Poetical recreations consisting of original poems, songs, odes, &c. with several new translations : in two parts / part I, occasionally written by Mrs. Jane Barker, part II, by several gentlemen of the universities, and others.
         Barker, Jane.
      
       
         
           1688
        
      
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         A30923
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         ESTC R7698
         11902125
         ocm 11902125
         50591
         
           
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         Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 52:3)
      
       
         
           
             Poetical recreations consisting of original poems, songs, odes, &c. with several new translations : in two parts / part I, occasionally written by Mrs. Jane Barker, part II, by several gentlemen of the universities, and others.
             Barker, Jane.
          
           [24], 107, [9], 287, [1] p.
           
             Printed for Benjamin Crayle ...,
             London :
             1688.
          
           
             Pt. 2 has special t.p.: Miscellanea, or, The second part of poetical recreations.
             Errata: p. [24].
             Advertisement: p. [1] at end.
             Reproduction of original in British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           English poetry -- Early modern, 1500-1700.
           Songs, English -- Texts.
        
      
    
     
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               Licensed
               and
               Entred
               according
               to
               Order
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               POETICAL
               RECREATIONS
               :
               Consisting
               of
               ORIGINAL
               POEMS
               ,
               SONGS
               ,
               ODES
               ,
               &c.
               With
               several
               New
               TRANSLATIONS
               .
            
             
               In
               Two
               PARTS
               .
               PART
               I.
               Occasionally
               Written
               by
               Mrs.
               
                 IANE
                 BARKER
              
               .
               PART
               II.
               By
               several
               Gentlemen
               of
               the
               UNIVERSITIES
               ,
               and
               Others
               .
            
             
               
                 —
                 pulcherrimá
                 Virgo
              
               
                 Incedit
                 ,
                 magnâ
                 Iuvenum
                 stipante
                 catervâ
                 .
                 
                   Virg.
                   
                
              
            
             
               LONDON
               ,
               Printed
               for
               
                 Benjamin
                 Crayle
              
               ,
               at
               the
               Peacock
               and
               Bible
               ,
               at
               the
               West-end
               of
               St.
               Pauls
               .
               1688.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               
                 
                   Sr.
                   Clement
                   Cottrell
                   Kt.
                   Master
                   of
                   the
                   Ceremonyes
                
              
            
          
           
             
             
               THE
               PUBLISHER
               TO
               The
               Reader
               .
            
             
               LEST
               the
               Book
               might
               appear
               Naked
               ,
               and
               unfashionable
               ,
               I
               thought
               it
               could
               not
               be
               altogether
               unnecessary
               to
               say
               something
               by
               way
               of
               Preface
               ;
               Therefore
               ,
               not
               to
               be
               tedious
               ,
               and
               pedantickly
               stuff
               it
               up
               with
               Quotations
               of
               several
               Languages
               ,
               (
               as
               some
               affect
               ,
               to
               shew
               Learning
               )
               I
               shall
               only
               say
               this
               of
               the
               ensuing
               
                 Poetical
                 Recreations
              
               ,
               That
               the
               kind
               reception
               some
               other
               things
               of
               this
               nature
               have
               found
               ,
               encouraged
               me
               in
               the
               attempt
               of
               Publishing
               these
               ;
               and
               
               I
               hope
               they
               may
               give
               as
               equivalent
               satisfaction
               as
               any
               that
               have
               preceded
               them
               :
               for
               the
               ensuing
               Verses
               have
               pass'd
               the
               test
               of
               several
               that
               know
               how
               to
               judge
               of
               Poetry
               ,
               and
               that
               was
               sufficient
               to
               prompt
               me
               to
               the
               adventure
               .
            
             
               The
               
                 First
                 Part
              
               of
               these
               Miscellanies
               are
               the
               effects
               of
               a
               Ladies
               Wit
               ,
               and
               I
               hope
               all
               the
               Courtly
               will
               (
               though
               out
               of
               a
               Complement
               )
               allow
               them
               for
               valuable
               :
               But
               however
               ,
               not
               to
               say
               much
               more
               of
               her
               Verses
               ,
               I
               doubt
               not
               but
               they
               will
               commend
               themselves
               far
               better
               than
               I
               can
               pretend
               to
               ;
               for
               all
               good
               things
               carry
               with
               them
               a
               certain
               irresistable
               Authority
               ,
               not
               to
               be
               oppos'd
               .
            
             
               The
               
                 Second
                 Part
              
               flows
               from
               the
               Pens
               of
               those
               whose
               Educations
               gave
               them
               the
               opportunity
               of
               improving
               
               their
               natural
               Endowments
               at
               the
               Universities
               ,
               and
               some
               others
               who
               wanted
               those
               advantages
               ;
               and
               by
               reading
               you
               may
               find
               the
               difference
               of
               Parts
               improv'd
               ,
               and
               Parts
               as
               barely
               natural
               :
               And
               as
               Learning
               is
               but
               a
               way
               to
               set
               off
               Nature
               ,
               so
               very
               often
               we
               see
               Nature
               naked
               to
               appear
               more
               beautifull
               ,
               than
               when
               confin'd
               or
               daub'd
               by
               auker'd
               and
               unnecessary
               Art
               ,
               which
               makes
               it
               often
               prove
               like
               a
               good
               Face
               spoil'd
               by
               ill
               Paint
               ,
               and
               injurious
               Washes
               .
               But
               not
               to
               pretend
               to
               give
               you
               a
               particular
               Harangue
               of
               each
               Authour
               ,
               and
               an
               account
               of
               their
               Writings
               ,
               who
               have
               been
               so
               kind
               to
               the
               World
               as
               to
               contribute
               to
               this
               Piece
               ;
               I
               shall
               only
               say
               that
               that
               which
               Horace
               said
               of
               himself
               ,
               is
               applicable
               to
               them
               :
               
                 
                   Libera
                   per
                   vacuum
                   posui
                   Vestigia
                   princeps
                   ,
                
                 
                   Non
                   aliena
                   meo
                   pressi
                   pede
                   .
                   —
                
                 
                 
                   They
                   've
                   trod
                   new
                   Paths
                   ,
                   to
                   others
                   Feet
                   unknown
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bravely
                   ventur'd
                   to
                   lead
                   others
                   on
                   .
                
              
               If
               you
               that
               read
               ,
               like
               ,
               and
               recommend
               ,
               so
               that
               the
               Book
               sells
               ,
               I
               am
               oblig'd
               ,
               and
               you
               pleas'd
               :
               And
               therefore
               I
               shall
               leave
               you
               to
               the
               tryal
               .
               Vale.
               
            
             
               B.
               CRAYLE
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               To
               Madam
               
                 IANE
                 BARKER
              
               ,
               On
               Her
               Incomparable
               POEMS
               .
            
             
               
                 SOon
                 as
                 some
                 envious
                 Angel's
                 willing
                 hand
              
               
                 Snatch'd
                 Great
                 Orinda
                 srom
                 our
                 happy
                 Land
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Great
                 Orinda
                 ,
                 whose
                 Seraphick
                 Pen
              
               
                 Triumph'd
                 o'er
                 Women
                 ,
                 and
                 out-brav'd
                 ev'n
                 Men
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 our
                 Male
                 -
                 Poets
                 modestly
                 thought
                 fit
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 claim
                 the
                 honour'd
                 Primacy
                 in
                 Wit
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 lo
                 ,
                 the
                 Heiress
                 of
                 that
                 Ladies
                 Muse
                 ,
              
               
                 Rivals
                 their
                 Merits
                 ,
                 and
                 their
                 Sence
                 out-do's
                 ;
              
               
                 With
                 swifter
                 flights
                 of
                 fancy
                 wings
                 her
                 Verse
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 nobler
                 Greatness
                 valiant
                 Acts
                 reherse
                 .
              
               
                 Her
                 Modish
                 Muse
                 abhors
                 a
                 constant
                 dress
                 ,
              
               
                 Appears
                 each
                 day
                 in
                 fineries
                 afresh
                 :
              
               
                 Sometimes
                 in
                 pompous
                 Grandeur
                 she
                 do's
                 nobly
                 stalk
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 clad
                 in
                 tragick
                 Buskins
                 do's
                 Majestick
                 walk
                 ;
              
               
                 She
                 swells
                 in
                 blushing
                 Purple
                 ,
                 or
                 looks
                 big
                 in
                 Arms
                 ,
              
               
                 Proclaims
                 destructive
                 Wars
                 ,
                 &
                 triumphs
                 in
                 Alar'ms
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Denounces
                 fall
                 of
                 States
                 ,
                 and
                 fate
                 of
                 greatest
                 Kings
                 ,
              
               
                 Ruin
                 of
                 mighty
                 Monarchs
                 ,
                 and
                 of
                 mighty
                 Things
                 .
              
               
                 Sometimes
                 her
                 angry
                 Muse
                 ,
                 fill'd
                 with
                 Satyrick
                 rage
                 ,
              
               
                 Lashes
                 the
                 frantick
                 follies
                 of
                 a
                 froward
                 Age
                 ;
              
               
                 Then
                 whips
                 ,
                 and
                 fiery
                 Serpents
                 ev'ry
                 Verse
                 entwine
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sharpest-pointed
                 Vengeance
                 fills
                 each
                 threatning
                 line
                 .
              
               
                 Sometimes
                 her
                 kinder
                 Muse
                 do's
                 softly
                 sing
              
               
                 Of
                 native
                 joys
                 ,
                 which
                 in
                 the
                 Country
                 spring
                 :
              
            
             
               
                 Then
                 ,
              
               
                 Noiseless
                 as
                 Planets
                 ,
                 all
                 her
                 Numbers
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 silent
                 breathings
                 of
                 a
                 sleeping
                 Dove
                 ;
              
               
                 Soft
                 as
                 the
                 Murmur
                 of
                 a
                 gentle
                 Air
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 Mid-nights
                 whispers
                 'twixt
                 an
                 Amorous
                 pair
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 genuine
                 sweetness
                 through
                 her
                 Verses
                 flow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 harmless
                 Raptures
                 ,
                 such
                 as
                 Shepherds
                 know
                 ;
              
               
                 She
                 fills
                 each
                 Plain
                 ,
                 each
                 Wood
                 ,
                 each
                 shady
                 Grove
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 wearied
                 Echoes
                 of
                 repeated
                 Love.
              
               
                 Bald
                 and
                 Bombastick
                 equally
                 you
                 shun
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 ev'n
                 paces
                 all
                 your
                 Numbers
                 run
                 .
              
               
                 Spencer
                 's
                 aspiring
                 fancy
                 fills
                 your
                 Soul
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 lawfull
                 Raptures
                 through
                 your
                 Poems
                 rowl
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 always
                 by
                 your
                 guidance
                 do
                 submit
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 th'
                 curb
                 of
                 Iudgment
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 bounds
                 of
                 Wit.
              
               
               
                 When
                 in
                 a
                 Comick
                 sweetness
                 you
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 Iohnson's
                 humour
                 seems
                 revived
                 there
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 lofty
                 Passions
                 thunder
                 from
                 your
                 Pen
                 ,
              
               
                 Methinks
                 I
                 hear
                 Great
                 Shakespear
                 once
                 again
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 do's
                 most
                 your
                 Poetry
                 commend
                 ?
              
               
                 You
                 ev'n
                 begin
                 where
                 those
                 great
                 Wits
                 did
                 end
                 .
              
               
                 Your
                 infant
                 fancy
                 with
                 that
                 height
                 is
                 crown'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 they
                 with
                 pains
                 and
                 cost
                 (
                 when
                 old
                 )
                 scarce
                 found
                 .
              
               
                 Go
                 on
                 ,
                 Dear
                 Madam
                 ,
                 and
                 command
                 our
                 praise
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 freshest
                 Laurels
                 ,
                 and
                 our
                 greenest
                 Bays
                 .
              
            
             
               St.
               Iohn's
               Colledge
               .
            
             
               PHILASTER
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               To
               the
               Ingenious
               Mrs.
               BARKER
               ,
               On
               Her
               Excellent
               POEMS
               .
            
             
               
                 LOng
                 since
                 my
                 Thoughts
                 did
                 thus
                 for
                 boding
                 tell
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Muses
                 wou'd
                 their
                 Governours
                 expell
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 raise
                 a
                 
                   Female
                   Heir
                
                 unto
                 the
                 Crown
                 ,
              
               
                 One
                 of
                 their
                 Sex
                 to
                 sit
                 upon
                 the
                 Throne
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 the
                 time
                 is
                 come
                 ,
                 we
                 joy
                 to
                 see
              
               
                 We
                 're
                 Subjects
                 to
                 so
                 great
                 a
                 Queen
                 as
                 thee
                 ;
              
               
                 Before
                 in
                 all
                 things
                 else
                 we
                 did
                 submit
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 Madam
                 )
                 in
                 all
                 things
                 else
                 but
                 only
                 Wit
                 :
              
               
                 Such
                 was
                 our
                 vain
                 Self-love
                 ,
                 and
                 stubborn
                 Pride
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Heav'n
                 was
                 pleas'd
                 to
                 take
                 the
                 weakest
                 side
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 as
                 Captives
                 to
                 our
                 Conquerour
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 must
                 surrender
                 all
                 into
                 your
                 Pow'r
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 daring
                 to
                 keep
                 back
                 the
                 smallest
                 part
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 own
                 with
                 shame
                 ,
                 and
                 praise
                 your
                 great
                 Desert
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Nor
                 are
                 you
                 so
                 desirous
                 of
                 the
                 Bays
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 to
                 deny
                 Others
                 deserved
                 Praise
                 ;
              
               
               
                 But
                 giving
                 them
                 an
                 Everlasting
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 merit
                 to
                 your self
                 a
                 nobler
                 Fame
                 ;
              
               
                 While
                 your
                 own
                 Glory
                 you
                 so
                 much
                 neglect
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Others
                 with
                 such
                 skill
                 and
                 care
                 protect
                 ,
              
               
                 More
                 lasting
                 Trophies
                 to
                 your self
                 erect
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 ah
                 ,
                 how
                 high
                 your
                 Fancy
                 takes
                 its
                 flight
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 they
                 admire
                 at
                 you
                 ,
                 gone
                 out
                 of
                 sight
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 all
                 in
                 Fire
                 Elijah
                 fled
                 unkind
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 left
                 Elisha
                 wond'ring
                 here
                 behind
                 :
              
               
                 They
                 ,
                 like
                 Elisha
                 ,
                 for
                 a
                 Blessing
                 call
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 hear
                 their
                 Pray'rs
                 ,
                 and
                 let
                 the
                 
                   Mantle
                   fall
                
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 this
                 they
                 strange
                 unheard-of
                 things
                 can
                 doe
                 ,
              
               
                 Had
                 they
                 a
                 
                   fiery
                   Coach
                
                 ,
                 they
                 'd
                 be
                 Elijah's
                 too
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Farther
                 oblige
                 the
                 World
                 (
                 good
                 Madam
                 )
                 still
              
               
                 By
                 divine
                 Raptures
                 of
                 your
                 warbling
                 Quill
                 .
              
