
              
               
                 Only
                 a
                 Sigh
                 ,
                 a
                 Groan
                 ,
                 and
                 so
                 away
                 .
              
               
                 Death
                 seem'd
                 to
                 glide
                 with
                 Pleasure
                 in
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 in
                 this
                 Sense
                 too
                 't
                 had
                 lost
                 her
                 Sting
                 .
              
               
                 Like
                 some
                 well-acted
                 Comedy
                 Life
                 swiftly
                 past
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ended
                 just
                 so
                 still
                 and
                 sweet
                 at
                 last
                 .
              
               
               
                 Thou
                 ,
                 like
                 its
                 Actors
                 ,
                 seem'dst
                 in
                 borrow'd
                 Habit
                 here
              
               
                 And
                 couldst
                 ,
                 as
                 easily
                 beneath
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 they
                 do
                 that
                 ,
                 put
                 off
                 Mortality
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 breathedst
                 out
                 thy
                 Soul
                 as
                 free
                 as
                 common
                 Breath
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 unconcern'd
                 as
                 they
                 are
                 in
                 a
                 feigned
                 Death
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XL.
                 
              
               
                 Go
                 happy
                 Soul
                 ,
                 ascend
                 the
                 joyful
                 Sky
                 ,
              
               
                 Joyful
                 to
                 shine
                 with
                 thy
                 bright
                 Company
                 :
              
               
                 Go
                 mount
                 the
                 spangled
                 Sphere
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 make
                 it
                 brighter
                 by
                 another
                 Star
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 stop
                 not
                 there
                 ,
                 till
                 thou
                 advance
                 yet
                 higher
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 thou
                 art
                 swallow'd
                 quite
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 vast
                 unexhausted
                 Ocean
                 of
                 Delight
                 :
              
               
                 Delight
                 which
                 there
                 alone
                 in
                 its
                 true
                 Essence
                 is
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Saints
                 keep
                 an
                 eternal
                 Carnival
                 of
                 Bliss
                 :
              
               
                 Where
                 the
                 Regalio's
                 of
                 refined
                 Joy
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 fill
                 ,
                 but
                 never
                 cloy
                 .
              
               
                 Where
                 Pleasures
                 ever
                 growing
                 ,
                 ever
                 new
                 ,
              
               
                 Immortal
                 as
                 thy self
                 ,
                 and
                 boundless
                 too
                 .
              
               
               
                 There
                 may'st
                 thou
                 learned
                 by
                 Compendium
                 grow
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 which
                 in
                 vain
                 below
              
               
                 We
                 so
                 much
                 time
                 ,
                 and
                 so
                 much
                 pains
                 bestow
                 .
              
               
                 There
                 may'st
                 thou
                 all
                 Idaea's
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 wonders
                 which
                 in
                 Knowledge
                 be
              
               
                 In
                 that
                 fair
                 beatifick
                 mirror
                 of
                 the
                 Deity
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XLI
                 .
              
               
                 Mean
                 while
                 thy
                 Body
                 mourns
                 in
                 its
                 own
                 Dust
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 puts
                 on
                 Sables
                 for
                 its
                 tender
                 Trust.
              
               
                 Tho'
                 dead
                 ,
                 it
                 yet
                 retains
                 some
                 untoucht
                 Grace
                 ,
              
               
                 Wherein
                 we
                 may
                 thy
                 Soul
                 's
                 fair
                 Foot-steps
                 trace
                 ;
              
               
                 Which
                 no
                 Disease
                 can
                 frighten
                 from
                 its
                 wonted
                 place
                 :
              
               
                 E'en
                 its
                 Deformities
                 do
                 thee
                 become
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 only
                 serve
                 to
                 consecrate
                 thy
                 Doom
                 .
              
               
                 Those
                 marks
                 of
                 Death
                 which
                 did
                 its
                 Surface
                 stain
              
               
                 Now
                 hallow
                 ,
                 not
                 profane
                 .
              
               
                 Each
                 Spot
                 does
                 toa
                 Ruby
                 turn
                 ;
              
               
                 What
                 soil'd
                 but
                 now
                 ,
                 would
                 now
                 adorn●…
              
               
                 Those
                 Asterisks
                 plac'd
                 in
                 the
                 Margin
                 of
                 thy
                 Skin
              
               
               
                 Point
                 out
                 the
                 nobler
                 Soul
                 that
                 dwelt
                 within
                 :
              
               
                 Thy
                 lesser
                 ,
                 like
                 the
                 greater
                 World
                 appears
              
               
                 All
                 over
                 bright
                 ,
                 all
                 over
                 stuck
                 with
                 Stars
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 Indian
                 Luxury
                 when
                 it
                 would
                 be
                 trim
                 ,
              
               
                 Hangs
                 Pearls
                 on
                 every
                 Limb.
              
               
                 Thus
                 amongst
                 ancient
                 Picts
                 Nobility
              
               
                 In
                 Blemishes
                 did
                 lie
                 ;
              
               
                 Each
                 by
                 his
                 Spots
                 more
                 honourable
                 grew
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 their
                 Store
                 a
                 greater
                 Value
                 drew
                 :
              
               
                 Their
                 Kings
                 were
                 known
                 by
                 th'
                 Royal
                 Stains
                 they
                 bore
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 their
                 Skins
                 their
                 Ermin
                 wore
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 LXII
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Blood
                 where
                 Death
                 triumph'd
                 in
                 greatest
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Purple
                 seem'd
                 the
                 Badge
                 of
                 Tyrant-Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 thy
                 Body
                 o'er
              
               
                 Its
                 ruling
                 Colours
                 bore
                 :
              
               
                 That
                 which
                 infected
                 with
                 the
                 noxious
                 Ill
              
               
                 But
                 lately
                 help'd
                 to
                 kill
                 ,
              
               
                 Whos
                 's
                 Circulation
                 fatal
                 grew
                 .
              
               
               
                 And
                 thro'
                 each
                 part
                 a
                 swifter
                 Ruin
                 threw
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 conscious
                 ,
                 it
                 s
                 own
                 Murther
                 would
                 arraign
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 throngs
                 to
                 sally
                 out
                 at
                 every
                 Vein
                 .
              
               
                 Each
                 Dropa
                 redder
                 than
                 its
                 native
                 Dye
                 puts
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 in
                 its
                 own
                 Blushes
                 't
                 would
                 its
                 Guilt
                 atone
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 sacred
                 Rubric
                 does
                 thy
                 Carcass
                 paint
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Death
                 in
                 every
                 Member
                 writes
                 thee
                 Saint
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 Phoebus
                 cloaths
                 his
                 dying
                 Rays
                 each
                 Night
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 blushes
                 he
                 can
                 live
                 no
                 longer
                 to
                 give
                 Light.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 LXIII
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 Fools
                 ,
                 whose
                 dying
                 Fame
                 requires
                 to
                 have
              
               
                 Like
                 their
                 own
                 Carcasses
                 a
                 Grave
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 them
                 with
                 vain
                 Expence
                 adorn
              
               
                 Some
                 costly
                 Urn
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 shortly
                 ,
                 like
                 themselves
                 ,
                 to
                 Dust
                 shall
                 turn
                 .
              
               
                 Here
                 lacks
                 no
                 Carian
                 Sepulchre
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 Ruin
                 shall
                 e'er
                 long
                 in
                 its
                 own
                 Tomb
                 interr
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 fond
                 AEgyptian
                 Fabric
                 built
                 so
                 high
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 't
                 would
                 climb
                 the
                 Sky
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thence
                 reach
                 Immortality
                 .
              
               
               
                 Thy
                 Vertues
                 shall
                 embalm
                 thy
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 make
                 it
                 lasting
                 as
                 the
                 Breath
                 of
                 Fame
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 frailer
                 Brass
              
               
                 Shall
                 moulder
                 by
                 a
                 quick
                 Decrease
                 ;
              
               
                 When
                 brittle
                 Marble
                 shall
                 decay
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 the
                 Jaws
                 of
                 Time
                 become
                 a
                 Prey
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Praise
                 shall
                 live
                 ,
                 when
                 Graves
                 shall
                 buried
                 lie
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 Time
                 it self
                 shall
                 die
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 yield
                 its
                 triple
                 Empire
                 to
                 Eternity
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               To
               the
               Memory
               of
               that
               worthy
               Gentleman
               ,
               Mr.
               
                 Harman
                 Atwood
              
               .
            
             
               PINDARIQUE
               .
            