               
                 Restore
                 the
                 Muses
                 ,
                 and
                 true
                 Poetry
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 teach
                 what
                 Charms
                 do
                 in
                 true
                 Measures
                 lye
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 you
                 find
                 a
                 time
                 best
                 to
                 retreat
                 ,
              
               
                 Spin
                 out
                 into
                 a
                 Web
                 of
                 Fancy
                 ,
                 and
                 of
                 Wit.
              
               
                 Let
                 me
                 your
                 Muse
                 a
                 Legacy
                 inherit
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 double
                 Portion
                 of
                 your
                 sacred
                 Spirit
                 .
              
            
             
               C.
               G.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               To
               the
               Ingenious
               AUTHOUR
               ,
               Mrs.
               
                 IANE
                 BARKER
              
               ,
               ON
               HER
               POEMS
               .
            
             
               
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 AS
                 in
                 the
                 ancient
                 Chaos
                 ,
                 from
                 whose
                 Womb
              
               
                 The
                 Universe
                 did
                 come
                 ;
              
               
                 All
                 things
                 confus'd
                 ,
                 disorder'd
                 were
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 signs
                 o'
                 th'
                 luster
                 ,
                 which
                 did
                 after
                 grace
              
               
                 The
                 whole
                 Creation's
                 face
                 ;
              
               
                 Nothing
                 of
                 Beauty
                 did
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 all
                 was
                 a
                 continu'd
                 boundless
                 space
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 the
                 Almighty's
                 powerfull
                 Command
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Action
                 ev'r
                 more
                 quick
                 than
                 thought
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Infant
                 World
                 out
                 of
                 confusion
                 brought
                 ;
              
               
                 Whose
                 all-commanding
                 hand
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Beasts
                 &
                 Trees
                 did
                 bounteously
                 adorn
                 the
                 fruitfull
                 Land.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 So
                 where
                 my
                 Thoughts
                 ,
                 if
                 Thoughts
                 can
                 be
              
               
                 Design'd
                 from
                 Wit
                 ,
                 and
                 Poetrie
                 ,
              
               
                 Nothing
                 but
                 Ignorance
                 appear'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Dull
                 ignorance
                 ,
                 and
                 folly
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 all
                 that
                 Crew
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 home-bred
                 Darkness
                 held
                 the
                 regencie
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 your
                 Almighty
                 Pen
              
               
                 This
                 Chaos
                 clear'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 of
                 old
                 arm'd
                 Men
                 ,
              
               
                 Strange
                 Miracles
                 rose
                 out
                 o'
                 th'
                 Earth
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 to
                 your
                 charming
                 Wit
                 I
                 owe
              
               
                 These
                 Verses
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 your
                 Word
                 that
                 makes
                 them
                 so
                 ;
              
               
                 Which
                 rais'd
                 from
                 such
                 a
                 barren
                 ground
                 ,
              
               
                 Strive
                 to
                 resound
              
               
                 Your
                 praise
                 ,
                 who
                 by
                 such
                 harmless
                 Magick
                 gave
                 them
                 Birth
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 III.
                 
              
               
                 And
                 as
                 the
                 Heav'ns
                 ,
                 to
                 which
                 we
                 all
                 things
                 owe
                 ,
              
               
                 Scarce
                 own
                 those
                 Bounties
                 which
                 they
                 do
                 bestow
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 you
                 're
                 as
                 kind
                 as
                 they
                 ,
              
               
                 Submit
                 your
                 kinder
                 influence
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 by
                 us
                 determin'd
                 ,
                 us
                 obey
                 ;
              
               
               
                 And
                 still
                 from
                 them
              
               
                 Give
                 us
                 ev'n
                 for
                 our
                 weakness
                 a
                 reward
                 ,
              
               
                 Without
                 regard
              
               
                 To
                 Merit
                 :
                 Or
                 if
                 any
                 thing
                 we
                 doe
                 ,
              
               
                 Worth
                 praise
                 ,
                 though
                 solely
                 it
                 proceed
                 from
                 you
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 for
                 our
                 smallest
                 diligence
                 you
                 doubly
                 do
                 repay
                 .
              
               
                 St.
                 Iohn's
                 Colledge
                 .
              
            
             
               EXILIUS
               .
            
          
           
             
               In
               Elegantem
               
                 IANAE
                 BARKER
              
               Poeticen
               Epigramma
               .
            
             
               FOnte
               Caballino
               Ianam
               cùm
               cerno
               lavatam
               ,
            
             
               An
               Sappho
               est
               ,
               inquam
               ,
               quae
               rediviva
               canit
               ?
            
             
               Non
               ,
               ait
               ,
               at
               parere
               ut
               possim
               praeclara
               Virorum
            
             
               Facta
               datum
               ;
               haud
               aliis
               ,
               sed
               peperisse
               viros
               .
            
             
               
                 M.
                 Heliogenes
              
               de
               L'
               Epi.
               Philos.
               ac
               Med.
               P.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               To
               Mrs.
               
                 IANE
                 BARKER
              
               ,
               On
               Her
               Ingenious
               POEMS
               .
            
             
               
                 WE
                 Men
                 wou'd
                 fain
                 monopolize
                 all
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 e'er
                 since
                 Adam
                 nam'd
                 the
                 Beasts
                 ,
                 claim'd
                 it
                 ,
              
               
                 Thinking
                 in
                 that
                 ,
                 by
                 him
                 ,
                 our
                 Patent
                 writ
                 .
              
               
                 How
                 grosly
                 we
                 mistook
                 ,
                 Orinda
                 knew
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 are
                 convinc'd
                 too
                 by
                 your
                 Verse
                 and
                 Yo●
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 true
                 ,
                 at
                 Ten
                 ,
                 we
                 're
                 sent
                 to
                 th'
                 whipping
                 fry
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 tug
                 at
                 
                   Classick
                   Oars
                
                 ,
                 and
                 trembling
                 lye
              
               
                 Under
                 Gill's
                 heavy
                 lash
                 ,
                 or
                 Buzby's
                 Eye
                 .
              
               
                 At
                 Eighteen
                 ,
                 we
                 to
                 King's
                 or
                 Trinity
                 are
                 sent
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 nothing
                 less
                 than
                 Laureate
                 will
                 content
                 ;
              
               
                 We
                 search
                 all
                 Sects
                 ,
                 (
                 like
                 Systematick
                 Fools
                 )
              
               
                 And
                 sweat
                 o'er
                 Horace
                 for
                 Poetick
                 Rules
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 after
                 all
                 these
                 Mountain-throes
                 and
                 din
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 length
                 drops
                 out
                 some
                 poor
                 crude
                 Sooterkin
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 makes
                 —
                 
                   cob
                   Tonson
                
                 vex't
                 he
                 e'er
                 put
                 in
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 But
                 here
                 a
                 Lady
                 ,
                 with
                 less
                 noise
                 and
                 pain
                 ,
              
               
                 Lays
                 by
                 her
                 
                   Bobbins
                   ,
                   Tape
                
                 ,
                 and
                 Point-Lorrain
                 ;
              
               
                 Attends
                 her
                 serene
                 Soul
                 ,
                 till
                 forth
                 she
                 brought
              
               
                 Fancy
                 well-shap't
                 ,
                 and
                 true
                 digested
                 Thought
                 .
              
               
                 Shadwell
                 and
                 Settle
                 yield
                 she
                 hath
                 the
                 knack
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 swear
                 she
                 will
                 out-doe
                 Revolting
                 Iack
                 ;
              
               
                 She
                 cloaths
                 her
                 Sence
                 in
                 such
                 a
                 modest
                 Style
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 her
                 
                   chast
                   Lines
                
                 no
                 Reader
                 can
                 defile
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Madam
                 ,
                 your
                 happy
                 Vein
                 we
                 all
                 admire
                 ,
              
               
                 Pure
                 unmix't
                 rays
                 (
                 just
                 so
                 Ethereal
                 fire
              
               
                 Will
                 shine
                 above
                 the
                 Atmosphere
                 of
                 gross
                 desire
                 ,
                 )
              
               
                 Brisk
                 Ayrs
                 ,
                 chast
                 Sence
                 ,
                 and
                 most
                 delighting
                 Lays
                 ;
              
               
                 Take
                 off
                 your
                 Top-knots
                 ,
                 and
                 put
                 on
                 the
                 Bays
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 S.
                 C.
              
               Esq.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               To
               the
               Incomparable
               GALAECIA
               ,
               On
               the
               Publication
               of
               Her
               POEMS
               .
            
             
               
                 WHen
                 a
                 
                   new
                   Star
                
                 do's
                 in
                 the
                 Skies
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 some
                 Constellation
                 ,
                 shining
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 New
                 lustre
                 adds
                 ,
                 and
                 gilds
                 the
                 rowling
                 Sphere
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 all
                 the
                 Sons
                 of
                 Art
                 ,
                 wond'ring
                 to
                 see
              
               
                 The
                 bright
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 amazing
                 Noveltie
                 ;
              
               
                 By
                 most
                 accurate
                 Observations
                 ,
                 try
              
               
                 To
                 search
                 ,
                 and
                 find
                 its
                 perfect
                 Theory
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 know
                 its
                 colour
                 ,
                 form
                 ,
                 place
                 ,
                 magnitude
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 strange
                 Causes
                 strange
                 Effects
                 conclude
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 all
                 Men
                 ,
                 pleas'd
                 with
                 thy
                 ingenuous
                 fire
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 beauteous
                 Verse
                 ,
                 and
                 happy
                 slights
                 admire
                 ;
              
               
                 With
                 joy
                 behold
                 a
                 Wit
                 so
                 pure
                 as
                 thine
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 this
                 dark
                 Age
                 of
                 Ignorance
                 to
                 shine
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 scatter
                 Rays
                 so
                 dazling
                 and
                 Divine
                 .
              
               
               
                 All
                 think
                 it
                 glorious
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 vast
                 delight
                 ,
              
               
                 Gaze
                 on
                 a
                 Star
                 so
                 charming
                 ,
                 and
                 so
                 bright
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 are
                 amaz'd
                 that
                 Wits
                 less
                 gay
                 and
                 clear
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 the
                 approach
                 of
                 thine
                 ,
                 shou'd
                 disappear
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 Poetaster's
                 of
                 a
                 low
                 degree
                 ,
              
               
                 Shou'd
                 now
                 neglected
                 ,
                 and
                 unvalu'd
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 spreading
                 Fame
                 confin'd
                 alone
                 to
                 thee
                 ;
              
               
                 Since
                 none
                 so
                 nicely
                 are
                 observ'd
                 ,
                 and
                 view'd
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 the
                 large
                 Stars
                 of
                 the
                 
                   first
                   Magnitude
                
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 And
                 may
                 your
                 piercing
                 Wit
                 shine
                 always
                 bright
              
               
                 As
                 th'
                 
                   Ev'ning
                   Star
                
                 in
                 a
                 clear
                 frosty
                 Night
                 ,
              
               
                 Unrival'd
                 by
                 the
                 Moon
                 's
                 faint
                 borrow'd
                 light
                 .
              
               
                 May
                 never
                 interposing
                 sorrows
                 meet
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 cloud
                 ,
                 or
                 to
                 obscure
                 your
                 
                   growing
                   Wit.
                
              
               
                 But
                 may
                 your
                 Rhimes
                 be
                 still
                 imploy'd
                 to
                 tell
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 satissaction
                 do's
                 in
                 Knowledge
                 dwell
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 as
                 you
                 have
                 begun
                 ,
                 so
                 yet
                 go
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 coy
                 
                   Nature's
                   secrets
                
                 better
                 known
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 may
                 we
                 learn
                 in
                 purest
                 Verse
                 ,
                 from
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Art
                 of
                 Physick
                 ,
                 and
                 Anatomie
                 ;
              
               
                 While
                 the
                 much-pleas'd
                 Apollo
                 smiles
                 to
                 see
              
               
                 Medicine
                 at
                 once
                 improv'd
                 ,
                 and
                 Poetrie
                 .
              
            
             
               FIDELIUS
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               A
               TABLE
               OF
               THE
               POEMS
               Contained
               in
               the
               FIRST
               PART
               OF
               POETICAL
               RECREATIONS
               .
            
             
               
                 AN
                 Invitation
                 to
                 my
                 Friends
                 at
                 Cambridge
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Page
                   1
                
              
               
                 To
                 Mr.
                 Hill
                 ,
                 on
                 his
                 Verses
                 to
                 the
                 Dutchess
                 of
                 York
                 ,
                 when
                 she
                 was
                 at
                 Cambridge
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   4
                
              
               
                 To
                 my
                 Cousin
                 Mr.
                 
                   E.
                   F.
                
                 on
                 his
                 Excellent
                 Painting
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   6
                
              
               
                 To
                 my
                 Reverend
                 Friend
                 Mr.
                 H
                 —
                 on
                 his
                 Presenting
                 me
                 
                   The
                   Reasonableness
                   of
                   Christianity
                
                 ,
                 and
                 
                   The
                   History
                   of
                   King
                
                 Charles
                 
                   the
                   First
                
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   8
                
              
               
                 
                 To
                 Mr.
                 
                   G.
                   P.
                
                 my
                 Adopted
                 Brother
                 ,
                 on
                 the
                 nigh
                 approach
                 of
                 his
                 Nuptials
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   11
                
              
               
                 A
                 Virgin
                 Life
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   12
                
              
               
                 To
                 my
                 Friend
                 Exillus
                 ,
                 on
                 his
                 persuading
                 me
                 to
                 Marry
                 Old
                 Damon
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   14
                
              
               
                 To
                 Dr.
                 
                   R.
                   S.
                
                 my
                 Indifferent
                 Lover
                 ,
                 who
                 complain'd
                 of
                 my
                 Indifferency
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   16
                
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 Death
                 of
                 my
                 Dear
                 Friend
                 and
                 Play-fellow
                 ,
                 Mrs.
                 
                   E.
                   D.
                
                 
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   18
                
              
               
                 The
                 Prospect
                 of
                 a
                 Landskip
                 ,
                 beginning
                 with
                 a
                 Grove
                 ,
                 proceeding
                 to
                 a
                 Rivulet
                 ,
                 and
                 ending
                 with
                 a
                 Hill.
                 
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   20
                
              
               
                 To
                 Sir
                 
                   F.
                   W.
                
                 presenting
                 him
                 Cowley's
                 first
                 Works
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   28
                
              
               
                 To
                 Ovid's
                 Heroines
                 in
                 his
                 Epistles
                 .
              
               
                 ibid.
                 
              
               
                 To
                 my
                 Honourablle
                 Unkle
                 Colonel
                 C
                 —
                 after
                 his
                 Return
                 into
                 the
                 Low-Countries
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   29
                
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 Apothecary's
                 Filing
                 my
                 Bills
                 amongst
                 the
                 Doctor
                 's
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   31
                
              
               
                 To
                 my
                 unkind
                 Strephon.
                 
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   34
                
              
               
                 To
                 my
                 Friend
                 
                   S.
                   L.
                
                 on
                 his
                 receiving
                 the
                 Name
                 of
                 
                   Little
                   Tom
                   King.
                
                 
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   37
                
              
               
                 Necessity
                 of
                 Fate
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   38
                
              
               
                 A
                 Letter
                 to
                 my
                 Honoured
                 Friend
                 Mr.
                 
                   E.
                   S.
                
                 
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   40
                
              
               
                 On
                 my
                 Mother
                 and
                 my
                 Lady
                 W.
                 who
                 both
                 lay
                 sick
                 at
                 the
                 same
                 time
                 under
                 the
                 Hands
                 of
                 Dr.
                 Paman
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   42
                
              
               
                 In
                 Commendation
                 of
                 the
                 Female
                 Sex.
                 
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   44
                
              
               
                 To
                 my
                 Brother
                 whilst
                 he
                 was
                 in
                 France
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   46
                
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 Death
                 of
                 my
                 Brother
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   47
                
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 same
                 :
                 A
                 Pindarique
                 Ode
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   51
                
              
               
                 Part
                 of
                 the
                 19th
                 Psalm
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   56
                
              
               
                 Coming
                 from
                 —
                 in
                 a
                 Dark
                 Night
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   58
                
              
               
                 
                 To
                 my
                 Dear
                 Cousin
                 Mrs.
                 
                   M.
                   T.
                
                 after
                 the
                 Death
                 of
                 her
                 Husband
                 and
                 Son.
                 
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   59
                
              
               
                 To
                 my
                 Young
                 Lover
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   61
                
              
               
                 To
                 my
                 Young
                 Lover
                 on
                 his
                 Vow
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   62
                
              
               
                 To
                 my
                 Young
                 Lover
                 :
                 A
                 Song
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   64
                
              
               
                 To
                 my
                 unkind
                 Friend
                 
                   Little
                   Tom
                   King.
                
                 
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   65
                
              
               
                 A
                 2d
                 Epistle
                 to
                 my
                 Honoured
                 Friend
                 Mr.
                 
                   E.
                   S.
                
                 
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   70
                
              
               
                 A
                 Pastoral
                 Dialogue
                 betwixt
                 Two
                 Shepherd-Boys
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   7●
                
              
               
                 To
                 Mr.
                 
                   C.
                   B.
                
                 on
                 his
                 Incomparable
                 Singing
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   76
                
              
               
                 The
                 Complaint
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   78
                
              
               
                 A
                 Song
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   79
                
              
               
                 The
                 Unruly
                 Heart
                 :
                 Song
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   81
                
              
               
                 Song
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   82
                
              
               
                 Song
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   83
                
              
               
                 A
                 Bacchanalian
                 Song
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   84
                
              
               
                 An
                 Ode
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   86
                
              
               
                 Absence
                 for
                 a
                 Time.
                 
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   87
                
              
               
                 Parting
                 with
                 —
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   89
                
              
               
                 The
                 Anchorite
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   91
                
              
               
                 
                   Iane
                   ,
                   Nan
                
                 ,
                 and
                 Frank
                 ,
                 their
                 Farewell
                 to
                 Captain
                 C.
                 going
                 to
                 Sea.
                 
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   92
                
              
               
                 To
                 her
                 Lover's
                 Complaint
                 :
                 A
                 Song
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   94
                
              
               
                 To
                 my
                 Adopted
                 Brother
                 Mr.
                 
                   G.
                   P.
                
                 on
                 my
                 frequent
                 Writing
                 to
                 him
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   95
                
              
               
                 To
                 my
                 Friends
                 against
                 Poetry
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   96
                
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 Importunate
                 Address
                 of
                 Poetry
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   97
                
              
               
                 A
                 Farewell
                 to
                 Poetry
                 ,
                 with
                 a
                 long
                 Digression
                 on
                 Anatomy
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   99
                
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 Death
                 of
                 my
                 Brother
                 ,
                 a
                 Sonnet
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   107
                
              
               
                 Resolved
                 never
                 to
                 Versifie
                 more
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   108
                
              
            
          
           
             
             
               ERRATA
               .
            
             
               PArt
               .
               I.
               Page
               19.
               
               Line
               1.
               for
               the
               ,
               read
               ye
               .
            
             
               Part
               II.
               Page
               47.
               line
               4.
               for
               Celestial
               ,
               read
               
                 the
                 Celestial
              
               .
            
             
               Page
               48.
               line
               4.
               for
               crack
               ,
               read
               choak
               .
            
             
               Page
               61.
               line
               6.
               for
               your
               ,
               read
               you
               .
            
             
               Page
               89.
               line
               7.
               for
               Things
               ,
               read
               Thinns
               .
            
             
               Page
               192.
               line
               6.
               for
               
                 but
                 obtain
              
               ,
               read
               obtain
               .
            
             
               Page
               211.
               line
               8.
               for
               streams
               ,
               read
               stream
               .
            
             
               Page
               268.
               line
               ult
               .
               for
               reserv'd
               ,
               read
               refin'd
               .
            
             
               Page
               278.
               line
               19.
               for
               Fight
               ,
               read
               Sight
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
               Miscellany
               POEMS
               .
               PART
               I.
               
            
             
               By
               Mrs.
               IANE
               BARKER
               .
            
             
               
                 An
                 Invitation
                 to
                 my
                 Friends
                 at
                 Cambridge
                 .
              
               
                 
                   IF
                   ,
                   Friends
                   ,
                   you
                   would
                   but
                   now
                   this
                   place
                   accost
                   ,
                
                 
                   E're
                   the
                   young
                   Spring
                   that
                   Epithet
                   has
                   lost
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   of
                   my
                   rural
                   joy
                   participate
                   ;
                
                 
                   You
                   'd
                   learn
                   to
                   talk
                   at
                   this
                   distracted
                   rate
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Hail
                   ,
                   Solitude
                   ,
                   where
                   Innocence
                   do's
                   shroud
                
                 
                   Her
                   unvail'd
                   Beauties
                   from
                   the
                   cens'ring
                   Croud
                   ;
                
                 
                   Let
                   me
                   but
                   have
                   her
                   Company
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                
                 
                   Shall
                   never
                   envy
                   this
                   World●s
                   Gallantry
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   We
                   'll
                   find
                   out
                   such
                   inventions
                   to
                   delude
                
                 
                   And
                   mock
                   all
                   those
                   that
                   mock
                   our
                   solitude
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   they
                   for
                   shame
                   shall
                   fly
                   for
                   their
                   defence
                
                 
                   To
                   gentle
                   Solitude
                   and
                   Innocence
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   they
                   will
                   find
                   how
                   much
                   they
                   've
                   been
                   deceiv'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   they
                   the
                   flatt'ries
                   of
                   this
                   World
                   believ'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Though
                   to
                   few
                   Objects
                   here
                   we
                   are
                   confin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   we
                   have
                   full
                   inlargement
                   of
                   the
                   Mind
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   varying
                   Modes
                   ,
                   which
                   do
                   our
                   Lives
                   inslave
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lo
                   here
                   a
                   full
                   Immunity
                   we
                   have
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   here
                   's
                   no
                   pride
                   but
                   in
                   the
                   Sun
                   's
                   bright
                   Beams
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   murmuring
                   ,
                   but
                   in
                   the
                   Crystal
                   streams
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   avarice
                   is
                   here
                   ,
                   but
                   in
                   the
                   Bees
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   is
                   Ambition
                   found
                   but
                   in
                   the
                   Trees
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   Wantonness
                   but
                   in
                   the
                   frisking
                   Lamb●
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Luxury
                   but
                   when
                   they
                   suck
                   their
                   Dams
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   are
                   there
                   here
                   Contrivances
                   of
                   States
                   ,
                
                 
                   Only
                   the
                   Birds
                   contrive
                   to
                   please
                   their
                   Mates
                   ;
                
                 
                   Each
                   minute
                   they
                   alternately
                   improve
                
                 
                   A
                   thousand
                   harmless
                   ways
                   their
                   artless
                   love
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   Cruel
                   Nymphs
                   are
                   here
                   to
                   tyrannize
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   faithless
                   Youths
                   their
                   scorn
                   to
                   exercise
                   ;
                
                 
                   Unless
                   Narcissus
                   be
                   that
                   sullen
                   he
                
                 
                   That
                   can
                   despise
                   his
                   am'rous
                   talking
                   she
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   No
                   Emulation
                   here
                   do's
                   interpose
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unless
                   betwixt
                   the
                   Tulip
                   and
                   the
                   Rose
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   all
                   things
                   do
                   conspire
                   to
                   make
                   us
                   bless'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Yet
                   chiefly
                   't
                   is
                   Contentment
                   makes
                   the
                   Feast
                   )
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   such
                   a
                   pleasing
                   solitude
                   as
                   yet
                
                 
                   Romance
                   ne're
                   found
                   ,
                   where
                   happy
                   Lovers
                   met
                   :
                
                 
                   Yea
                   such
                   a
                   kind
                   of
                   solitude
                   it
                   is
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   much
                   unlike
                   to
                   that
                   of
                   Paradise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   all
                   things
                   do
                   their
                   choicest
                   good
                   dispence
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   too
                   here
                   am
                   plac'd
                   in
                   innocence
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   shou'd
                   conclude
                   that
                   such
                   it
                   really
                   were
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   that
                   the
                   Tree
                   of
                   Knowledge
                   won't
                   grow
                   here●
                
                 
                   Though
                   in
                   its
                   culture
                   I
                   have
                   spent
                   some
                   time
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   it
                   disdains
                   to
                   grow
                   in
                   our
                   cold
                   Clime
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   it
                   can
                   neither
                   Fruit
                   nor
                   Leaves
                   produce
                
                 
                   Good
                   for
                   its
                   owner
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   publick
                   use
                   .
                
                 
                   How
                   can
                   we
                   hope
                   our
                   Minds
                   then
                   to
                   adorn
                
                 
                   With
                   any
                   thing
                   with
                   which
                   they
                   were
                   not
                   born
                   ;
                
                 
                   Since
                   we
                   're
                   deny'd
                   to
                   make
                   this
                   small
                   advance
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   know
                   their
                   nakedness
                   and
                   ignorance
                   ?
                
                 
                   For
                   in
                   our
                   Maker's
                   Laws
                   we
                   've
                   made
                   a
                   breach
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   gather'd
                   all
                   that
                   was
                   within
                   our
                   reach
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   since
                   we
                   ne're
                   could
                   touch
                   ;
                   Altho'
                   our
                   Eyes
                
                 
                   Do
                   serve
                   our
                   longing-Souls
                   to
                   tantalize
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Whilst
                   kinder
                   fate
                   for
                   you
                   do's
                   constitute
                
                 
                   Luxurious
                   Banquets
                   of
                   this
                   dainty
                   Fruit.
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Tree
                   most
                   fresh
                   and
                   flourishing
                   do's
                   grow
                   ,
                
                 
                   E'er
                   since
                   it
                   was
                   transplanted
                   amongst
                   you
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   you
                   in
                   Wit
                   grow
                   as
                   its
                   branches
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   Deep
                   as
                   its
                   Root
                   too
                   in
                   Philosophy
                   ;
                
                 
                   Large
                   as
                   its
                   spreading
                   Arms
                   your
                   Reasons
                   grow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Close
                   as
                   its
                   Umbrage
                   do's
                   your
                   Iudgments
                   show
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fresh
                   as
                   its
                   Leaves
                   your
                   sprouting
                   fancies
                   are
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Vertues
                   as
                   its
                   Fruits
                   are
                   bright
                   and
                   fair
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 Mr.
                 HILL
                 ,
                 on
                 his
                 Verses
                 to
                 the
                 Dutchess
                 of
                 YORK
                 ,
                 when
                 she
                 was
                 at
                 Cambridge
                 .
              
               
                 WHat
                 fitter
                 Subject
                 could
                 be
                 for
                 thy
                 Wit
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 Wit
                 for
                 Subject
                 could
                 there
                 be
                 more
                 fit
              
               
                 Than
                 thine
                 for
                 this
                 ,
                 by
                 which
                 thou
                 'st
                 nobly
                 shew'd
              
               
                 Thy
                 Soul
                 with
                 Loyal
                 Sentiments
                 endew'd
                 ?
              