             
               
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 no
                 more
                 repine
                 at
                 Destiny
                 ,
              
               
                 Now
                 we
                 poor
                 common
                 Mortals
                 are
                 content
                 to
                 die
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 thee
                 ,
                 blest
                 Saint
                 ,
                 we
                 cold
                 and
                 breathless
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 Thee
                 ,
                 who
                 if
                 ought
                 that
                 's
                 great
                 and
                 brave
                 ,
              
               
                 Ought
                 that
                 is
                 excellent
                 might
                 save
                 ,
              
               
                 Hadst
                 justly
                 claim'd
                 Exemption
                 from
                 the
                 Grave
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 cancell'd
                 the
                 black
                 irreversible
                 Decree
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 didst
                 alone
                 such
                 Worth
                 ,
                 such
                 Goodness
                 share
              
               
                 As
                 well
                 deserv'd
                 to
                 be
                 immortal
                 here
                 ;
              
               
                 Deserve
                 a
                 Life
                 as
                 lasting
                 as
                 the
                 Fame
                 thou
                 art
                 to
                 wear
                 .
              
               
                 At
                 least
                 ,
                 why
                 went
                 thy
                 Soul
                 without
                 its
                 Mate
                 ?
              
               
               
                 Why
                 did
                 they
                 not
                 together
                 undivided
                 go
                 ?
              
               
                 So
                 went
                 (
                 we
                 're
                 told
                 )
                 the
                 fam'd
                 Illustrious
                 Two.
              
               
                 (
                 Nor
                 could
                 they
                 greater
                 Merits
                 shew
                 ,
              
               
                 Altho'
                 the
                 best
                 of
                 Patriarchs
                 that
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 this
                 the
                 best
                 of
                 Prophets
                 was
                 )
              
               
                 Heav'n
                 did
                 alive
                 the
                 blessed
                 Pair
                 translate
                 ;
              
               
                 Alive
                 they
                 launch'd
                 into
                 Life's
                 boundless
                 Happiness
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 never
                 past
                 Death's
                 Straights
                 and
                 narrow
                 Seas
                 ;
              
               
                 Ne'er
                 enter'd
                 the
                 dark
                 gloomy
                 Thorowfare
                 of
                 Fate
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 Long
                 time
                 had
                 the
                 Profession
                 under
                 Scandal
                 lain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 felt
                 a
                 general
                 tho'
                 unjust
                 Disdain
                 ,
              
               
                 An
                 upright
                 Lawyer
                 Contradiction
                 seem'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 was
                 at
                 least
                 a
                 Prodigy
                 esteem'd
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 one
                 perhaps
                 did
                 in
                 an
                 Age
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 was
                 recorded
                 like
                 some
                 Blazing
                 Star
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Statues
                 were
                 erected
                 to
                 the
                 wondrous
                 Man
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 heretofore
                 to
                 the
                 strange
                 honest
                 Publican
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 thee
                 the
                 numerous
                 Calling
                 all
                 its
                 thanks
                 should
                 give
                 ,
              
               
               
                 To
                 thee
                 who
                 couldst
                 alone
                 its
                 lost
                 Repute
                 retrieve
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 the
                 vast
                 wide
                 extremes
                 didst
                 reconcile
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 first
                 ,
                 almost
                 ,
                 e'er
                 taught
                 it
                 was
                 not
                 to
                 beguile
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 each
                 thou
                 didst
                 distribute
                 Right
                 so
                 equally
                 ,
              
               
                 Ev'n
                 Justice
                 might
                 her self
                 correct
                 her
                 Scales
                 by
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 none
                 did
                 now
                 regret
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 once
                 bewail'd
                 Retreat
                 ,
              
               
                 Since
                 all
                 enjoy'd
                 her
                 better
                 Deputy
                 .
              
               
                 Henceforth
                 succeeding
                 Time
                 shall
                 bear
                 in
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Chronicle
                 the
                 best
                 of
                 all
                 the
                 kind
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 best
                 e'er
                 since
                 the
                 man
                 that
                 gave
              
               
                 Our
                 suffering
                 God
                 a
                 Grave
                 ;
              
               
                 (
                 That
                 God
                 who
                 living
                 no
                 Abode
                 could
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho'
                 he
                 the
                 World
                 had
                 made
                 ,
                 and
                 was
                 to
                 save
                 )
              
               
                 Embalming
                 him
                 ,
                 he
                 did
                 embalm
                 his
                 Memory
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 make
                 it
                 from
                 Corruption
                 free
                 :
              
               
                 Those
                 Odors
                 kindly
                 lent
                 perfum'd
                 the
                 Breath
                 of
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fixt
                 a
                 lasting
                 Fragrancy
                 upon
                 his
                 Name
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 rais'd
                 it
                 with
                 his
                 Saviour
                 to
                 an
                 Immortality
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 III.
                 
              
               
                 Hence
                 the
                 stale
                 musty
                 Paradox
                 of
                 equal
                 Souls
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 ancient
                 vulgar
                 Error
                 of
                 the
                 Schools
                 ,
              
               
                 Avow'd
                 by
                 dull
                 Philosophers
                 and
                 thinking
                 Fool.
              
               
                 Here
                 might
                 they
                 find
                 their
                 feeble
                 Arguments
                 o'erthrown
                 :
              
               
                 Here
                 might
                 the
                 grave
                 Disputers
                 find
              
               
                 Themselves
                 all
                 baffl'd
                 by
                 a
                 single
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 see
                 one
                 vastly
                 larger
                 than
                 their
                 own
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho'
                 all
                 of
                 theirs
                 were
                 mixt
                 in
                 one
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Soul
                 as
                 great
                 as
                 e'er
                 vouchsaf'd
                 to
                 be
              
               
                 Inhabiter
                 in
                 low
                 Mortality
                 ;
              
               
                 As
                 e'er
                 th'
                 Almighty
                 Artist
                 labour'd
                 to
                 infuse
                 ,
              
               
                 Thro'
                 all
                 his
                 Mint
                 he
                 did
                 the
                 brightest
                 chuse
                 ;
              
               
                 With
                 his
                 own
                 Image
                 stampt
                 it
                 fair
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 bid
                 it
                 ever
                 the
                 Divine
                 Impression
                 wear
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 so
                 it
                 did
                 ,
                 so
                 pure
                 ,
                 so
                 well
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 hardly
                 could
                 believe
                 him
                 of
                 the
                 Race
                 that
                 fell
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 spotless
                 still
                 ,
                 and
                 still
                 so
                 good
                 ,
              
               
               
                 As
                 if
                 it
                 never
                 lodg'd
                 in
                 Flesh
                 and
                 Blood.
              
               
                 Hence
                 conscious
                 too
                 ,
                 how
                 high
                 ,
                 how
                 nobly
                 born
                 :
              
               
                 It
                 never
                 did
                 reproach
                 its
                 Birth
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 valuing
                 ought
                 of
                 base
                 or
                 meaner
                 worth
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 look'd
                 on
                 earthly
                 Grandeur
                 with
                 Contempt
                 and
                 Scorn
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 IV.
                 
              
               
                 Like
                 his
                 All-great
                 Creator
                 ,
                 who
              
               
                 Can
                 only
                 by
                 diffusing
                 greater
                 grow
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 made
                 his
                 chiefest
                 Glory
                 to
                 communicate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 chose
                 the
                 fairest
                 Attribute
                 to
                 imitate
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 kind
                 ,
                 so
                 generous
                 ,
                 and
                 so
                 free
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 he
                 only
                 liv'd
                 in
                 Courtesie
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 unhappy
                 did
                 his
                 Pity
                 claim
                 ,
              
               
                 Only
                 to
                 want
                 it
                 did
                 deserve
                 the
                 same
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 lack'd
                 there
                 other
                 Rhetorick
                 than
                 Innocence
                 and
                 Misery
                 .
              
               
                 His
                 unconfin'd
                 unhoarded
                 Store
              
               
                 Was
                 still
                 the
                 vast
                 Exchequer
                 of
                 the
                 poor
                 ;
              
               
               
                 And
                 whatsoe'er
                 in
                 pious
                 Acts
                 went
                 out
              
               
                 He
                 did
                 in
                 his
                 own
                 Inventory
                 put
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 well
                 the
                 wise
                 and
                 prudent
                 Banker
                 knew
              
               
                 His
                 Gracious
                 Sovereign
                 above
                 would
                 all
                 repay
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 th'
                 expences
                 of
                 his
                 Charity
                 defray
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 so
                 he
                 did
                 ,
                 both
                 Principal
                 and
                 Interest
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 he
                 by
                 holy
                 Prodigality
                 more
                 wealthy
                 grew
                 .
              
               
                 Such
                 ,
                 and
                 so
                 universal
                 is
                 the
                 Influence
              
               
                 Which
                 the
                 kind
                 bounteous
                 Sun
                 does
                 here
                 dispense
                 :
              
               
                 With
                 an
                 unwearied
                 indefatigable
                 Race
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 travels
                 round
                 the
                 World
                 each
                 day
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 visits
                 all
                 Mankind
                 ,
                 and
                 every
                 place
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 scatters
                 Light
                 and
                 Blessings
                 all
                 the
                 way
                 .
              