               
                 Not
                 only
                 so
                 ,
                 but
                 prov'd
                 thy self
                 to
                 be
              
               
                 Mirrour
                 of
                 what
                 her
                 Highness
                 came
                 to
                 see
                 :
              
               
                 VVho
                 having
                 seen
                 the
                 Schools
                 of
                 Art
                 ,
                 the
                 best
              
               
                 She
                 found
                 concenter'd
                 in
                 thy
                 matchless
                 Breast
                 ;
              
               
               
                 And
                 doubtless
                 when
                 she
                 saw
                 the
                 eager
                 joys
              
               
                 Of
                 Ears
                 no
                 less
                 ambitious
                 than
                 their
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 did
                 conclude
                 their
                 coming
                 was
                 not
                 there
              
               
                 To
                 see
                 her
                 only
                 ,
                 but
                 thy
                 Wit
                 to
                 hear
                 :
              
               
                 Thine
                 whose
                 ascent
                 shall
                 learned
                 Cambridge
                 grace
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 shew
                 it
                 's
                 no
                 such
                 foggy
                 level
                 place
              
               
                 As
                 most
                 a●firm
                 ;
                 for
                 now
                 the
                 VVorld
                 shall
                 know
              
               
                 That
                 *
                 Woods
                 and
                 Hills
                 of
                 wit
                 in
                 Cambridge
                 grow
                 ,
              
               
                 VVhose
                 lofty
                 tops
                 such
                 pleasing
                 Umbrage
                 make
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 may
                 induce
                 the
                 Gallants
                 to
                 forsake
              
               
                 Their
                 dear-lov'd
                 Town
                 ,
                 to
                 gather
                 in
                 this
                 place
              
               
                 Some
                 witticisms
                 of
                 a
                 better
                 race
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 what
                 proceed
                 from
                 swearing
                 Criticks
                 ,
                 who
              
               
                 Kick
                 Tavern
                 Boys
                 ,
                 and
                 Orange-Wenches
                 wooe
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 Machavillians
                 in
                 a
                 Co●fee-house
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 think
                 it
                 wit
                 a
                 poor
                 Street-Whore
                 to
                 chouse
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 their
                 Father
                 Hobbs
                 will
                 talk
                 so
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 Rather
                 than
                 him
                 they
                 will
                 their
                 God
                 deny
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 lest
                 their
                 wit
                 should
                 want
                 a
                 surer
                 proof
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 boast
                 of
                 crimes
                 they
                 ne're
                 were
                 guilty
                 of
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 hellish
                 cunning
                 drest
                 in
                 Masquerade
              
               
                 Of
                 Wit
                 's
                 disguise
                 ,
                 so
                 many
                 have
                 betray'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 made
                 them
                 Bondslaves
                 ,
                 who
                 at
                 first
                 did
                 fly
              
               
                 Thither
                 Wit
                 's
                 famine
                 only
                 to
                 supply
                 .
              
               
               
                 But
                 now
                 I
                 hope
                 they
                 'll
                 find
                 the
                 task
                 too
                 great
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 think
                 at
                 last
                 of
                 making
                 a
                 retreat
                 :
              
               
                 Since
                 here
                 's
                 a
                 Pisgah-Hill
                 whereon
                 to
                 stand
              
               
                 To
                 take
                 a
                 prospect
                 of
                 Wit
                 's
                 holy
                 Land
                 ,
              
               
                 Flowing
                 with
                 Milk
                 of
                 Christian
                 innocence
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Honey
                 of
                 Cic'ronian
                 Eloquence
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 my
                 Cousin
                 Mr.
                 
                   E.
                   F.
                
                 on
                 his
                 Excellent
                 PAINTING
                 .
              
               
                 
                   SHould
                   I
                   in
                   tuneless
                   lines
                   strive
                   to
                   express
                
                 
                   That
                   harmony
                   which
                   all
                   your
                   lines
                   confess
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ambition
                   would
                   my
                   judgment
                   so
                   out-run
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   as
                   an
                   Archer
                   that
                   would
                   hit
                   the
                   Sun.
                
                 
                   My
                   Muse
                   ,
                   alas
                   !
                   is
                   of
                   that
                   humble
                   size
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   scarce
                   can
                   to
                   a
                   Counter-tenour
                   rise
                   ;
                
                 
                   Much
                   less
                   must
                   she
                   to
                   treble
                   notes
                   aspire
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   match
                   the
                   Beauties
                   of
                   your
                   pencil●s
                   Quire
                   :
                
                 
                   Yet
                   quite
                   forbear
                   to
                   sing
                   ,
                   she
                   can●t
                   ,
                   since
                   you
                
                 
                   Such
                   ample
                   objects
                   for
                   her
                   praises
                   shew
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   Poet
                   here
                   can
                   have
                   his
                   tongue
                   confin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unless
                   he
                   's
                   ,
                   like
                   his
                   Master
                   Homer
                   ,
                   blind
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   must
                   in
                   spight
                   of
                   all
                   his
                   conscious
                   fears
                   ,
                
                 
                   Say
                   something
                   where
                   such
                   Excellence
                   appears
                   .
                
                 
                   VVhere
                   each
                   line
                   is
                   in
                   such
                   due
                   order
                   plac'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nature
                   stands
                   by
                   afraid
                   to
                   be
                   disgrac'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Lo
                   in
                   the
                   Eye
                   such
                   graces
                   do
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   if
                   all
                   Beauties
                   were
                   united
                   there
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   diff●rent
                   Passions
                   seem
                   therein
                   to
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   Grave
                   ev'n
                   as
                   VVisdom
                   ,
                   brisk
                   and
                   sweet
                   as
                   Love
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   lips
                   ,
                   which
                   always
                   are
                   committing
                   rapes
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   To
                   which
                   the
                   Youths
                   fly
                   more
                   than
                   Birds
                   to
                   th'
                   Grapes
                   )
                
                 
                   With
                   colour
                   that
                   transcends
                   the
                   Indian-lake
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   harmless
                   smiles
                   they
                   do
                   their
                   Conquests
                   make
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   should
                   be
                   tedious
                   should
                   I
                   mention
                   all
                
                 
                   VVhich
                   Iustice
                   would
                   the
                   chiefest
                   Beauties
                   call
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVhose
                   line'ments
                   all
                   harmony
                   do
                   shew
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   no
                   less
                   express
                   all
                   Beauty
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   strange
                   reverse
                   of
                   nature
                   seems
                   to
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   now
                   we
                   Beauty
                   hear
                   ,
                   and
                   Musick
                   see
                   ;
                
                 
                   Yet
                   just
                   proportion
                   in
                   true
                   numbers
                   meer
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVhich
                   make
                   a
                   Chorus
                   even
                   heav'nly
                   sweet
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Could
                   I
                   think
                   Antient
                   Painters
                   equall●d
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   should
                   conclude
                   Romance
                   true
                   History
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Not
                   think
                   it
                   strange
                   that
                   Pictures
                   could
                   excite
                
                 
                   Those
                   Gallant
                   Hero's
                   then
                   to
                   love
                   and
                   fight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   say
                   that
                   Painters
                   did
                   on
                   them
                   impose
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   they
                   made
                   Gods
                   and
                   Mortals
                   like
                   to
                   those
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   Poets
                   did
                   create
                   the
                   Deities
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   Painters
                   gave
                   them
                   their
                   ubiquities
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   had
                   not
                   Painters
                   them
                   to
                   th'
                   Vulgar
                   shown
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   only
                   to
                   the
                   Learned
                   had
                   been
                   known
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   are
                   we
                   less
                   than
                   they
                   oblig'd
                   to
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVho
                   give
                   us
                   Beauty
                   ,
                   and
                   immortalize
                   it
                   too
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 my
                 Reverend
                 Friend
                 Mr.
                 
                   H
                   —
                
                 .
                 on
                 his
                 Presenting
                 me
                 
                   The
                   Reasonableness
                   of
                   Christianity
                
                 ,
                 and
                 
                   The
                   History
                   of
                   King
                
                 CHARLES
                 
                   the
                   First
                
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
               
                 GOod
                 Sir
                 ,
                 if
                 I
                 could
                 my
                 Resentments
                 shew
              
               
                 In
                 words
                 ,
                 how
                 much
                 I
                 am
                 oblig'd
                 to
                 you
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 wou'd
                 invoke
                 some
                 Muse
                 to
                 teach
                 me
                 how
              
               
                 T'
                 express
                 my
                 gratitude
                 in
                 number
                 now
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 the
                 kindness
                 which
                 to
                 me
                 you
                 shew'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Transcends
                 the
                 bounds
                 of
                 finite
                 gratitude
                 :
              
               
               
                 What
                 number
                 then
                 ,
                 alas
                 ,
                 can
                 there
                 be
                 fit
              
               
                 To
                 cypher
                 kindness
                 which
                 is
                 infinite
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 such
                 is
                 that
                 which
                 teaches
                 us
                 to
                 know
              
               
                 God
                 and
                 our selves
                 ,
                 and
                 what
                 we
                 ought
                 to
                 do
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 whilst
                 I
                 in
                 your
                 Parish
                 spent
                 my
                 Youth
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 gain'd
                 the
                 knowledge
                 of
                 all
                 saving
                 Truth
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 my
                 Exit
                 was
                 by
                 fate
                 design'd
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 shew
                 ,
                 you
                 'd
                 not
                 impos'd
                 upon
                 my
                 Mind
              
               
                 (
                 In
                 its
                 Minority
                 ,
                 what
                 Reason
                 might
              
               
                 In
                 its
                 mature
                 and
                 full-grown
                 vigour
                 slight
                 )
              
               
                 You
                 kindly
                 gave
                 me
                 in
                 Epitome
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Reasonableness
                 of
                 Christianitie
                 .
              
               
                 Which
                 shews
                 there
                 's
                 no
                 necessity
                 to
                 make
              
               
                 Us
                 discard
                 Reason
                 when
                 our
                 Faith
                 we
                 take
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 God
                 ,
                 who
                 knew
                 how
                 apt
                 we
                 were
                 to
                 slide
              
               
                 From
                 Faith
                 ,
                 if
                 we
                 'd
                 no
                 reason
                 sor
                 our
                 Guide
                 ,
              
               
                 Made
                 all
                 his
                 Precepts
                 ,
                 which
                 on
                 Faith
                 were
                 fix'd
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 with
                 reason
                 ,
                 and
                 our
                 int'rest
                 mix'd
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 howsoe'er
                 by
                 some
                 they
                 're
                 understood
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'm
                 sure
                 it
                 is
                 our
                 int'rest
                 to
                 be
                 good
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 lest
                 Example
                 should
                 be
                 wanting
                 to
              
               
                 Excite
                 us
                 to
                 what
                 Precepts
                 bid
                 us
                 do
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 always
                 gave
                 us
                 some
                 ,
                 whose
                 Virtues
                 did
              
               
                 Exalt
                 good
                 deeds
                 ,
                 and
                 wicked
                 ones
                 forbid
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Whose
                 Christian
                 strength
                 was
                 able
                 to
                 subdue
              
               
                 The
                 busie
                 World
                 ,
                 Flesh
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Devil
                 too
                 .
              
               
                 'Mongst
                 whom
                 there
                 's
                 none
                 more
                 Eminently
                 good
              
               
                 Than
                 he
                 who
                 seal'd
                 the
                 Truth
                 with
                 's
                 Royal
                 Blood
                 ;
              
               
                 Who
                 prov'd
                 himself
                 by
                 's
                 Royal
                 Sufferings
              
               
                 The
                 best
                 of
                 Men
                 ,
                 as
                 well
                 as
                 best
                 of
                 Kings
                 :
              
               
                 As
                 David
                 was
                 
                   Christ's
                   Sire
                
                 ,
                 and
                 Servant
                 ,
                 so
              
               
                 Charles
                 was
                 his
                 Brother
                 ,
                 Son
                 and
                 Servant
                 too
                 .
              
               
                 Much
                 might
                 be
                 said
                 to
                 call
                 our
                 Wonder
                 forth
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fall
                 much
                 short
                 of
                 his
                 transcendent
                 VVorth
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 he
                 so
                 far
                 all
                 praises
                 do's
                 surpass
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 who
                 speaks
                 most
                 ,
                 speaks
                 short
                 of
                 what
                 he
                 was
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 nothing
                 can
                 his
                 matchless
                 worth
                 express
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 characterize
                 his
                 mighty
                 Soul
                 ,
                 unless
              
               
                 VVisdom
                 her self
                 assume
                 religious
                 dress
                 .
              
               
                 Thanks
                 then
                 ,
                 Good
                 Sir
                 ,
                 to
                 you
                 ,
                 for
                 giving
                 me
              
               
                 This
                 compleat
                 Mirrour
                 of
                 Christianitie
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 Mr.
                 
                   G.
                   P.
                
                 my
                 Adopted
                 Brother
                 ;
                 on
                 the
                 nigh
                 approach
                 of
                 his
                 Nuptials
                 .
              
               
                 Dear
                 Brother
                 ,
              
               
                 THy
                 Marry'ng
                 humour
                 I
                 dare
                 scarce
                 upbraid
                 ;
              
               
                 Lest
                 thou
                 retort
                 upon
                 me
                 Musty
                 Maid
                 ;
              
               
                 Yet
                 prithee
                 don
                 't
                 its
                 joys
                 too
                 much
                 esteem
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 will
                 not
                 prove
                 what
                 distance
                 makes
                 it
                 seem
                 :
              
               
                 Bells
                 are
                 good
                 musick
                 ,
                 if
                 they
                 're
                 not
                 too
                 nigh
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 sure
                 'ts
                 base
                 living
                 in
                 a
                 Belfery
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 see
                 Lambs
                 skip
                 o're
                 Hills
                 is
                 pretty
                 sport
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 who
                 wou'd
                 justle
                 with
                 them
                 in
                 their
                 Court
                 ?
              
               
                 Then
                 let
                 not
                 Marriage
                 thee
                 in
                 danger
                 draw
                 ,
              
               
                 Unless
                 thou'
                 rt
                 bit
                 with
                 Love's
                 Tarantula
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 Frenzy
                 which
                 no
                 Physick
                 can
                 reclaim
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Crosses
                 ,
                 crying
                 Children
                 ,
                 scolding
                 Dame
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 who
                 would
                 such
                 a
                 dang'rous
                 Med'cine
                 try
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 a
                 disease
                 attends
                 the
                 remedy
                 ;
              
               
                 Whilst
                 Love's
                 Diaryan
                 it
                 assays
                 to
                 cure
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 introduces
                 Anger
                 's
                 Calenture
                 .
              
               
                 Ah
                 ,
                 pity
                 thy
                 good
                 humour
                 should
                 be
                 spoil'd
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 glory
                 of
                 thy
                 wit
                 and
                 friendship
                 soil'd
                 :
              
               
               
                 From
                 Married
                 Man
                 wit's
                 Current
                 never
                 flows
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 grave
                 and
                 dull
                 ,
                 as
                 standing
                 Pond
                 ,
                 he
                 grows
                 ;
              
               
                 Whilst
                 th'
                 other
                 like
                 a
                 gentle
                 stream
                 do's
                 play
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 this
                 World's
                 pebbles
                 ,
                 which
                 obstruct
                 his
                 way
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 should
                 I
                 talk
                 ,
                 this
                 and
                 much
                 more
                 you
                 know
              
               
                 Of
                 all
                 the
                 troubles
                 you
                 must
                 undergo
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 if
                 we
                 'll
                 eat
                 Tythe-pig
                 ,
                 we
                 must
                 endure
              
               
                 The
                 punishment
                 to
                 serve
                 the
                 Parson's
                 cure
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 VIRGIN
                 LIFE
                 .
              
               
                 SInce
                 ,
                 O
                 ye
                 Pow'rs
                 ,
                 ye
                 have
                 bestow'd
                 on
                 me
              
               
                 So
                 great
                 a
                 kindness
                 for
                 Virginity
                 ,
              
               
                 Suffer
                 me
                 not
                 to
                 fall
                 into
                 the
                 Pow'rs
              
               
                 Of
                 Mens
                 almost
                 Omnipotent
                 Amours
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 in
                 this
                 happy
                 Life
                 let
                 me
                 remain
                 ,
              
               
                 Fearless
                 of
                 Twenty
                 five
                 and
                 all
                 its
                 train
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 slights
                 or
                 scorns
                 ,
                 or
                 being
                 call'd
                 Old
                 Maid
                 ,
              
               
                 Those
                 Goblings
                 which
                 so
                 many
                 have
                 betray'd
                 :
              
               
                 Like
                 harmless
                 Kids
                 ,
                 that
                 are
                 pursu'd
                 by
                 men
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 safety
                 run
                 into
                 a
                 Lyon's
                 Den.
              
               
                 Ah
                 lovely
                 State
                 how
                 strange
                 it
                 is
                 to
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 mad
                 conceptions
                 some
                 have
                 made
                 of
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
               
                 As
                 though
                 thy
                 Being
                 was
                 all
                 wretchedness
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 foul
                 deformity
                 i'
                 th'
                 ugliest
                 dress
                 ;
              
               
                 Whereas
                 thy
                 Beauty's
                 pure
                 ,
                 Celestial
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 thoughts
                 Divine
                 ,
                 thy
                 words
                 Angelical
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 such
                 ought
                 all
                 thy
                 Votaries
                 to
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 else
                 they
                 're
                 so
                 ,
                 but
                 for
                 necessity
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Virgin
                 bears
                 the
                 impress
                 of
                 all
                 good
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 that
                 dread
                 Name
                 all
                 Vertue
                 's
                 understood
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 equal
                 all
                 her
                 looks
                 ,
                 her
                 mien
                 ,
                 her
                 dress
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 nought
                 but
                 modesty
                 seems
                 in
                 excess
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 she
                 any
                 treats
                 or
                 visits
                 make
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 not
                 for
                 tattle
                 ,
                 but
                 for
                 Friendship
                 's
                 sake
                 ;
              
               
                 Her
                 Neighb'ring
                 Poor
                 she
                 do's
                 adopt
                 her
                 Heirs
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 less
                 she
                 cares
                 for
                 her
                 own
                 good
                 than
                 theirs
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 Obedience
                 testifies
                 she
                 can
              
               
                 Be
                 's
                 good
                 a
                 Subject
                 as
                 the
                 stoutest
                 Man.
              
               
                 She
                 to
                 her
                 Church
                 such
                 filial
                 duty
                 pays
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 one
                 would
                 think
                 she
                 'd
                 liv'd
                 i'
                 th'
                 pristine
                 days
                 .
              
               
                 Her
                 Closet
                 ,
                 where
                 she
                 do's
                 much
                 time
                 bestow
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 both
                 her
                 Library
                 and
                 Chappel
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 she
                 enjoys
                 society
                 alone
                 ,
              
               
                 I'
                 th'
                 Great
                 Three-One
                 —
              
               
                 She
                 drives
                 her
                 whole
                 Lives
                 business
                 to
                 these
                 Ends
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 serve
                 her
                 God
                 ,
                 enjoy
                 her
                 Books
                 and
                 Friends
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 my
                 Friend
                 EXILLUS
                 ,
                 on
                 his
                 persuading
                 me
                 to
                 Marry
                 Old
                 Damon
                 .
              
               
                 WHen
                 Friends
                 advice
                 with
                 Lovers
                 forces
                 joyn
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 'll
                 conquer
                 Hearts
                 more
                 fortify'd
                 than
                 mine●
              
               
                 For
                 mine
                 lyes
                 as
                 it
                 wont
                 ,
                 without
                 defence
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 Guard
                 nor
                 Art
                 but
                 its
                 own
                 innocence
                 ;
              
               
                 Under
                 which
                 Fort
                 ,
                 it
                 could
                 fierce
                 storms
                 endure
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 from
                 thy
                 Wit
                 I
                 find
                 no
                 Fort
                 secure
                 .
              
               
                 Ah
                 ,
                 why
                 would'st
                 thou
                 assist
                 my
                 Enemy
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 was
                 himself
                 almost
                 too
                 strong
                 for
                 me
                 ?
              
               
                 Thou
                 with
                 Idolatry
                 mak'st
                 me
                 adore
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 homage
                 do
                 to
                 the
                 proud
                 Conquerour
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 round
                 his
                 Neck
                 my
                 willing
                 Arms
                 I
                 'd
                 twine
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 swear
                 upon
                 his
                 Lips
                 ,
                 My
                 Dear
                 ,
                 I
                 'm
                 thine
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 that
                 his
                 kindness
                 then
                 would
                 grow
                 ,
                 I
                 fear
                 ,
              
               
                 Too
                 weighty
                 for
                 my
                 weak
                 desert
                 to
                 bear
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 fear
                 't
                 wou'd
                 even
                 to
                 extreams
                 improve
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Iealousie
                 ,
                 they
                 say
                 ,
                 's
                 th'
                 extream
                 of
                 Love
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 after
                 all
                 my
                 kindness
                 to
                 him
                 shown
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 little
                 Neddy
                 ,
                 he
                 'll
                 not
                 think
                 't
                 his
                 own
                 :
              
               
                 Ev'n
                 thou
                 my
                 Dear
                 Exillus
                 he
                 'll
                 suspect
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 I
                 but
                 look
                 on
                 thee
                 ,
                 I
                 him
                 neglect
                 :
              
               
               
                 Not
                 only
                 He-friends
                 innocent
                 as
                 thou
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 he
                 'll
                 mistrust
                 She-friends
                 and
                 Heav'n
                 too
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 best
                 things
                 may
                 be
                 turn'd
                 to
                 greatest
                 harm
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 saying
                 th'
                 Lord's
                 Prayer
                 backward
                 proves
                 a
                 charm
                 .
              
               
                 Or
                 if
                 not
                 thus
                 ,
                 I
                 'm
                 sure
                 he
                 will
                 despite
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 under-rate
                 the
                 easie-gotten
                 prize
                 .
              
               
                 These
                 and
                 a
                 thousand
                 fears
                 my
                 Soul
                 possess
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 most
                 of
                 all
                 my
                 own
                 unworthiness
                 ;
              
               
                 Like
                 dying
                 Saints
                 ,
                 I
                 wish
                 for
                 coming
                 joys
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 humble
                 fears
                 that
                 forward
                 wish
                 destroys
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 shall
                 I
                 do
                 then
                 ?
                 hazard
                 the
                 event
                 ?
              
               
                 You
                 say
                 ,
                 Old
                 Damon's
                 ,
                 all
                 that
                 's
                 excellent
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 I
                 miss
                 him
                 ,
                 the
                 next
                 some
                 Squire
                 may
                 prove
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Dogs
                 and
                 Horses
                 shall
                 have
                 all
                 his
                 love
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 some
                 debauch'd
                 pretender
                 to
                 lewd
                 wit
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 covetous
                 ,
                 conceited
                 ,
                 unbred
                 Citt.
              
               
                 Thus
                 the
                 brave
                 Horse
                 ,
                 who
                 late
                 i'
                 th'
                 Coach
                 did
                 neigh
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 forc'd
                 at
                 last
                 to
                 tug
                 a
                 nasty
                 Dray
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 Dr.
                 
                   R.
                   S.
                
                 my
                 indifferent
                 Lover
                 ,
                 who
                 complain'd
                 of
                 my
                 Indifferency
                 .
              
               
                 YOu
                 'd
                 little
                 reason
                 to
                 complain
                 of
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 my
                 unkindness
                 or
                 indiff'rency
                 ,
              
               
                 Since
                 I
                 by
                 many
                 a
                 circumstance
                 can
                 prove
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 int'rest
                 was
                 the
                 motive
                 of
                 your
                 love
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 Heav'n
                 it self
                 doth
                 ever
                 hate
                 th'
                 address
                 ,
              
               
                 VVhose
                 crafty
                 Motive
                 's
                 only
                 interess
                 ;
              
               
                 No
                 more
                 can
                 honest
                 Maids
                 endure
                 to
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 objects
                 of
                 your
                 wife
                 indiff'rency
                 .
              
               
                 Such
                 wary
                 Courtship
                 only
                 should
                 be
                 shown
              
               
                 To
                 cunning
                 jilting
                 Baggages
                 o'
                 th'
                 Town
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 faithfull
                 Love●s
                 the
                 rhetorick
                 that
                 persuades
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 charms
                 the
                 hearts
                 of
                 silly
                 Countrey
                 Maids
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 we
                 find
                 your
                 Courtship
                 's
                 but
                 pretence
                 ,
              
               
                 Love
                 were
                 not
                 Love
                 in
                 us
                 ,
                 but
                 impudence
                 .
              
               
                 At
                 best
                 I
                 'm
                 sure
                 it
                 needs
                 must
                 prove
                 to
                 us
              
               
                 (
                 VVhat
                 e're
                 you
                 think
                 on
                 't
                 )
                 most
                 injurious
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 had
                 I
                 of
                 that
                 gentle
                 nature
                 been
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 to
                 have
                 lov'd
                 your
                 Person
                 ,
                 Wit
                 ,
                 or
                 Mien
                 ,
              
               
               
                 How
                 many
                 sighs
                 and
                 tears
                 it
                 would
                 have
                 cost
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fruitless
                 expectations
                 by
                 the
                 Post
                 ,
              
               
                 Saying
                 he
                 is
                 unkind
                 ;
                 oh
                 ,
                 no
                 ,
                 his
                 Letter
                 's
                 lost
                 ;
              
               
                 Hoping
                 him
                 sick
                 ,
                 or
                 lame
                 ,
                 or
                 gone
                 to
                 Sea
                 ,
              
               
                 Hope
                 any
                 thing
                 but
                 his
                 inconstancy
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 what
                 in
                 other
                 Friends
                 cause
                 greatest
                 fear
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 desp'rate
                 Maids
                 ,
                 their
                 only
                 comforts
                 are
                 .
              
               
                 This
                 I
                 through
                 all
                 your
                 Blandishments
                 did
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 Thanks
                 to
                 ill
                 nature
                 that
                 instructed
                 me
                 :
              
               
                 Thoughts
                 of
                 your
                 sighs
                 ,
                 would
                 plead
                 sometimes
                 for
                 you
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 second
                 thoughts
                 again
                 would
                 let
                 me
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 gayest
                 Serpents
                 strongest
                 Poysons
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sweetest
                 Rose-trees
                 sharpest
                 prickles
                 bear
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 so
                 it
                 proves
                 ,
                 for
                 now
                 it
                 do's
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 Flames
                 and
                 Sighs
                 only
                 for
                 Money
                 were
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 Beggers
                 for
                 their
                 gain
                 turn
                 Blind
                 and
                 Lame
                 ;
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 same
                 score
                 a
                 Lover
                 you
                 became
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 there
                 's
                 a
                 kindness
                 in
                 this
                 false
                 Amour
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 teaches
                 me
                 ne'er
                 to
                 be
                 Mistress
                 more
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 Blazing
                 Comets
                 are
                 of
                 good
                 portent
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 they
                 excite
                 the
                 People
                 to
                 repent
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 On
                 the
                 DEATH
                 of
                 my
                 Dear
                 Friend
                 and
                 Play-fellow
                 ,
                 
                   Mrs
                   E.
                   D.
                
                 having
                 Dream'd
                 the
                 night
                 before
                 I
                 heard
                 thereof
                 ,
                 that
                 I
                 had
                 lost
                 a
                 Pearl
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 Dream'd
                 I
                 lost
                 a
                 Pearl
                 ,
                 and
                 so
                 it
                 prov'd
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 lost
                 a
                 Friend
                 much
                 above
                 Pearls
                 belov'd
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 Pearl
                 perhaps
                 adorns
                 some
                 outward
                 part
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Friendship
                 decks
                 each
                 corner
                 of
                 the
                 heart
                 :
              
               
                 Friendship
                 's
                 a
                 Gem
                 ,
                 whose
                 Lustre
                 do's
                 out-shine
              
               
                 All
                 that
                 's
                 below
                 the
                 heav'nly
                 Crystaline
                 :
              
               
                 Friendship
                 is
                 that
                 mysterious
                 thing
                 alone
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 can
                 unite
                 ,
                 and
                 make
                 two
                 Hearts
                 but
                 one
                 ;
              
               
                 It
                 purifies
                 our
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 makes
                 it
                 flow
              
               
                 I'
                 th'
                 clearest
                 stream
                 that
                 's
                 found
                 in
                 Love
                 below
                 ;
              
               
                 It
                 sublimates
                 the
                 Soul
                 ,
                 and
                 makes
                 it
                 move
              
               
                 Towards
                 Perfection
                 and
                 Celestial
                 Love.
              
               
                 We
                 had
                 no
                 by-designs
                 ,
                 nor
                 hop'd
                 to
                 get
              
               
                 Each
                 by
                 the
                 other
                 place
                 amongst
                 the
                 great
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 Riches
                 hop'd
                 ,
                 nor
                 Poverty
                 we
                 fear'd
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 Innocence
                 in
                 both
                 ,
                 which
                 both
                 rever'd
                 :
              
               
               
                 Witness
                 this
                 truth
                 the
                 Wilsthorp-Fields
                 ,
                 where
                 we
              
               
                 So
                 oft
                 enjoyd
                 a
                 harmless
                 Luxurie
                 ;
              
               
                 Where
                 we
                 indulg'd
                 our
                 easie
                 Appetites
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Pocket-Apples
                 ,
                 Plumbs
                 ,
                 and
                 such
                 delights
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 we
                 contriv'd
                 to
                 spend
                 the
                 rest
                 o'
                 th'
                 day
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 making
                 Chaplets
                 ,
                 or
                 at
                 Check-stone
                 play
                 ;
              
               
                 When
                 weary
                 ,
                 we
                 our selves
                 supinely
                 laid
              
               
                 On
                 Beds
                 of
                 Vi'lets
                 under
                 some
                 cool
                 shade
                 ,
              
               
                 VVhere
                 th'
                 Sun
                 in
                 vain
                 strove
                 to
                 dart
                 through
                 his
                 Raȳs●
              
               
                 Whilst
                 Birds
                 around
                 us
                 chanted
                 forth
                 their
                 Lays
                 ;
              
               
                 Ev'n
                 those
                 we
                 had
                 bereaved
                 of
                 their
                 young
                 ,
              
               
                 VVould
                 greet
                 us
                 with
                 a
                 Querimonious
                 Song
                 .
              