               
                 Tho'
                 he
                 each
                 hour
                 new
                 Beams
                 expend
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 does
                 he
                 not
                 like
                 wasting
                 Tapers
                 spend
                 .
              
               
                 Tho'
                 he
                 ten
                 thousand
                 years
                 disburse
                 in
                 Light
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 boundless
                 Stock
                 can
                 never
                 be
                 exhausted
                 quite
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 V.
                 
              
               
                 Nor
                 was
                 his
                 Bounty
                 stinted
                 or
                 design'd
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 theirs
                 who
                 only
                 partially
                 are
                 kind
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 give
                 where
                 they
                 Return
                 expect
                 to
                 find
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 like
                 his
                 Soul
                 ,
                 its
                 fair
                 Original
                 :
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 all
                 in
                 all
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 in
                 every
                 part
                 ,
              
               
                 Silent
                 as
                 his
                 Devotion
                 ,
                 open
                 as
                 his
                 Heart
                 .
              
               
                 Brib'd
                 with
                 the
                 Pleasure
                 to
                 oblige
                 and
                 gratifie
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 Air
                 and
                 Sunshine
                 he
                 dispos'd
                 his
                 Kindness
                 free
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 scorn'd
                 Requitals
                 ,
                 and
                 worse
                 hated
                 Flattery
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 obseouious
                 Pomp
                 of
                 vain
                 formality
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 the
                 Almighty
                 Bounty
                 does
                 bestow
              
               
                 Its
                 Favors
                 on
                 our
                 undeserving
                 Race
                 below
                 ;
              
               
                 Confer'd
                 on
                 all
                 its
                 loyal
                 Votaries
                 ;
              
               
                 Confer'd
                 alike
                 on
                 its
                 rebellious
                 Enemies
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 it
                 alone
                 our
                 All
                 we
                 owe
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 that
                 we
                 are
                 and
                 are
                 to
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 Art
                 and
                 Science
                 to
                 its
                 Liberality
                 ,
              
               
               
                 And
                 this
                 same
                 trifling
                 jingling
                 thing
                 call'd
                 Poetry
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 the
                 great
                 Donor
                 does
                 no
                 costly
                 Gratitude
                 require
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 Charge
                 of
                 Sacrifice
                 desire
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 are
                 w'
                 expensive
                 Hecatombs
                 to
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 heretofore
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 his
                 Altars
                 float
                 with
                 reeking
                 Gore
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 small
                 Return
                 the
                 mighty
                 Debt
                 and
                 Duty
                 pays
                 ,
              
               
                 Ev'n
                 the
                 cheap
                 humble
                 Off'ring
                 of
                 worthless
                 Thanks
                 and
                 Praise
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 VI.
                 
              
               
                 But
                 how
                 ,
                 blest
                 Saint
                 ,
                 shall
                 I
                 thy
                 numerous
                 Vertues
                 summ
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 one
                 or
                 two
                 take
                 up
                 this
                 room
                 ?
              
               
                 To
                 what
                 vast
                 Bulk
                 must
                 the
                 full
                 Audit
                 come
                 ?
              
               
                 As
                 that
                 bold
                 Hand
                 that
                 drew
                 the
                 fairest
                 Deity
                 ,
              
               
                 Had
                 many
                 naked
                 Beauties
                 by
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 took
                 from
                 each
                 a
                 several
                 Grace
                 ,
                 and
                 Air
                 ,
                 and
                 Line
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 in
                 one
                 Epitome
                 did
                 joyn
              
               
                 To
                 paint
                 his
                 bright
                 Immortal
                 in
                 a
                 Form
                 Divine
                 :
              
               
               
                 So
                 must
                 I
                 do
                 to
                 frame
                 thy
                 Character
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 think
                 whatever
                 Men
                 can
                 good
                 and
                 lovely
                 call
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 then
                 abridge
                 it
                 all
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 crowd
                 ,
                 and
                 mix
                 the
                 various
                 Idaeas
                 there
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 at
                 last
                 of
                 a
                 just
                 Praise
                 despair
                 .
              
               
                 Whatever
                 ancient
                 Worthies
                 boast
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 made
                 themselves
                 and
                 Poets
                 their
                 Describers
                 great
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 whence
                 old
                 Zeal
                 did
                 Gods
                 and
                 Shrines
                 create
                 ;
              
               
                 Thou
                 hadst
                 thy self
                 alone
                 engrost
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 their
                 scatter'd
                 Glories
                 in
                 thy
                 Soul
                 did
                 meet
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 future
                 Ages
                 ,
                 when
                 they
                 eminent
                 Vertues
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 If
                 any
                 after
                 thee
              
               
                 Dare
                 the
                 Pretence
                 of
                 Vertue
                 own
                 ,
              
               
                 Without
                 the
                 Fear
                 of
                 being
                 far
                 out-done
                 )
              
               
                 Shall
                 count
                 'em
                 all
                 but
                 Legacy
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 from
                 the
                 Strength
                 of
                 thy
                 Example
                 flow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thy
                 fair
                 Copy
                 in
                 a
                 less
                 correct
                 Edition
                 show
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 VII
                 .
              
               
                 Religion
                 over
                 all
                 did
                 a
                 just
                 Conduct
                 claim
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 false
                 Religion
                 which
                 from
                 Custom
                 came
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 to
                 its
                 Font
                 and
                 Country
                 only
                 ow'd
                 its
                 Name
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 Issue
                 of
                 devout
                 and
                 zealous
                 Ignorance
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 the
                 more
                 dull
                 Effect
                 of
                 Chance
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 't
                 was
                 a
                 firm
                 well-grounded
                 Piety
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 knew
                 all
                 that
                 it
                 did
                 believe
                 ,
                 and
                 why
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 the
                 glorious
                 Cause
                 durst
                 die
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 durst
                 out-suffer
                 ancient
                 Martyrology
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 knit
                 and
                 interwoven
                 with
                 its
                 being
                 so
                 ,
              
               
                 Most
                 thought
                 it
                 did
                 not
                 from
                 his
                 Duty
                 ,
                 but
                 his
                 Nature
                 flow
                 .
              
               
                 Exalted
                 far
                 above
                 the
                 vain
                 small
                 Attacks
                 of
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 that
                 vile
                 gay
                 lewd
                 Buffoons
                 can
                 bring
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 try
                 by
                 little
                 Railleries
                 to
                 ruin
                 it
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 jeer't
                 into
                 an
                 unreguarded
                 poor
                 defenceless
                 thing
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Men
                 of
                 Sence
                 who
                 in
                 Confederacy
                 join
                 ,
              
               
               
                 To
                 damn
                 Religion
                 had
                 they
                 view'd
                 but
                 thine
                 ,
              
               
                 They'd
                 have
                 confest
                 it
                 pure
                 ,
                 confest
                 it
                 all
                 divine
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 free
                 from
                 all
                 Pretences
                 of
                 Imposture
                 or
                 Design
                 .
              
               
                 Pow'rful
                 enough
                 to
                 counter-act
                 lewd
                 Poets
                 and
                 the
                 Stage
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Proselyte
                 as
                 fast
                 as
                 they
                 debauch
                 the
                 Age
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 good
                 ,
                 it
                 might
                 alone
                 a
                 guilty
                 condemn'd
                 World
                 reprieve
                 ,
              
               
                 Should
                 a
                 destroying
                 Angel
                 stand
              
               
                 With
                 brandish'd
                 Thunder
                 in
                 his
                 Hand
                 ,
              
               
                 Ready
                 the
                 bidden
                 Stroke
                 to
                 give
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 a
                 new
                 Delugethreaten
                 this
                 and
                 every
                 Land.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 VIII
                 .
              
               
                 Religion
                 once
                 a
                 quiet
                 and
                 a
                 peaceful
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 all
                 the
                 Epithets
                 of
                 Gentleness
                 did
                 claim
                 ,
              
               
                 Late
                 prov'd
                 the
                 Source
                 of
                 Faction
                 and
                 intestine
                 Jars
                 :
              
               
                 Like
                 the
                 Fair
                 teeming
                 Hebrew
                 ,
                 she
              
               
                 Did
                 travel
                 with
                 a
                 wrangling
                 Progeny
                 ,
              
               
               
                 And
                 harbor'd
                 in
                 her
                 Bowels
                 Fewds
                 and
                 Civil
                 Wars
                 .
              
               
                 Surly
                 ,
                 uncomplaisant
                 ,
                 and
                 rough
                 she
                 grew
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 of
                 a
                 soft
                 and
                 easie
                 Mistress
                 turn'd
                 a
                 Shrew
                 .
              