               
                 Stay
                 here
                 ,
                 my
                 Muse
                 ,
                 and
                 of
                 these
                 let
                 us
                 learn
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 loss
                 of
                 our
                 deceased
                 Friend
                 to
                 Mourn
                 :
              
               
                 Learn
                 did
                 I
                 say
                 ?
                 alas
                 ,
                 that
                 cannot
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 can
                 teach
                 Clouds
                 to
                 weep
                 ,
                 and
                 Winds
                 to
                 sigh
                 at
                 Sea
                 ,
              
               
                 Teach
                 Brooks
                 to
                 murmur
                 ,
                 Rivers
                 too
                 re-flow
                 ,
              
               
                 VVe
                 can
                 add
                 Solitude
                 to
                 Shades
                 of
                 Yeaugh
                 .
              
               
                 VVere
                 Turtles
                 to
                 be
                 witness
                 of
                 our
                 moan
                 ,
              
               
                 They'd
                 in
                 compassion
                 quite
                 forget
                 their
                 own
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 shall
                 hereafter
                 Heraclitus
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Fam'd
                 for
                 his
                 Tears
                 ,
                 but
                 to
                 my
                 Muse
                 and
                 Me
                 ;
              
               
                 Fate
                 shall
                 give
                 all
                 that
                 Fame
                 can
                 comprehend
                 ,
              
               
                 Ah
                 poor
                 repair
                 for
                 th'
                 loss
                 of
                 such
                 a
                 Friend
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Prospect
                 of
                 a
                 LANDSKIP
                 ,
                 Beginning
                 with
                 a
                 GROVE
                 .
              
               
                 
                   WEll
                   might
                   the
                   Antients
                   deem
                   a
                   Grove
                   to
                   be
                
                 
                   The
                   Sacred
                   Mansion
                   of
                   some
                   Deity
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   it
                   our
                   Souls
                   insensibly
                   do's
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   once
                   to
                   humble
                   Piety
                   and
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   choicest
                   Blessings
                   Heav'n
                   to
                   us
                   has
                   giv'n
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   best
                   Off'ring
                   we
                   can
                   make
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   ;
                
                 
                   These
                   only
                   poor
                   Mortality
                   make
                   bless'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   Inquietude
                   exhibit
                   rest
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   these
                   our
                   rationality
                   is
                   shown
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   cognisance
                   by
                   which
                   from
                   Brutes
                   we
                   'r
                   known
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   who
                   themselves
                   of
                   Piety
                   devest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   surely
                   but
                   a
                   Moral
                   kind
                   of
                   Beasts
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   those
                   whom
                   gentle
                   Laws
                   of
                   Love
                   can't
                   bind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   Salvages
                   of
                   the
                   most
                   sordid
                   kind
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   none
                   like
                   these
                   do
                   in
                   our
                   Shades
                   obtrude
                   ,
                
                 
                   Though
                   scornfully
                   some
                   needs
                   will
                   call
                   th●m
                   rude
                
                 
                   Yet
                   Nature's
                   culture
                   is
                   so
                   well
                   exprest
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Art
                   her self
                   would
                   wish
                   to
                   be
                   so
                   drest
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   For
                   here
                   the
                   Sun
                   conspires
                   with
                   ev'ry
                   Tree
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   deck
                   the
                   Earth
                   with
                   Landskip-Tapistry
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   through
                   some
                   space
                   his
                   brightest
                   ,
                   Beams
                   appear●
                
                 
                   VVhich
                   do's
                   erect
                   a
                   Golden
                   Pillar
                   there
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   a
                   close
                   Canopy
                   of
                   Bows
                   is
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   a
                   soft
                   grassie
                   Cloth
                   of
                   State
                   is
                   spread
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVith
                   Gems
                   and
                   gayest
                   Flow'rs
                   embroider'd
                   o●re
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fresh
                   as
                   those
                   Beauties
                   honest
                   Swains
                   adore
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   Plants
                   for
                   health
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   delight
                   are
                   met
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Cephalick
                   Cowslip
                   ,
                   Cordial
                   Violet
                   .
                
                 
                   Under
                   the
                   Diu●e●ick
                   Woodbine
                   grows
                
                 
                   The
                   Splenetick
                   Columbine
                   ,
                   Scorbutick
                   Rose
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   best
                   of
                   which
                   ,
                   some
                   gentle
                   Nymph
                   doth
                   tak●
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   saithfull
                   Corydon
                   a
                   Crown
                   to
                   make
                   ;
                
                 
                   VVhilst
                   on
                   her
                   Lap
                   the
                   happy
                   Youth's
                   head
                   lyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Gazing
                   upon
                   the
                   Aspects
                   of
                   her
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   most
                   unerring
                   ,
                   best
                   Astronomy
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVhereby
                   to
                   Calculate
                   his
                   destiny
                   ;
                
                 
                   VVhilst
                   o're
                   their
                   heads
                   a
                   pair
                   of
                   Turtles
                   Coo
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVhich
                   with
                   less
                   zeal
                   and
                   constancy
                   do
                   woo●●
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Birds
                   around
                   ,
                   through
                   their
                   extended
                   throats
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   careless
                   Consort
                   chant
                   their
                   pleasing
                   Notes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Than
                   which
                   ,
                   no
                   sweeter
                   Musick
                   strikes
                   the
                   Ear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unless
                   when
                   Lover's
                   sighs
                   each
                   other
                   hear
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Which
                   are
                   more
                   soft
                   than
                   
                     Austral
                     Breeses
                  
                   bring
                   ,
                
                 
                   Although
                   they
                   say
                   they
                   're
                   harbingers
                   of
                   th'
                   Spring
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Ah
                   silly
                   Town
                   !
                   wil
                   't
                   thou
                   near
                   learn
                   to
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   happiness
                   in
                   Solitude
                   do's
                   grow
                   ?
                
                 
                   But
                   as
                   a
                   hardn'd
                   Sinner
                   for
                   's
                   defence
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pleads
                   the
                   insipidness
                   of
                   innocence
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   some
                   whom
                   Vertue
                   due
                   respect
                   would
                   grant
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   that
                   they
                   feign
                   they
                   're
                   of
                   her
                   ignorant
                   :
                
                 
                   Yet
                   Blindness
                   is
                   not
                   laudable
                   to
                   plead
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   we
                   're
                   by
                   wilfull
                   Ignorance
                   mis-led
                   .
                
                 
                   Should
                   some
                   ,
                   who
                   think
                   't
                   a
                   happiness
                   to
                   get
                
                 
                   Crouds
                   of
                   acquaintance
                   ,
                   to
                   admire
                   their
                   Wit
                   ;
                
                 
                   Resolve
                   their
                   Sins
                   and
                   Follies
                   to
                   discard
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Cronies
                   quickly
                   would
                   them
                   disregard
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   hard
                   we
                   must
                   (
                   the
                   World
                   's
                   so
                   wicked
                   grown
                   )
                
                 
                   Be
                   complaisant
                   in
                   Sin
                   ,
                   or
                   live
                   alone
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   those
                   who
                   now
                   with
                   Vertue
                   are
                   endu'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Do
                   live
                   alone
                   ,
                   though
                   in
                   a
                   multitude
                   .
                
                 
                   Retire
                   then
                   all
                   ,
                   whom
                   Fortune
                   don't
                   oblige
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   suffer
                   the
                   distresses
                   of
                   a
                   Siege
                   .
                
                 
                   Where
                   strong
                   temptation
                   Vertue
                   do's
                   attacque
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   not
                   ignoble
                   an
                   escape
                   to
                   make
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   where
                   no
                   Conquest
                   can
                   be
                   hop'd
                   by
                   ●ight
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   honourable
                   ,
                   sure
                   ,
                   to
                   'scape
                   by
                   flight
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Fly
                   to
                   some
                   calm
                   retreat
                   ,
                   where
                   you
                   may
                   spend
                
                 
                   Your
                   life
                   in
                   quietude
                   with
                   some
                   kind
                   Friend
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   some
                   small
                   Village
                   ,
                   and
                   adjacent
                   Grove
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   once
                   your
                   Friendship
                   and
                   your
                   Wit
                   improve
                   ;
                
                 
                   Free
                   from
                   those
                   vile
                   ,
                   opprobrious
                   ,
                   foolish
                   Names
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Whig
                   or
                   Tory
                   ,
                   and
                   from
                   sordid
                   aims
                
                 
                   Of
                   Wealth
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   its
                   train
                   of
                   Luxuries
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   Wit
                   sophisticate
                   ,
                   with
                   fooleries
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   Beds
                   of
                   Lust
                   ,
                   and
                   Meals
                   o're-charg'd
                   with
                   Wine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Here
                   temp'rately
                   thou
                   may'st
                   on
                   one
                   Dish
                   dine
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   wholsome
                   Exercise
                   thou
                   may'st
                   delight
                
                 
                   Thy self
                   ,
                   and
                   make
                   thy
                   rest
                   more
                   sweet
                   at
                   night
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   i●
                   thy
                   mind
                   to
                   Contemplation
                   leads
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   God
                   and
                   Nature's
                   Books
                   has
                   ,
                   surely
                   needs
                
                 
                   No
                   other
                   Object
                   to
                   imploy
                   his
                   thought
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   in
                   each
                   leaf
                   such
                   Mysteries
                   are
                   wrought
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   who
                   so
                   studies
                   most
                   ,
                   shall
                   never
                   know
                
                 
                   Why
                   the
                   straight
                   Elm's
                   so
                   tall
                   ,
                   the
                   Moss
                   so
                   low
                   .
                
                 
                   Oh
                   now
                   ,
                   I
                   could
                   inlarge
                   upon
                   this
                   Theam
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   that
                   I
                   'm
                   unawares
                   come
                   to
                   the
                   stream
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   at
                   the
                   bottom
                   of
                   this
                   Grove
                   do's
                   glide
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   here
                   I
                   'll
                   rest
                   me
                   by
                   its
                   flow'ry
                   side
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 Sitting
                 by
                 a
                 Rivulet
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   AH
                   lovely
                   stream
                   ,
                   how
                   fitly
                   may'st
                   thou
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   thy
                   immutability
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   gentle
                   motion
                   and
                   perennity
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   us
                   the
                   Emblem
                   of
                   Eternity
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   us
                   thou
                   do'st
                   no
                   less
                
                 
                   A
                   kind
                   of
                   Omnipresence
                   too
                   express
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   always
                   at
                   the
                   Ocean
                   thou
                
                 
                   Art
                   always
                   here
                   ,
                   and
                   at
                   thy
                   Fountain
                   too
                   ;
                
                 
                   Always
                   thou
                   go'st
                   thy
                   proper
                   Course
                   ,
                
                 
                   Spontaneously
                   ,
                   and
                   yet
                   by
                   force
                   ,
                
                 
                   Each
                   Wave
                   forcing
                   his
                   Precursor
                   on
                   ;
                
                 
                   Yet
                   each
                   one
                   runs
                   with
                   equal
                   haste
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   though
                   each
                   fear'd
                   to
                   be
                   the
                   last
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   mutual
                   strife
                   ,
                   void
                   of
                   contention
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Troops
                   they
                   march
                   ,
                   till
                   thousands
                   ,
                   thousands
                   past
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   gentle
                   stream
                   ,
                   thou'
                   rt
                   still
                   the
                   same
                   ,
                
                 
                   Always
                   going
                   ,
                   never
                   gone
                   ;
                
                 
                   Yet
                   do'st
                   all
                   Constancy
                   disclaim
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wildly
                   dancing
                   to
                   thine
                   own
                   murmuring
                   tunefull
                   Song
                   ;
                
                 
                   Old
                   as
                   Time
                   ,
                   as
                   Love
                   and
                   Beauty
                   young
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   But
                   chiefly
                   thou
                   to
                   Unity
                   lay'st
                   claim
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   though
                   in
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Innumerable
                   drops
                   there
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   still
                   thou
                   art
                   but
                   one
                   ,
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Original
                   of
                   which
                   from
                   Heav'n
                   came
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   purest
                   Transcript
                   thereof
                   we
                
                 
                   I'
                   th'
                   Church
                   may
                   wish
                   ,
                   but
                   never
                   hope
                   to
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   each
                   Pretender
                   thinks
                   himself
                   alone
                
                 
                   The
                   Holy
                   
                     Catholick
                     Church
                  
                   Militant
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nay
                   ,
                   well
                   it
                   is
                   if
                   such
                   will
                   grant
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   there
                   is
                   one
                   else
                   where
                   Triumphant
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   But
                   gent●e
                   stream
                   ,
                   if
                   they
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   thou
                   do'st
                   Nature
                   ,
                   would
                   their
                   God
                   obey
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   as
                   they
                   run
                   their
                   course
                   of
                   life
                   ,
                   would
                   try
                
                 
                   Their
                   Consciences
                   to
                   purify
                   :
                
                 
                   From
                   
                     self-love
                     ,
                     pride
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   avaricy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stubbornness
                   equal
                   to
                   Idolatry
                   ;
                
                 
                   They'd
                   find
                   opinion
                   of
                   themselves
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   be
                   but
                   dang'rous
                   sandy
                   Shelves
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   To
                   found
                   or
                   build
                   their
                   Faith
                   upon
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unable
                   to
                   resist
                   the
                   force
                
                 
                   Of
                   Prosperity's
                   swelling
                   violent
                   sorce
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   storms
                   of
                   Persecution
                   :
                
                 
                   Whos
                   's
                   own
                   voracity
                   (
                   were
                   't
                   in
                   their
                   power
                   )
                
                 
                   Wou'd
                   not
                   only
                   Ornaments
                   devour
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   whole
                   Fabrick
                   of
                   Religion
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   IV.
                   