               
                 Passion
                 and
                 Anger
                 went
                 for
                 marks
                 of
                 Grace
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 looks
                 deform'd
                 and
                 sullen
                 sanctifyed
                 a
                 Face
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 first
                 its
                 meek
                 and
                 primitive
                 Temper
                 didst
                 restore
                 ,
              
               
                 First
                 shew'dst
                 how
                 men
                 were
                 pious
                 heretofore
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 gaul-less
                 Dove
                 ,
                 which
                 other
                 where
                 could
                 find
                 no
                 Rest
                 ,
              
               
                 Early
                 retreated
                 to
                 its
                 Ark
                 ,
                 thy
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 straight
                 the
                 swelling
                 Waves
                 decreast
              
               
                 And
                 straight
                 tempestuous
                 Passions
                 ceast
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 Winds
                 and
                 Storms
                 where
                 some
                 fair
                 Halcyon
                 builds
                 her
                 Nest.
              
               
                 No
                 overheating
                 Zeal
                 did
                 thee
                 inspire
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 't
                 was
                 a
                 kindly
                 gentle
                 Fire
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 warm
                 ,
                 but
                 not
                 devour
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 only
                 did
                 refine
                 ,
                 and
                 make
                 more
                 pure
                 :
              
               
                 Such
                 is
                 that
                 Fire
                 that
                 makes
                 thy
                 present
                 blest
                 Abode
              
               
               
                 The
                 Residence
                 and
                 Palace
                 of
                 our
                 God.
              
               
                 And
                 such
                 was
                 that
                 bright
                 unconsuming
                 Flame
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 mild
                 ,
                 so
                 harmless
                 and
                 so
                 tame
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 heretofore
                 i
                 th'
                 Bush
                 to
                 Moses
                 came
                 :
              
               
                 At
                 first
                 the
                 Vision
                 did
                 the
                 wondring
                 Prophet
                 scare
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 the
                 voice
                 had
                 check'd
                 his
                 needless
                 Fear
              
               
                 He
                 bow'd
                 and
                 worshipp'd
                 and
                 confest
                 the
                 Deity
                 was
                 there
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 IX
                 .
              
               
                 Hail
                 Saint
                 Triumphant
                 !
                 hail
                 Heav'ns
                 happy
                 Guest
                 .
              
               
                 Hail
                 new
                 Inhabitant
                 amongst
                 the
                 blest
                 !
              
               
                 Methinks
                 I
                 see
                 kind
                 Spirits
                 in
                 convoy
                 meet
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 loud
                 Welcomes
                 thy
                 Arrival
                 greet
                 .
              
               
                 Who
                 ,
                 could
                 they
                 grieve
                 ,
                 would
                 go
                 with
                 Grief
                 away
              
               
                 To
                 see
                 a
                 Soul
                 more
                 white
                 ,
                 more
                 pure
                 than
                 they
                 :
              
               
                 By
                 them
                 thou'
                 rt
                 led
                 on
                 high
              
               
               
                 To
                 the
                 vast
                 glorious
                 Apartment
                 of
                 the
                 Deity
                 .
              
               
                 Where
                 circulating
                 Pleasures
                 make
                 an
                 endless
                 Round
              
               
                 To
                 which
                 scant
                 Time
                 or
                 Measure
                 sets
                 no
                 Bound
                 ,
              
               
                 Perfect
                 unmixt
                 Delights
                 without
                 Alloy
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 whatsoe'er
                 does
                 earthly
                 Bliss
                 annoy
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 oft
                 does
                 in
                 Fruition
                 Pall
                 and
                 oft'ner
                 Cloy
                 :
              
               
                 Where
                 being
                 is
                 no
                 longer
                 Life
                 but
                 Extasie
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 one
                 long
                 Transport
                 of
                 unutterable
                 Joy.
              
               
                 A
                 Joy
                 above
                 the
                 boldest
                 Flights
                 of
                 daring
                 verse
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 a
                 Muse
                 unglorifyed
                 can
                 fancy
                 or
                 rehearse
                 :
              
               
                 There
                 happy
                 Thou
              
               
                 From
                 Troubles
                 and
                 the
                 bustling
                 toil
                 of
                 Business
                 free
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 noise
                 and
                 tracas
                 of
                 tumultuous
                 Life
                 below
                 ,
              
               
                 Enjoy'st
                 the
                 still
                 and
                 calm
                 Vacation
                 of
                 Eternity
                 .
              
            
          
        
      
       
         
           
             
             
               CHARACTER
               OF
               A
               Certain
               Ugly
               Old
               P
               —
            
             
               
                 —
                 Deformem
                 &
                 tetrum
                 ante
                 omnia
                 Vultum
                 ,
              
               
                 Dissimilemque
                 sui
                 ,
                 desormem
                 pro
                 cute
                 pellem
                 ,
              
               
                 Pendentésque
                 genas
                 ,
                 ac
                 tales
                 aspice
                 rugas
                 ,
              
               
                 Quales
                 ,
                 umbriferos
                 ubi
                 pandit
                 Tabraca
                 saltus
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 vetulâ
                 scalpit
                 jam
                 mater
                 simia
                 bucca
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
               
                 
                   Juv.
                   Sat.
                
                 10
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Assist
                 ye
                 nasty
                 Powers
              
               
                 To
                 describe
                 him
                 thorowout
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 dip
                 my
                 Pen
                 in
                 Turd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 write
                 upon
                 a
                 shitten
                 Clout
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Tartaret
                   .
                   de
                   modo
                   Cacandi
                
                 .
                 p.
                 9.
                 
              
            
             
               LONDON
               ,
               Printed
               in
               the
               Year
               ,
               1684.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
             
               CHARACTER
               .
            
             
               
                 NO
                 wonder
                 if
                 I
                 am
                 at
                 a
                 Loss
                 to
                 describe
                 him
                 ,
                 whom
              
               Nature
               
                 was
                 as
                 much
                 puzzled
                 to
                 make
                 .
                 'T
                 is
                 here
                 as
                 in
              
               Painting
               ,
               
                 where
                 the
                 most
                 mishapen
              
               .
               Figures
               
                 are
                 the
                 greatest
              
               Proofs
               of
               Skill
               .
               
                 To
                 draw
                 a
              
               Thersites
               or
               AEsop
               
                 well
                 ,
                 requires
                 the
              
               Pencil
               of
               Vandike
               or
               Titian
               ,
               
                 more
                 than
                 the
                 best
              
               Features
               and
               Lineaments
               .
               
                 All
                 the
                 Thoughts
                 I
                 can
                 frame
                 of
                 him
                 are
                 as
                 rude
                 and
                 indigested
                 as
                 himself
                 .
                 The
                 very
              
               Idaea
               and
               Conception
               
                 of
                 him
                 are
                 enough
                 to
                 cramp
              
               Grammar
               ,
               
                 to
                 disturb
              
               Sence
               ,
               
                 and
                 confound
              
               Syntax
               .
               
                 He
                 's
                 a
              
               Solecism
               
                 in
                 the
                 great
              
               Construction
               ,
               
                 therefore
                 the
                 best
              
               Description
               
                 of
                 him
                 is
              
               Nonsence
               ,
               
                 and
                 
                 the
                 fittest
              
               Character
               
                 to
                 write
                 it
                 in
                 ,
                 that
              
               Pot-hook-hand
               
                 the
                 Devil
                 us'd
                 at
              
               Oxford
               in
               Queens
               Colledge-Library
               .
               
                 He
                 were
              
               Topick
               
                 enough
                 for
                 convincing
                 an
              
               Atheist
               
                 that
                 the
                 World
                 was
                 made
                 by
                 Chance
                 .
                 The
                 first
              
               Matter
               
                 had
                 more
                 of
              
               Form
               and
               Order
               ,
               the
               Chaos
               
                 more
                 of
              
               Symmetry
               and
               Proportion
               .
               
                 I
                 could
                 call
                 him
              
               Nature's
               By-blow
               ,
               Miscarriage
               and
               Abortive
               ,
               
                 or
                 say
                 ,
                 he
                 is
                 her
              
               Embryo
               
                 slink'd
                 before
              
               Maturity
               ;
               
                 but
                 that
                 is
                 stale
                 and
                 flat
                 ,
                 and
                 I
                 must
                 fly
                 a
                 higher
                 Pitch
                 to
                 reach
                 his
              
               Deformity
               .
               
                 He
                 is
                 the
                 ugliest
                 she
                 ever
                 took
                 Pains
                 to
                 make
                 so
                 ,
                 and
              
               Age
               
                 to
                 make
                 worse
                 .
                 All
                 the
              
               Monsters
               of
               Africa
               
                 lie
                 kennell'd
                 in
                 his
                 single
              
               Skin
               .
               
                 He
                 's
                 one
                 of
                 the
              
               Grotesques
               
                 of
                 the
              
               Universe
               ,
               
                 whom
                 the
                 grand
              
               Artist
               
                 drew
                 only
                 (
                 as
              
               Painters
               
                 do
                 uncouth
                 ugly
              
               Shapes
               )
               
                 to
                 fill
                 up
                 the
                 empty
              
               Spaces
               and
               
               Cantons
               
                 of
                 this
                 ▪
                 great
              
               Frame
               .
               He
               's
               Man
               anagrammatiz'd
               :
               A
               Mandrake
               
                 has
                 more
                 of
              
               Humane
               Shape
               :
               His
               Face
               carries
               Libel
               and
               Lampoon
               in
               't
               .
               Nature
               
                 at
                 its
              
               Composition
               wrote
               Burlesque
               ,
               
                 and
                 shew'd
                 him
                 how
                 far
                 she
                 could
                 out-do
              
               Art
               in
               Grimace
               .
               
                 I
                 wonder
                 't
                 is
                 not
                 hir'd
                 by
                 the
              
               Play-houses
               
                 to
                 draw
              
               Antick
               Vizards
               
                 by
                 .
                 Without
                 doubt
                 he
                 was
                 made
                 to
                 be
                 laugh'd
                 at
                 ,
                 and
                 design'd
                 for
                 the
              
               Scaramuchio
               of
               Mankind
               .
               
                 When
                 I
                 see
                 him
                 ,
                 I
                 can
                 no
                 more
                 forbear
                 than
                 at
                 sight
                 of
                 a
              
               Zany
               or
               Nokes
               ;
               
                 but
                 am
                 like
                 to
                 run
                 the
                 Risque
                 of
                 the
              
               Philosopher
               ,
               
                 looking
                 on
                 an
              
               Ass
               mumbling
               Thistles
               .
               
                 He
                 's
                 more
                 ill-favour'd
                 than
                 the
              
               Picture
               of
               Winter
               
                 drawn
                 by
                 a
                 Fellow
                 that
                 dawbs
              
               Sign-Posts
               ,
               
                 more
                 lowring
                 than
                 the
                 last
                 day
                 of
              
               January
               .
               
                 I
                 have
                 seen
                 a
                 handsomer
              
               Mortal
               
                 carv'd
                 in
              
               Monumental
               
               Gingerbread
               ,
               
                 and
                 woven
                 in
              
               Hangings
               at
               Mortlock
               .
               
                 If
                 you
                 have
                 ever
                 view'd
                 that
              
               wooden
               Gentleman
               
                 that
                 peeps
                 out
                 of
                 a
                 Country
              
               Barber's
               
                 Window
                 ,
                 you
                 may
                 fancy
                 some
              
               Resemblance
               
                 of
                 him
                 .
                 His
                 damn'd
                 squeezing
              
               Close-stool
               .
               Face
               
                 can
                 be
                 liken'd
                 to
                 nothing
                 better
                 than
                 the
              
               Buttocks
               
                 of
                 an
                 old
                 wrinkled
              
               Baboon
               ,
               
                 straining
                 upon
                 an
              
               Hillock
               .
               
                 The
                 very
              
               Sight
               
                 of
                 him
                 in
                 a
                 morning
                 would
                 work
                 with
                 one
                 beyond
              
               Jalap
               and
               Rhubarb
               .
               A
               Doctor
               
                 (
                 I
                 'm
                 told
                 )
                 once
                 prescrib'd
                 him
                 to
                 one
                 of
                 his
              
               Parishioners
               
                 for
                 a
              
               Purge
               :
               
                 he
                 wrought
                 the
              
               Effect
               ,
               
                 and
                 gave
                 the
              
               Patient
               fourteen
               Stools
               .
               
                 'T
                 is
                 pity
                 he
                 is
                 not
                 drawn
                 at
                 the
              
               City
               Charges
               ,
               
                 and
                 hung
                 up
                 in
                 some
                 publick
              
               Forica
               
                 as
                 a
              
               Remedy
               against
               Costiveness
               .
            
             
               
                 Indeed
                 by
                 his
              
               Hue
               
                 you
                 might
                 think
                 he
                 had
                 been
                 employed
                 to
                 that
                 use
                 :
                 One
                 
                 would
                 take
                 him
                 for
                 the
                 Picture
                 of
              
               Scoggin
               or
               Tarleton
               
                 on
                 a
              
               Privy-house
               
                 Door
                 ,
                 which
                 by
                 long
                 standing
                 there
                 has
                 contracted
                 the
              
               Color
               
                 〈◊〉
                 the
                 neighbouring
              
               Excrements
               .
               
                 Reading
                 lately
                 how
              
               Garagantua
               
                 came
                 into
                 the
              
               World
               
                 at
                 his
                 Mother's
              
               Ear
               ,
               
                 it
                 put
                 an
                 unlucky
                 thought
                 into
                 my
                 Head
                 concerning
                 him
                 :
                 I
                 presently
                 fancied
                 that
                 he
                 was
                 v●…ided
                 ,
                 not
                 brought
                 forth
                 ;
                 that
                 his
              
               Dam
               
                 was
                 deliver'd
                 of
                 him
                 on
                 t'other
                 side
                 ,
                 beshit
                 him
                 coming
                 out
                 ,
                 and
                 he
                 has
                 ever
                 since
                 retain'd
                 the
              
               Stains
               .
               
                 His
                 filthy
              
               Countenance
               
                 looks
                 like
                 an
                 old
              
               Chimney-piece
               
                 in
                 a
                 decay'd
              
               Inn
               ,
               
                 sullied
                 with
              
               Smoak
               ,
               
                 and
                 the
                 sprinkling
                 of
              
               Ale-pots
               .
               
                 'T
                 is
                 dirtier
                 than
                 an
                 ancient
              
               thumb'd
               Record
               ,
               
                 greasier
                 than
                 a
                 Chandler's
              
               Shop-book
               ,
               
                 You
                 'd
                 imagine
                 ▪
              
               Snails
               
                 had
                 crawl'd
                 the
              
               Hay
               
                 upon
                 it
                 .
                 The
              
               Case
               
                 of
                 it
                 is
                 perfect
              
               Vellum
               ,
               
                 and
                 has
                 often
                 
                 been
                 mistaken
                 for
                 it
                 :
                 A
              
               Scrivener
               
                 was
                 like
                 to
                 cheapen
                 it
                 for
                 making
              
               Indentures
               and
               Deeds
               :
               
                 Besides
                 't
                 is
                 as
                 wrinkled
                 as
                 a
              
               walking
               Buskin
               :
               
                 It
                 has
                 more
              
               Furrows
               
                 then
                 all
              
               Cotswold
               .
               
                 You
                 may
                 resemble
                 it
                 to
                 a
              
               Gammon
               of
               Bacon
               
                 with
                 the
              
               Swerd
               
                 off
                 .
                 I
                 believe
                 the
              
               Devil
               
                 travels
                 over
                 it
                 in
                 his
                 Sleep
                 with
              
               Hob-nails
               
                 in
                 his
              
               Shoes
               .
               
                 By
                 the
              
               Maggot-eaten
               Sur-face
               ,
               
                 you
                 'd
                 swear
                 he
                 had
                 been
                 dug
                 out
                 of
                 his
              
               Grave
               
                 agen
                 with
                 all
                 his
              
               Worms
               
                 about
                 him
                 to
                 bait
              
               Eel-hooks
               .
               
                 But
                 enough
                 of
                 it
                 in
                 General
                 ,
                 I
                 think
                 it
                 time
                 to
                 descend
                 to
              
               Particulars
               ;
               
                 I
                 wish
                 I
                 could
                 divide
                 his
                 Face
                 ,
                 as
                 he
                 does
                 his
              
               Text
               ,
               i.
               e.
               
                 tear
                 it
                 asunder
                 :
                 'T
                 is
                 fit
                 I
                 ▪
                 begin
                 with
                 the
                 most
                 remarkable
                 part
                 of
                 it
                 .
                 His
              
               Mouth
               
                 (
                 saving
                 your
                 presence
              
               Christian
               Readers
               )
               
                 is
                 like
                 the
              
               Devils
               Arse
               of
               Peak
               ,
               
                 and
                 is
                 just
                 as
                 large
                 .
                 By
                 the
              
               
               Scent
               
                 you
                 'd
                 take
                 it
                 for
                 the
              
               Hole
               
                 of
                 a
              
               Privy
               :
               
                 He
                 may
                 be
                 winded
                 by
                 a
                 good
              
               Nose
               
                 at
                 twelve-score
                 ;
                 I
                 durst
                 have
                 ventur'd
                 at
                 first
                 being
                 in
                 Company
                 that
                 he
                 dieted
                 on
              
               Assa-foetida
               .
               