                
                 
                   But
                   gentle
                   stream
                   ,
                   thou'
                   rt
                   nothing
                   so
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Child
                   in
                   thee
                   may
                   safely
                   go
                
                 
                   To
                   rifle
                   thy
                   rich
                   Cabinet
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   his
                   Knees
                   be
                   scarcely
                   wet
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   thou
                   wantonly
                   do'st
                   glide
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   thy
                   Enamell'd
                   Banks
                   most
                   beauteous
                   side
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   is
                   sweet
                   stream
                   thy
                   peacefull
                   tyde
                   ,
                
                 
                   Disturbed
                   by
                   pale
                   Cynthia's
                   influence
                   ;
                
                 
                   Like
                   us
                   thou
                   do'st
                   not
                   swell
                   with
                   pride
                
                 
                   Of
                   Chastity
                   or
                   Innocence
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   thou
                   remain'st
                   still
                   unconcern'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whether
                   her
                   Brows
                   be
                   smooth
                   or
                   horn'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   VVhether
                   her
                   Lights
                   extinguish'd
                   or
                   renew'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   her
                   thou
                   mindest
                   no
                   Vicissitude
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Happy
                   if
                   we
                   ,
                   in
                   our
                   more
                   noble
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   Could
                   so
                   slight
                   all
                   Vicissitudes
                   of
                   Fate
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 HILL
                 .
              
               
                 OH
                 that
                 I
                 cou'd
                 Verses
                 write
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 might
                 express
                 thy
                 praise
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 with
                 my
                 Pen
                 ascend
                 thy
                 height
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 thence
                 might
                 hope
                 to
                 raise
              
               
                 My
                 Verse
                 upon
                 Fame's
                 soaring
                 wing
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 it
                 might
                 so
                 advance
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 with
                 Apollo's
                 Lyre
                 to
                 Sing
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 the
                 Spheres
                 to
                 Dance
                 .
              
               
                 This
                 was
                 never
                 Finished
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 Sir
                 
                   F.
                   W.
                
                 presenting
                 him
                 Cowley's
                 first
                 Works
                 .
              
               
                 WHen
                 vacant
                 hours
                 admit
                 you
                 to
                 peruse
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 mighty
                 Cowley's
                 early
                 Muse
                 ;
              
               
                 Behold
                 it
                 as
                 a
                 bud
                 of
                 wit
                 ,
                 whose
                 growth
              
               
                 O're-tops
                 all
                 that
                 our
                 Isle
                 brought
                 forth
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 may
                 it
                 still
                 above
                 all
                 others
                 grow
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 equall'd
                 ,
                 or
                 out-done
                 by
                 you●
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 Ovid's
                 HEROINES
                 in
                 his
                 Epistles
                 .
              
               
                 
                   BRight
                   Shee
                   s
                   ,
                   what
                   Glories
                   had
                   your
                   Names
                   acquir'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   you
                   consum'd
                   those
                   whom
                   your
                   Beauties
                   fir'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   laugh'd
                   to
                   see
                   them
                   burn
                   ,
                   and
                   so
                   retir'd
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   they
                   cou'd
                   ne'er
                   have
                   glory'd
                   in
                   their
                   shames
                   ,
                
                 
                   Either
                   to
                   Roman
                   ,
                   or
                   to
                   English
                   Dames
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   you
                   but
                   warm'd
                   ,
                   not
                   melted
                   in
                   their
                   flames
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   You
                   'd
                   not
                   been
                   wrack'd
                   then
                   on
                   despair's
                   rough
                   coast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   yet
                   by
                   storms
                   of
                   Perjuries
                   been
                   toss'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   you
                   but
                   fix'd
                   your
                   flowing
                   Love
                   with
                   Frost
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Had
                   you
                   put
                   on
                   the
                   Armour
                   of
                   your
                   scorn
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   That
                   Gem
                   which
                   do's
                   our
                   Beauties
                   most
                   adorn
                   )
                
                 
                   What
                   hardy
                   Hero
                   durst
                   have
                   been
                   forsworn
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   since
                   they
                   found
                   such
                   lenity
                   in
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   crime
                   so
                   Epidemical
                   do's
                   grow
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   all
                   have
                   ,
                   or
                   do
                   ,
                   or
                   would
                   be
                   doing
                   so
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 my
                 Honourable
                 Unkle
                 Colonel
                 C
                 —
                 after
                 his
                 Return
                 into
                 the
                 Low-Countries
                 .
              
               
                 DEar
                 Sir
                 ,
                 the
                 joys
                 which
                 range
                 through
                 all
                 your
                 Troops
                 ,
              
               
                 Express'd
                 by
                 Caps
                 thrown
                 up
                 ,
                 and
                 English
                 Whoops
                 ,
              
               
                 Were
                 the
                 old
                 marks
                 of
                 Conquest
                 ,
                 which
                 they
                 knew
              
               
                 They
                 should
                 obtain
                 ,
                 when
                 they
                 obtained
                 you
                 ;
              
               
               
                 As
                 being
                 the
                 Soul
                 ,
                 which
                 animation
                 gave
              
               
                 To
                 all
                 their
                 Valours
                 ,
                 and
                 to
                 all
                 their
                 brave
              
               
                 Atchievements
                 ,
                 by
                 which
                 your
                 honour'd
                 Name
              
               
                 Shall
                 be
                 Eternaliz'd
                 in
                 th'
                 Book
                 of
                 Fame
                 :
              
               
                 Though
                 we
                 partakers
                 of
                 your
                 Glories
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 of
                 your
                 Ioys
                 by
                 sympathy
                 do
                 share
                 ;
              
               
                 Yet
                 Absence
                 makes
                 the
                 pleasure
                 but
                 in
                 part
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 your
                 safety
                 ,
                 Fear
                 our
                 joys
                 do's
                 thwart
                 :
              
               
                 Fear
                 ,
                 which
                 by
                 you's
                 the
                 worst
                 of
                 Sins
                 esteem'd
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 best
                 is
                 a
                 Mechanick
                 Passion
                 deem'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Yet
                 when
                 your
                 danger
                 she
                 presents
                 to
                 us
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 's
                 then
                 both
                 good
                 and
                 meritorious
                 .
              
               
                 Think
                 then
                 how
                 we
                 're
                 excited
                 by
                 this
                 Fear
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 mourn
                 your
                 Absence
                 ,
                 though
                 your
                 Worth
                 revere
                 :
              
               
                 Besides
                 ,
                 methinks
                 't
                 is
                 pity
                 that
                 you
                 shou'd
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 sordid
                 Boors
                 ,
                 exhaust
                 your
                 Noble
                 Blood.
              
               
                 Think
                 then
                 ,
                 dear
                 Sir
                 ,
                 of
                 making
                 your
                 return
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 let
                 your
                 Presence
                 Britain's
                 Isle
                 adorn
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 On
                 the
                 Apothecary's
                 Filing
                 my
                 Bills
                 amongst
                 the
                 Doctors
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 Hope
                 I
                 shan't
                 be
                 blam'd
                 if
                 I
                 am
                 proud
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 I
                 'm
                 admitted
                 'mongst
                 this
                 Learned
                 Croud
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 proud
                 of
                 a
                 Fortune
                 so
                 sublime
                 ,
              
               
                 Methinks
                 is
                 rather
                 Duty
                 ,
                 than
                 a
                 Crime
                 :
              
               
                 Were
                 not
                 my
                 thoughts
                 exalted
                 in
                 this
                 state
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 should
                 not
                 make
                 thereof
                 due
                 estimate
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 sure
                 one
                 cause
                 of
                 Adam's
                 fall
                 was
                 this
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 knew
                 not
                 the
                 just
                 worth
                 of
                 Paradise
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 with
                 this
                 honour
                 I
                 'm
                 so
                 satisfy'd
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Antients
                 were
                 not
                 more
                 when
                 Deify'd
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 this
                 transcends
                 all
                 common
                 happiness
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 is
                 a
                 Glory
                 that
                 exc●eds
                 excess
                 .
              
               
                 This
                 't
                 is
                 ,
                 makes
                 me
                 a
                 fam'd
                 Physician
                 grow
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 Saul
                 'mongst
                 Prophets
                 turn'd
                 a
                 Prophet
                 too
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 sturdy
                 Gout
                 ,
                 which
                 all
                 Male
                 power
                 withstands
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 overcome
                 by
                 my
                 soft
                 Female
                 hands
                 :
              
               
                 Not
                 
                   Deb'ra
                   ,
                   Iudith
                
                 ,
                 or
                 Semiramis
              
               
                 Could
                 boast
                 of
                 Conquests
                 half
                 so
                 great
                 as
                 this
                 ;
              
               
                 More
                 than
                 they
                 slew
                 ,
                 I
                 save
                 in
                 this
                 Disease
                 .
              
               
               
                 Mankind
                 our
                 Sex
                 for
                 Cures
                 do
                 celebrate
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 Pains
                 ,
                 which
                 fancy
                 only
                 doth
                 create
                 :
              
               
                 Now
                 more
                 we
                 shall
                 be
                 magnified
                 sure
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 for
                 this
                 real
                 torment
                 find
                 a
                 Cure.
              
               
                 Some
                 Women-haters
                 may
                 be
                 so
                 uncivil
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 say
                 the
                 Devil
                 's
                 cast
                 out
                 by
                 the
                 Devil
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 so
                 the
                 good
                 are
                 pleas'd
                 ,
                 no
                 matter
                 for
                 the
                 evil●
              
               
                 Such
                 ease
                 to
                 States-men
                 this
                 our
                 Skill
                 imparts
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 hope
                 they
                 'll
                 force
                 all
                 Women
                 to
                 learn
                 Arts.
              
               
                 Then
                 Blessings
                 on
                 ye
                 all
                 ye
                 learned
                 Crew
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 teach
                 me
                 that
                 which
                 you
                 your selves
                 ne'er
                 knew●
              
               
                 Thus
                 Gold
                 ,
                 which
                 by
                 th'
                 Sun's
                 influence
                 do's
                 grow
                 ,
              
               
                 Do's
                 that
                 i'
                 th'
                 Market
                 Phoebus
                 cannot
                 doe
                 .
              
               
                 Bless'd
                 be
                 the
                 time
                 ,
                 and
                 bless'd
                 my
                 pains
                 and
                 fate
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 introduc'd
                 me
                 to
                 a
                 place
                 so
                 great
                 .
              
               
                 False
                 Strephon
                 too
                 I
                 now
                 could
                 almost
                 bless
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 crimes
                 conduc'd
                 to
                 this
                 my
                 happiness
                 .
              
               
                 Had
                 he
                 been
                 true
                 ,
                 I
                 'd
                 liv'd
                 in
                 sottish
                 ease
                 ;
              
               
                 Ne'er
                 study'd
                 ought
                 ,
                 but
                 how
                 to
                 love
                 and
                 please
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 other
                 flame
                 my
                 Virgin
                 Breast
                 had
                 fir'd
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Love
                 and
                 Life
                 together
                 had
                 expir'd
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 ,
                 false
                 wretch
                 ,
                 he
                 his
                 forc'd
                 kindness
                 paid
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 less
                 Devotion
                 than
                 e'er
                 Sexton
                 pray'd
                 .
              
               
               
                 Fool
                 that
                 I
                 was
                 to
                 sigh
                 ,
                 weep
                 ,
                 almost
                 dye
                 ,
              
               
                 Little
                 fore-thinking
                 of
                 this
                 present
                 joy●
              
               
                 Thus
                 happy
                 Brides
                 shed
                 tears
                 they
                 know
                 not
                 why
                 .
              
               
                 Vainly
                 we
                 blame
                 this
                 Cause
                 ,
                 or
                 laugh
                 at
                 that
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 the
                 Effect
                 with
                 its
                 how
                 ,
                 where
                 and
                 what
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 an
                 Embryo
                 i'
                 th'
                 Womb
                 of
                 Time
                 or
                 Fate
                 .
              
               
                 Of
                 future
                 things
                 we
                 very
                 little
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 't
                 is
                 Heav'ns
                 kindness
                 too
                 that
                 it
                 is
                 so
                 .
              
               
                 Were
                 not
                 our
                 Souls
                 with
                 Ignorance
                 so
                 buoy'd
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 'd
                 sink
                 with
                 fear
                 ,
                 or
                 over-set
                 with
                 pride
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 much
                 for
                 Ignorance
                 there
                 may
                 be
                 said
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 large
                 Encomiums
                 might
                 thereof
                 be
                 made
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 I
                 've
                 digress'd
                 too
                 far
                 ,
                 so
                 must
                 return
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 make
                 the
                 Medick
                 Art
                 my
                 whole
                 concern
                 ;
              
               
                 Since
                 by
                 its
                 Aid
                 I
                 've
                 gain'd
                 this
                 mighty
                 place
              
               
                 Amongst
                 th'
                 immortal
                 AEsculapian
                 Race
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 if
                 my
                 Muse
                 will
                 needs
                 officious
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 too
                 to
                 this
                 must
                 be
                 a
                 Votary
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 all
                 our
                 Songs
                 its
                 Attributes
                 reherse
                 ,
              
               
                 Write
                 Recipes
                 (
                 as
                 Ovid
                 Law
                 )
                 in
                 Verse
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 measure
                 we
                 'll
                 reduce
                 Febrifick
                 heat
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 make
                 the
                 Pulses
                 in
                 true
                 measure
                 beat
                 :
              
               
                 Asthma
                 and
                 Phthisick
                 shall
                 chant
                 lays
                 most
                 sweet
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Gout
                 and
                 Rickets
                 too
                 shall
                 run
                 on
                 feet
                 :
              
               
               
                 In
                 fine
                 ,
                 my
                 Muse
                 ,
                 such
                 Wonders
                 we
                 will
                 doe
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 to
                 our
                 Art
                 Mankind
                 their
                 ease
                 shall
                 owe
                 ;
              
               
                 Then
                 praise
                 and
                 please
                 our selves
                 in
                 doing
                 so
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 since
                 the
                 Learn'd
                 exalt
                 and
                 own
                 our
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 is
                 no
                 Arrogance
                 to
                 do
                 the
                 same
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 due
                 respects
                 and
                 complaisance
                 to
                 them
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 my
                 Unkind
                 STREPHON
                 .
              