                 His
                 very
              
               Discourse
               
                 stinks
                 in
                 a
              
               Literal
               Sence
               ;
               't
               is
               breaking-Wind
               ,
               
                 and
                 you
                 'd
                 think
                 he
                 talk'd
                 at
                 the
                 other
              
               End.
               Last
               New-years-day
               
                 he
                 tainted
                 a
              
               Loin
               of
               Veal
               
                 with
                 saying
              
               Grace
               :
               
                 All
                 the
              
               Guests
               
                 were
                 fain
                 to
                 use
                 the
              
               Fanatical
               Posture
               
                 in
                 their
                 own
              
               Defence
               ,
               
                 and
                 stand
                 with
                 their
              
               Caps
               
                 over
                 their
              
               Eyes
               like
               Malefactors
               
                 going
                 to
                 be
                 turn'd
                 off
                 .
                 That
                 too
                 that
                 renders
                 it
                 the
                 more
                 unsupportable
                 is
                 that
                 it
                 can't
                 be
                 stopp'd
                 :
                 The
              
               Breach
               
                 is
                 too
                 big
                 ever
                 to
                 be
                 clos'd
                 .
                 Were
                 he
                 a
              
               Milliner
               ,
               
                 he
                 might
                 measure
              
               Ribbon
               
                 by
                 it
                 without
                 the
                 help
                 of
                 his
              
               Yard
               or
               Counter
               .
               
                 It
                 reaches
                 so
                 far
                 backwards
                 ,
                 those
                 ,
                 that
                 have
                 seen
                 him
                 
                 with
                 his
              
               Peruke
               
                 off
                 ,
                 say
                 it
                 may
                 be
                 discerned
                 behind
                 .
                 When
                 he
                 gapes
                 ,
                 't
                 would
                 stretch
                 the
              
               Dutchess
               of
               Cl
               
                 to
                 straddle
                 over
                 :
                 I
                 had
                 almost
                 said
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 as
                 wide
                 as
                 from
              
               Dover
               to
               Calice
               .
               
                 Could
                 he
                 shut
                 it
                 ,
                 the
              
               Wrinkles
               
                 round
                 about
                 would
                 represent
                 the
                 Form
                 of
                 the
              
               Seamens
               Compass
               ,
               
                 and
                 should
                 he
                 bluster
                 ;
                 't
                 were
                 a
                 pretty
              
               Emblem
               
                 of
                 those
                 swelling
              
               Mouths
               ,
               
                 at
                 the
              
               Corners
               of
               Maps
               
                 puffing
                 out
              
               Storms
               .
               
                 When
                 he
              
               Smoaks
               ,
               
                 I
                 am
                 always
                 thinking
                 of
              
               Mongibel
               
                 and
                 its
              
               Eruptions
               .
               His
               Head
               
                 looks
                 exactly
                 like
                 a
              
               Device
               
                 on
                 a
              
               Kitchin
               Chimney
               ;
               His
               Mouth
               the
               Vent
               
                 and
                 his
              
               Nose
               the
               Fane
               .
               
                 And
                 now
                 I
                 talk
                 of
                 his
              
               Snout
               ,
               
                 I
                 dare
                 not
                 mention
                 the
              
               Elephants
               
                 for
                 fear
                 of
                 speaking
                 too
                 little
                 :
                 I
                 'd
                 make
                 bold
                 with
                 the
                 old
              
               Wit
               ,
               
                 and
                 compare
                 it
                 to
                 the
              
               Gnomon
               
                 of
                 a
              
               Dial
               ;
               
                 but
                 that
                 he
                 has
                 
                 not
              
               Teeth
               
                 enough
                 to
                 stand
                 for
                 the
              
               twelve
               Hours
               .
               
                 'T
                 is
                 so
                 long
                 ,
                 that
                 when
                 he
                 rides
                 a
              
               Journey
               ,
               
                 he
                 makes
                 use
                 of
                 it
                 to
                 open
              
               Gates
               .
               
                 He
                 's
                 fain
                 to
                 snite
                 it
                 with
                 both
              
               Hands
               .
               
                 It
                 cannot
                 be
                 wip'd
                 under
                 as
                 much
                 as
                 the
              
               Royal
               Breech
               .
               A
               Man
               
                 of
                 ordinary
              
               Bulk
               
                 might
                 find
              
               Shelter
               
                 under
                 its
              
               Eves
               ,
               
                 were
                 it
                 not
                 for
                 the
              
               Droppings
               .
               
                 One
                 protested
                 to
                 me
                 in
              
               Raillery
               
                 that
                 when
                 he
                 looks
                 against
                 the
              
               Sun
               ,
               
                 it
                 shadows
                 his
                 whole
              
               Body
               ,
               
                 as
                 some
              
               story
               
                 of
                 the
              
               Sciopodes
               Feet
               .
               Another
               Hyperbolical
               Rascal
               
                 would
                 make
                 me
                 believe
                 that
                 the
              
               Arches
               
                 of
                 it
                 are
                 as
                 large
                 as
                 any
                 two
                 of
              
               London-Bridge
               ,
               
                 or
                 the
                 great
              
               Rialto
               at
               Venice
               .
               
                 Not
                 long
                 ago
                 I
                 met
                 a
                 one-leg'd
              
               Tarpawlin
               
                 that
                 had
                 been
                 begging
                 at
                 his
              
               Door
               ,
               
                 but
                 could
                 get
                 nothing
                 :
                 The
                 witty
              
               Whoreson
               
                 (
                 I
                 remember
                 )
                 swore
                 that
                 his
              
               Bow-sprit
               
               
                 was
                 as
                 long
                 as
                 that
                 of
                 the
              
               Royal
               Sovereign
               .
               
                 I
                 confess
                 ,
                 stood
                 he
                 in
                 my
                 way
                 :
                 I
                 durst
                 not
                 venture
                 round
                 by
                 his
              
               Foreside
               ,
               
                 for
                 fear
                 of
                 going
                 half
                 a
                 mile
                 about
                 .
                 'T
                 is
                 perfec●…
                 doubling
                 the
              
               Cape
               :
               
                 He
                 has
                 this
              
               Priviledge
               
                 for
                 being
                 unmannerly
                 that
                 it
                 will
                 not
                 suffer
                 him
                 to
                 put
                 off
                 his
              
               Hat
               :
               
                 And
                 therefore
                 (
                 't
                 is
                 said
                 )
                 at
              
               home
               
                 he
                 has
                 a
              
               Cord
               
                 fasten'd
                 to
                 it
                 ,
                 and
                 draws
                 it
                 off
                 with
                 a
              
               Pully
               ,
               
                 and
                 so
                 receives
                 the
              
               Addresses
               
                 of
                 those
                 that
                 visit
                 him
                 .
                 This
                 I'm
                 very
                 confident
                 ,
                 he
                 has
                 not
                 heard
                 himself
                 sneeze
                 these
              
               seven
               Years
               :
               
                 And
                 that
                 leads
                 me
                 to
                 his
              
               Tools
               of
               Hearing
               :
               His
               Ears
               
                 resemble
                 these
                 of
                 a
              
               Countrey
               Justices
               Black
               Jack
               ,
               
                 and
                 are
                 of
                 the
                 same
              
               matter
               ,
               hue
               ,
               and
               size
               :
               
                 He
                 's
                 as
                 well
                 hung
                 as
                 any
              
               Hound
               
                 in
                 the
              
               Countrey
               ;
               
                 but
                 by
                 their
              
               Bulk
               and
               growing
               
                 upward
                 ,
                 he
                 deserves
                 to
                 be
                 rank'd
                 with
                 a
                 graver
                 
                 of
              
               Beasts
               :
               
                 His
                 single
                 self
                 might
                 have
                 shown
                 with
              
               Smeck
               ,
               
                 and
                 all
                 the
              
               Club
               Divines
               .
               
                 You
                 may
                 pare
                 enough
                 from
                 the
              
               sides
               
                 of
                 his
              
               Head
               
                 to
                 have
                 furnisht
                 a
                 whole
              
               Regiment
               of
               Round-Heads
               :
               
                 He
                 wears
                 more
                 there
                 then
                 all
                 the
              
               Pillories
               in
               England
               
                 ever
                 have
                 done
              
               .
               Man-devile
               
                 tells
                 us
                 of
                 a
              
               People
               
                 somewhere
                 ,
                 that
                 use
                 their
              
               Ears
               for
               Cushions
               :
               
                 He
                 has
                 reduced
                 the
              
               Legend
               
                 to
                 Probability
                 :
                 A
              
               Servant
               
                 of
                 his
                 (
                 that
                 could
                 not
                 conceal
                 the
              
               Midas
               )
               
                 told
                 me
                 lately
                 in
                 private
                 ,
                 that
                 going
                 to
              
               Bed
               
                 he
                 binds
                 them
                 on
                 his
              
               Crown
               ,
               
                 and
                 they
                 serve
                 him
                 instead
                 of
              
               Quilt
               Night-caps
               .
               
                 The
                 next
                 observable
                 that
                 falls
                 under
                 my
              
               Consideration
               
                 is
                 his
                 Back
                 :
                 Nor
                 need
                 I
                 go
                 far
                 out
                 of
                 my
                 way
                 to
                 meet
                 it
                 ,
                 for
                 it
                 peeps
                 over
                 his
              
               Shoulders
               :
               
                 He
                 was
                 built
                 with
                 a
              
               Buttress
               
                 to
                 support
                 the
              
               weight
               
                 of
                 his
              
               Nose
               ;
               
               
                 and
                 help
                 ballance
                 it
              
               .
               Nature
               
                 hung
                 on
                 him
                 a
              
               Knapsack
               ,
               
                 and
                 made
                 him
                 represent
                 both
              
               Tinker
               and
               Budget
               
                 too
                 .
                 He
                 looks
                 like
                 the
                 Visible
              
               Tye
               of
               AEneas
               
                 bolstring
                 up
                 his
              
               Father
               ,
               
                 or
                 like
                 a
              
               Beggar-Woman
               ,
               
                 endorst
                 with
                 her
                 whole
              
               Litter
               ,
               
                 and
                 with
              
               Child
               
                 behind
                 .
                 You
                 may
                 take
                 him
                 for
              
               Anti-Christopher
               
                 with
                 the
              
               Devil
               
                 at
                 his
              
               Back
               .
               
                 I
                 believe
                 the
              
               Atlas
               in
               Wadham-Garden
               at
               Oxford
               
                 was
                 carv'd
                 by
                 him
                 .
                 Certainly
                 he
                 was
                 begot
                 in
                 a
              
               Cupping-Glass
               :
               His
               Mother
               
                 longed
                 for
              
               Pumpions
               ,
               
                 or
                 went
                 to
                 see
                 some
              
               Camel
               
                 shown
                 while
                 she
                 was
                 conceiving
                 him
                 .
                 One
                 would
                 think
                 a
              
               Mole
               
                 has
                 crept
                 into
                 his
              
               Carcase
               
                 before
                 't
                 is
                 layd
                 in
                 the
              
               Church-Yard
               ,
               
                 and
                 Rooted
                 in
                 it
                 ,
                 or
                 that
                 an
              
               Earthquake
               
                 had
                 disorder'd
                 the
              
               Symmetry
               
                 of
                 the
              
               Microcosm
               ,
               
                 sunk
                 one
              
               Mountain
               
                 and
                 put
                 
                 up
                 another
                 .
                 And
                 now
                 I
                 should
                 descend
                 lower
                 ,
                 if
                 I
                 durst
                 venture
                 :
                 But
                 I
                 'll
                 not
                 defile
                 my
              
               Pen
               :
               My
               Ink
               
                 is
                 too
                 cleanly
                 for
                 a
                 farther
              
               Description
               .
               
                 I
                 must
                 beg
                 my
              
               Reader
               
                 's
                 Distance
                 :
                 as
                 if
                 I
                 were
                 going
                 to
                 Untruss
                 .
                 Should
                 I
                 mention
                 what
                 is
                 beneath
                 ,
                 the
                 very
              
               Jakes
               
                 would
                 suffer
                 by
                 the
              
               Comparison
               ,
               
                 and
                 't
                 were
                 enough
                 to
                 bring
                 a
              
               Bog-house
               
                 in
                 Disgrace
                 .
                 Indeed
                 he
                 ought
                 to
                 have
                 been
                 drawn
                 ,
                 like
                 the
                 good
              
               People
               
                 on
                 the
              
               Parliament-House
               ,
               
                 only
                 from
                 the
              
               Shoulders
               
                 upwards
                 .
                 To
                 me
                 't
                 is
                 a
                 greater
              
               Prodigy
               
                 then
                 himself
                 ,
                 how
                 his
              
               Soul
               
                 has
                 so
                 long
                 endured
                 so
                 nasty
                 a
              
               Lodging
               .
               
                 Were
                 there
                 such
                 a
                 thing
                 as
                 a
              
               Metempsychosis
               ,
               
                 how
                 gladly
                 would
                 it
                 exchange
                 its
              
               Carcase
               
                 for
                 that
                 of
                 the
                 worst
                 and
              
               vilest
               Brute
               :
               
                 I
                 'm
                 sufficiently
                 perswaded
                 against
                 the
              
               whim
               of
               Praeexistence
               ;
               
                 for
                 any
                 thing
                 that
                 had
                 
                 the
              
               Pretense
               of
               Reason
               
                 would
                 never
                 have
                 entered
                 such
                 a
              
               Durance
               of
               Choice
               :
               
                 Doubtless
                 it
                 must
                 have
                 been
                 guilty
                 of
                 some
                 unbeard
                 of
              
               Sin
               ,
               
                 for
                 which
              
               Heaven
               
                 dooms
                 it
              
               Penance
               
                 in
                 the
              
               present
               Body
               ,
               
                 and
                 ordains
                 it
                 its
                 first
              
               Hell
               
                 here
                 .
                 And
                 't
                 is
                 disputable
                 which
                 may
                 prove
                 the
                 worst
                 ,
                 for
                 't
                 has
                 suffered
                 half
                 an
              
               Eternity
               
                 already
                 .
                 Men
                 can
                 hardly
                 tell
                 which
                 of
                 the
              
               two
               
                 will
                 out-live
                 the
                 other
                 .
                 By
                 his
              
               Face
               
                 you
                 'd
                 guess
                 him
                 one
                 of
                 the
              
               Patriarchs
               ,
               
                 and
                 that
                 he
                 liv'd
                 before
                 the
              
               Flood
               :
               His
               Head
               
                 looks
                 as
                 if
                 't
                 had
                 worn
                 out
              
               three
               or
               four
               Bodies
               ,
               
                 and
                 were
                 Legacied
                 to
                 him
                 by
                 his
              
               Great-Grand-father
               .
               His
               Age
               
                 is
                 out
                 of
              
               Knowledg
               ,
               
                 I
                 believe
                 he
                 was
                 born
                 before
              
               Registers
               
                 were
                 invented
                 .
                 He
                 should
                 have
                 been
                 a
              
               Ghost
               
                 in
                 Queen
              
               Mary's
               
                 Days
                 .
                 I
                 wonder
              
               Holingshead
               
                 does
                 not
                 
                 speak
                 of
                 him
                 .
                 Every
              
               Limb
               
                 about
                 him
                 is
              
               Chronicle
               :
               Par
               and
               John
               
                 of
                 the
              
               Times
               were
               short-Livers
               
                 to
                 him
                 .
                 They
                 say
                 ,
                 he
                 can
                 remember
                 when
              
               Pauls
               
                 was
                 Founded
                 ,
                 and
              
               London-Bridge
               
                 built
                 .
                 I
                 my self
                 have
                 heard
                 him
                 tell
                 all
                 the
              
               Stories
               of
               York
               and
               Lancaster
               
                 upon
                 his
                 own
              
               Knowledge
               .
               
                 His
                 very
              
               Cane
               and
               Spectacles
               
                 are
                 enough
                 to
                 set
                 up
                 an
              
               Antiquary
               .
               
                 The
                 first
                 was
                 the
              
               Walking-staff
               of
               Lanfranc
               
                 Arch-bishop
                 of
              
               Canterbury
               
                 which
                 is
                 to
                 he
                 seen
                 by-his
              
               Arms
               
                 upon
                 the
              
               Head
               
                 of
                 it
                 :
                 The
                 t'other
                 belong'd
                 to
                 the
              
               Chaplain
               of
               William
               the
               Conqueror
               ;
               
                 was
                 of
              
               Norman
               
                 make
                 ,
                 and
                 travell'd
                 over
                 with
                 him
                 .
                 'T
                 is
                 strange
                 the
                 late
              
               Author
               
                 of
                 M.
              
               Fickle
               
                 forgot
                 to
                 make
                 his
                 Sir
              
               Arthur
               Oldlove
               
                 swear
                 by
                 them
                 ,
                 the
              
               Oath
               
                 had
                 been
                 of
                 as
                 good
              
               Antiquity
               
                 as
                 St.
              
               Austin's
               Night-Cap
               ,
               or
               
               Mahomet's
               Threshold
               .
               
                 I
                 have
                 often
                 wonder'd
                 he
                 never
                 set
                 up
                 for
                 a
              
               Conjurer
               :
               
                 His
                 very
              
               Look
               
                 would
                 bring
                 him
                 in
              
               Vogue
               ,
               draw
               Custom
               ,
               
                 and
                 undo
              
               Lilly
               and
               Gadbury
               .
               
                 You
                 'd
                 take
                 him
                 for
                 the
              
               Ghost
               
                 of
                 Old
              
               Haly
               or
               Albumazar
               ,
               
                 or
                 the
              
               Spirit
               Frier
               
                 in
                 the
              
               Fortune
               Book
               ,
               his
               Head
               
                 for
                 the
                 inchanted
                 brazen
                 one
                 of
              
               Frier
               Bacon
               .
               
                 'T
                 would
                 pose
                 a
                 good
              
               Physiognomist
               
                 to
                 give
              
               Names
               
                 to
                 the
              
               Lines
               
                 in
                 his
              
               Face
               .
               
                 I
                 've
                 observ'd
                 all
                 the
              
               Figures
               and
               Diagrams
               in
               Agrippa
               and
               Ptolomy's
               Centiloquies
               
                 there
                 upon
                 strict
                 view
                 .
                 And
                 t'other
                 day
                 a
              
               Linguist
               
                 of
                 my
              
               Acquaintance
               
                 shew'd
                 me
                 all
                 the
              
               Arabick
               Alphabet
               
                 betwixt
                 his
              
               Brow
               and
               Chin.
               
                 Some
                 have
                 admired
                 how
                 he
                 came
                 to
                 be
                 admitted
                 into
              
               Orders
               ,
               
                 since
                 his
                 very
              
               Face
               
                 is
                 against
                 the
              
               Canon
               :
               
                 I
                 guess
                 he
                 pleaded
                 the
              
               Qualicfiation
               
                 of
                 the
              
               Prophets
               
               
                 of
                 Old
                 ,
                 to
                 be
              
               withered
               ,
               Toothless
               and
               deform'd
               .
               
                 He
                 can
                 pretend
                 to
                 be
                 an
              
               Elisha
               
                 only
                 by
                 his
              
               Baldness
               .
               The
               Devils
               Oracles
               
                 heretofore
                 were
                 utter'd
                 from
                 such
                 a
              
               Mouth
               .
               
                 'T
                 was
                 then
                 the
              
               Candidates
               
                 for
                 the
              
               Tripus
               
                 were
                 fain
                 to
                 plead
              
               Wrinkles
               and
               Grey
               Hairs
               ;
               a
               Splay
               Mouth
               ,
               
                 and
                 a
              
               goggle
               Eye
               
                 were
                 the
                 cheapest
              
               Simony
               ,
               
                 and
                 the
              
               ugly
               and
               crippled
               
                 were
                 the
                 only
              
               men
               of
               Preferment
               .
               
                 And
                 this
                 leads
                 me
                 to
                 consider
                 him
                 a
                 little
                 in
                 the
              
               Pulpit
               .
               
                 And
                 there
                 't
                 is
                 hard
                 to
                 distinguish
                 whether
                 that
                 or
                 his
              
               Skin
               
                 be
                 the
                 coarser
              
               Wainscoat
               :
               
                 He
                 represents
                 a
                 Crackt
              
               Weather-Glass
               
                 in
                 a
              
               Frame
               .
               
                 You
                 'd
                 take
                 him
                 by
                 his
              
               Looks
               and
               Posture
               for
               Muggleton
               doing
               Pennance
               
                 and
                 paulted
                 with
              
               rotten
               Eggs.
               
                 Had
                 his
              
               Hearers
               
                 the
                 trick
                 of
                 Writing
              
               short-Hand
               ,
               
                 I
                 should
                 fancy
                 him
                 an
              
               Offender
               
               
                 upon
                 a
              
               Sca●…old
               ,
               
                 and
                 them
                 Penning
                 his
              
               Confession
               .
               
                 Not
                 a
              
               fluxt
               Debauch
               
                 in
                 a
              
               sweating
               Tub
               
                 makes
                 worse
              
               Faces
               .
               He
               makes
               Doctrine
               
                 as
                 Folks
                 do
                 their
              
               Water
               
                 in
                 the
              
               Stone
               or
               Strangury
               .
               Balaams
               
                 Ass
                 was
                 a
                 better
              
               Divine
               ,
               
                 and
                 had
                 a
                 better
              
               Delivery
               .
               The
               Thorn
               at
               Glastenbury
               
                 had
                 more
              
               Sence
               and
               Religion
               ,
               
                 and
                 would
                 make
                 more
              
               Converts
               .
               
                 He
                 speaks
                 not
                 ,
                 but
                 grunts
                 ,
                 like
                 one
                 of
                 the
              
               Gadaren
               Hogs
               
                 after
                 the
              
               Devils
               
                 enter'd
                 .
                 When
                 I
                 came
                 first
                 to
                 his
              
               Church
               
                 and
                 saw
                 him
                 perch'd
                 on
                 high
                 against
                 a
              
               Pillar
               ,
               
                 I
                 took
                 him
                 by
                 his
                 gaping
                 for
                 some
              
               Juggler
               
                 going
                 to
                 swallow
              
               Bibles
               aud
               Hour-Glasses
               .
               
                 But
                 I
                 was
                 soon
                 convinc'd
                 that
                 other
              
               Feats
               
                 were
                 to
                 be
                 play'd
                 ,
                 and
                 on
                 a
                 sudden
                 lost
                 all
                 my
              
               Sences
               in
               Noise
               .
               
                 A
                 Drunken
              
               Huntsman
               
                 reeling
                 in
                 while
                 he
                 was
                 at
              
               Prayer
               ,
               
               
                 ask'd
                 if
                 he
                 were
                 giving
                 his
              
               Parishoners
               a
               Hollow
               :
               
                 He
                 has
                 preached
                 half
                 his
              
               Parish
               
                 deaf
                 :
                 His
              
               Din
               
                 is
                 beyond
                 the
              
               Catadupi
               of
               Nile
               .
               
                 All
                 his
              
               Patrons
               Pigeons
               ,
               
                 are
                 frighted
                 from
                 their
              
               Apartment
               ,
               
                 and
                 he
                 's
                 generally
                 believed
                 the
              
               Occasion
               .
               
                 He
                 may
                 be
                 heard
                 father
                 then
                 Sir
              
               Samuel
               Moorlands
               Flagelet
               .
               
                 Nay
                 one
                 damn'd
                 mad
              
               Rogue
               
                 swore
                 :
                 Should
                 he
                 take
                 a
              
               Text
               
                 concerning
                 the
              
               Resurrection
               ,
               
                 he
                 might
                 serve
                 for
                 the
                 last
              
               Trumpet
               .
               
                 And
                 yet
                 in
                 one
                 Respect
                 he
                 's
                 fitted
                 for
                 the
              
               Function
               .
               His
               Countenance
               ,
               
                 if
                 not
              
               Doctrine
               
                 can
                 scare
                 men
                 into
              
               Repentance
               ,
               
                 like
                 an
              
               Apparition
               :
               
                 Should
                 he
                 walk
                 after
                 he
                 's
                 dead
                 ,
                 he
                 would
                 not
                 be
                 more
                 dreadful
                 ,
                 then
                 now
                 while
                 he
                 is
                 alive
                 .
              
            
             
               A
               Maid
               
                 meeting
                 him
                 in
                 the
              
               Dark
               
                 in
                 a
              
               Church-Yard
               ,
               
                 was
                 frighted
                 into
              
               
               Phanaticism
               .
               
                 〈◊〉
                 is
                 in
              
               Bedlam
               
                 upon
                 the
                 same
                 Occasio●…
                 I
                 dare
                 not
                 approach
                 him
                 without
              
               〈◊〉
               Exorcism
               .
               In
               the
               Name
               ,
               
                 &c.
                 is
                 the
                 fittest
              
               Salutation
               :
               
                 Some
                 have
                 thought
                 the
              
               Parsonage
               House
               
                 haunted
                 since
                 he
                 dwelt
                 there
                 .
                 In
              
               York-shire
               
                 (
                 't
                 is
                 reported
                 )
                 they
                 make
                 use
                 of
                 his
              
               Name
               
                 instead
                 of
              
               Raw-Head
               and
               Bloody-bones
               
                 to
                 fright
              
               Children
               .
               
                 He
                 is
                 more
                 terrible
                 then
                 those
              
               Phantoms
               
                 Country
                 Folks
                 tell
                 of
                 by
                 the
                 Fire
                 side
                 ,
                 and
                 pretend
                 to
                 have
                 seen
                 ,
                 with
              
               Leathern-wings
               ,
               Cloven-feet
               ,
               and
               Sawcer-eyes
               :
               
                 If
                 he
                 go
                 to
              
               Hell
               
                 (
                 as
                 't
                 is
                 almost
                 an
              
               Article
               
                 of
                 my
              
               Creed
               ,
               
                 he
                 will
                 )
                 the
              
               Devils
               
                 will
                 quake
                 for
                 all
                 their
                 warm
              
               Dwelling
               ,
               
                 and
                 crowd
                 up
                 into
                 a
              
               Nook
               
                 for
                 fear
                 of
                 him
              
               .
            
             
               FINIS
               .