               
                 WHen
                 last
                 I
                 saw
                 thee
                 ,
                 thou
                 did'st
                 seem
                 so
                 kind
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Friendship
                 &
                 thy
                 Mirth
                 so
                 unconsin'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Thy
                 Mind
                 serene
                 ,
                 Angelical
                 thy
                 Face
                 ,
              
               
                 Wit
                 and
                 good
                 humour
                 ev'ry
                 part
                 did
                 grace
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 nought
                 unkind
                 appear'd
                 to
                 my
                 dull
                 sence
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 cloud
                 the
                 Glories
                 of
                 Love's
                 Excellence
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 e're
                 the
                 Sun
                 his
                 leave
                 of
                 us
                 he
                 takes
                 ,
              
               
                 Behind
                 the
                 Trees
                 a
                 glorious
                 Landskip
                 makes
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 in
                 thy
                 Mien
                 those
                 Glories
                 did
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 shew
                 it
                 seems
                 Friendship
                 was
                 setting
                 there
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 now't's
                 obscured
                 ,
                 whether
                 it
                 descends
              
               
                 Into
                 the
                 Ocean
                 of
                 more
                 worthy
                 Friends
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Or
                 that
                 it
                 do's
                 to
                 State
                 or
                 bus'ness
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 Those
                 Regions
                 of
                 th'
                 Antipodes
                 of
                 Love
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 know
                 not
                 ,
                 only
                 it
                 withdraws
                 its
                 light
                 ,
              
               
                 Exposing
                 of
                 our
                 Microcosm
                 to
                 night
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 night
                 all
                 clad
                 in
                 Sorrows
                 ,
                 thickest
                 Air
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 no
                 less
                 cold
                 than
                 those
                 that
                 are
                 most
                 clear
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 as
                 when
                 heat
                 by
                 cold
                 contracted
                 is
                 ,
              
               
                 Grows
                 stronger
                 by
                 its
                 Antiperistasis
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 shall
                 my
                 Passion
                 in
                 this
                 frigid
                 state
              
               
                 Grow
                 strong
                 in
                 fervent
                 love
                 ,
                 or
                 torrid
                 hate
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 should
                 I
                 frown
                 ,
                 or
                 scorn
                 ,
                 or
                 hate
                 ,
                 't
                 would
                 be
              
               
                 But
                 laughter
                 and
                 divertisement
                 to
                 thee
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 be
                 thou
                 still
                 unkind
                 ,
                 I
                 am
                 resolv'd
              
               
                 I'
                 th'
                 like
                 unkindness
                 ne'er
                 to
                 be
                 involv'd
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 those
                 whom
                 Frowns
                 and
                 Anger
                 cannot
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 is
                 but
                 just
                 to
                 persecute
                 with
                 Love
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 good
                 Old
                 Romans
                 ,
                 although
                 banish'd
                 I
              
               
                 Shall
                 still
                 retain
                 my
                 first
                 integrity
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 should
                 make
                 thee
                 thus
                 to
                 banish
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 always
                 did
                 do
                 ,
                 and
                 will
                 honour
                 thee
                 ;
              
               
                 Unless
                 thou'
                 rt
                 like
                 those
                 jealous
                 Romans
                 grown
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 falsly
                 fear
                 I
                 should
                 erect
                 a
                 Throne
              
               
                 Within
                 thy
                 Breast
                 ,
                 and
                 absolutely
                 prove
              
               
                 My self
                 the
                 mighty
                 Monarch
                 of
                 thy
                 Love
                 :
              
               
               
                 No
                 sure
                 ,
                 thy
                 Iudgment
                 never
                 could
                 be
                 wrought
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 think
                 that
                 I
                 should
                 harbour
                 such
                 a
                 thought
                 ;
              
               
                 Thou
                 could'st
                 not
                 think
                 I
                 aim'd
                 at
                 such
                 a
                 state
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 in
                 thy
                 Breast
                 had
                 no
                 confederate
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 Worth
                 wherewith
                 the
                 *
                 Nobles
                 to
                 engage
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 Wealth
                 to
                 stifle
                 the
                 Plebeian
                 Rage
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 had
                 I
                 Troops
                 of
                 Beauties
                 at
                 Command
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 Grief
                 long
                 since
                 those
                 Forces
                 did
                 disband
                 :
              
               
                 Besides
                 ,
                 thou
                 know'st
                 I
                 always
                 did
                 despise
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Love
                 ,
                 those
                 Arbitrary
                 tyrannies
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 do
                 I
                 less
                 abhor
                 the
                 Vulgar
                 croud
              
               
                 Of
                 
                   sordid
                   Passions
                
                 ,
                 which
                 can
                 bawl
                 so
                 loud
              
               
                 For
                 Liberty
                 ,
                 that
                 they
                 thereby
                 may
                 grace
              
               
                 
                   Pride
                   ,
                   Lust
                
                 ,
                 or
                 Av'rice
                 ,
                 with
                 a
                 Tribune's
                 place
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 might
                 I
                 chuse
                 ,
                 Love's
                 Regiment
                 should
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 Friendship
                 's
                 noble
                 Aristocracy
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 now
                 ,
                 alas
                 ,
                 Love's
                 Powers
                 are
                 all
                 deprest
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 th'
                 pow'rfull
                 Anarchy
                 of
                 Interest
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 although
                 Hell
                 and
                 Earth
                 therein
                 combin'd
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 little
                 thought
                 what
                 now
                 too
                 well
                 I
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 ever
                 Strephon
                 could
                 have
                 been
                 unkind
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 my
                 Friend
                 Mr.
                 
                   S.
                   L.
                
                 ON
                 HIS
                 Receiving
                 the
                 Name
                 of
                 
                   Little
                   Tom
                   King.
                
                 
              
               
                 FEar
                 not
                 ,
                 dear
                 Friend
                 ,
                 the
                 less'ning
                 of
                 thy
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 Because
                 here
                 's
                 Little
                 fix'd
                 upon
                 thy
                 Name
                 ;
              
               
                 Thy
                 matchless
                 Worth
                 ,
                 alas
                 ,
                 is
                 too
                 well
                 known
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 suffer
                 damage
                 by
                 detraction
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 can
                 the
                 Splendour
                 of
                 thy
                 glorious
                 Rays
              
               
                 Gain
                 Augmentation
                 by
                 our
                 worthless
                 praise
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 as
                 the
                 faithfull
                 Diamonds
                 luster
                 's
                 shown
                 ,
              
               
                 Whether
                 set
                 on
                 Foils
                 ,
                 or
                 in
                 the
                 Fire
                 thrown
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 art
                 thou
                 
                   Little
                   King
                
                 ,
                 whose
                 Worth
                 cross
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 no
                 Vicissitude
                 can
                 vitiate
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 sweet
                 thy
                 Humour
                 ,
                 so
                 genteel
                 thy
                 Mien
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 wise
                 thy
                 Actions
                 ,
                 all
                 thy
                 Thoughts
                 serene
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 Envies
                 self
                 ,
                 who
                 do's
                 all
                 praise
                 regret
                 ,
              
               
                 Must
                 own
                 in
                 thee
                 Virtue
                 and
                 Wisdom's
                 met
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 were
                 't
                 thou
                 really
                 such
                 as
                 is
                 thy
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'm
                 sure
                 thy
                 Wisdom
                 wou'd
                 adorn
                 the
                 same
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 the
                 silly
                 World
                 it
                 shou'd
                 be
                 shown
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Virtue
                 cou'd
                 add
                 Splendour
                 to
                 a
                 Throne
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Necessity
                 of
                 Fate
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   IN
                   vain
                   ,
                   in
                   vain
                   it
                   is
                   ,
                   I
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   strive
                   against
                   our
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   may
                   as
                   well
                   command
                   the
                   Wind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   th'
                   Seas
                   rude
                   Waves
                   to
                   gentle
                   manners
                   bind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   to
                   Eternity
                   prescribe
                   a
                   date
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   frustrate
                   ought
                   that
                   Fortune
                   has
                   design'd
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   when
                   we
                   think
                   we
                   're
                   Politicians
                   grown
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   live
                   by
                   methods
                   of
                   our
                   own
                   ;
                
                 
                   We
                   then
                   obsequiously
                   obey
                
                 
                   Her
                   Dictates
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   blindfull
                   Homage
                   pay
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   For
                   were
                   't
                   not
                   so
                   ,
                   surely
                   I
                   cou'd
                   not
                   be
                
                 
                   Still
                   slave
                   to
                   Rhime
                   ,
                   and
                   lazy
                   Poetry
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   who
                   so
                   oft
                   have
                   strove
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   freedom
                   to
                   regain
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   sometimes
                   too
                   ,
                   for
                   my
                   assistance
                   took
                
                 
                   Business
                   ,
                   and
                   sometimes
                   too
                   a
                   Book
                   ;
                
                 
                   Company
                   ,
                   and
                   sometimes
                   Love
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   All
                   which
                   proves
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   I
                   can
                   only
                   ●hake
                   ,
                   but
                   not
                   cast
                   off
                   my
                   Chain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   Ah
                   cruel
                   Fate
                   !
                   all
                   this
                   thou
                   did'st
                   sore-show
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   when
                   I
                   was
                   a
                   Child
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   in
                   my
                   Picture
                   's
                   hand
                
                 
                   My
                   Mother
                   did
                   command
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   shou'd
                   be
                   drawn
                   a
                   Lawrel-bough
                   :
                
                 
                   Lo
                   then
                   my
                   Muse
                   sat
                   by
                   and
                   smil'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   hear
                   how
                   some
                   the
                   Sentence
                   did
                   oppose
                   ,
                
                 
                   Saying
                   an
                   
                     Apple
                     ,
                     Bird
                  
                   ,
                   or
                   Rose
                
                 
                   Were
                   objects
                   which
                   did
                   more
                   be●it
                
                 
                   My
                   childish
                   years
                   ,
                   and
                   no
                   less
                   childish
                   wit.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   IV.
                   
                
                 
                   But
                   my
                   smiling
                   Muse
                   well
                   knew
                   that
                   cons●ant
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   promise
                   wou'd
                   compleat
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   Fate
                   at
                   my
                   initiation
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   the
                   Muses
                   Congregation
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   my
                   Responsor
                   promis'd
                   then
                   for
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   shou'd
                   forsake
                   those
                   three
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Soaring
                   honours
                   ,
                   and
                   vain
                   sweets
                   of
                   pleasure
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   vainer
                   fruits
                   of
                   
                     worldly
                     treasure
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   All
                   for
                   the
                   Muses
                   Melancholy
                   Tree
                   ,
                
                 
                   E're
                   I
                   knew
                   ought
                   of
                   its
                   great
                   Mystery
                   .
                
                 
                   Ah
                   gentle
                   Fate
                   ,
                   since
                   thou
                   wilt
                   have
                   it
                   so
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   thy
                   kind
                   hand
                   exalt
                   it
                   to
                   my
                   brow
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 my
                 Honoured
                 Friend
                 ,
                 Mr.
                 
                   E.
                   S
                   —
                
                 .
              
               
                 OH
                 had
                 I
                 any
                 Charms
                 of
                 equal
                 Powers
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 lay
                 those
                 spirits
                 which
                 are
                 rais'd
                 by
                 yours
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 would
                 employ
                 them
                 all
                 ,
                 rather
                 than
                 now
              
               
                 Suffer
                 my
                 babbling
                 Rhimes
                 to
                 trouble
                 you
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 ah
                 !
                 alas
                 my
                 Spells
                 are
                 all
                 too
                 weak
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 keep
                 a
                 silence
                 which
                 you
                 urge
                 to
                 break
                 ;
              
               
                 Though
                 I
                 remember
                 justly
                 where
                 and
                 when
              
               
                 I
                 promis'd
                 ne'er
                 to
                 trouble
                 you
                 agen
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 I
                 spoke
                 ,
                 I
                 meant
                 my
                 words
                 for
                 true
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 those
                 Resolves
                 were
                 cancell'd
                 at
                 review
              
               
                 Of
                 your
                 obliging
                 Lines
                 ,
                 which
                 made
                 me
                 know
              
               
                 Silence
                 to
                 be
                 the
                 greater
                 fault
                 o'
                 th'
                 too
                 :
              
               
               
                 For
                 where
                 Perfection
                 do's
                 in
                 triumph
                 sit
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 rude
                 to
                 praise
                 ,
                 but
                 sinfull
                 to
                 omit
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 often
                 read
                 your
                 Lines
                 ,
                 and
                 oft
                 admire
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 Eloquence
                 and
                 Fancy
                 do
                 conspire
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Wit
                 and
                 Iudgment
                 to
                 make
                 up
                 a
                 Quire
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 grace
                 the
                 Musick
                 of
                 Apollo's
                 Lire
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 that
                 which
                 makes
                 the
                 Musick
                 truly
                 sweet
                 ,
              
               
                 Virtue
                 and
                 Innocence
                 in
                 Chorus
                 meet
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 smooth
                 ,
                 so
                 gentle
                 all
                 your
                 Writings
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 I
                 with
                 other
                 Authors
                 them
                 compare
                 ,
              
               
                 Methinks
                 their
                 Modish
                 Wit
                 to
                 me
                 do's
                 shew
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 as
                 an
                 Engyscope
                 to
                 view
                 yours
                 through
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 do
                 your
                 Writ●ngs
                 only
                 smoothly
                 glide
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 your
                 whole
                 life
                 's
                 like
                 some
                 impetuous
                 tide
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 both
                 together
                 keep
                 a
                 gentle
                 pace
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 each
                 other
                 do
                 each
                 other
                 grace
                 .
              
               
                 There
                 's
                 very
                 few
                 like
                 you
                 that
                 do
                 possess
              
               
                 The
                 Stoicks
                 strictness
                 ,
                 Poets
                 gentleness
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 much
                 admire
                 your
                 Worth
                 ,
                 but
                 more
                 my
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 worthless
                 I
                 thereof
                 participate
                 ;
              
               
                 Ev'n
                 so
                 the
                 Sun
                 disdains
                 not
                 to
                 dispence
              
               
                 On
                 meanest
                 Insects
                 his
                 bright
                 influence
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 gives
                 them
                 animation
                 by
                 his
                 Rays
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 they
                 requite
                 ,
                 like
                 me
                 ,
                 with
                 worthless
                 praise
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Which
                 now
                 I
                 'm
                 sure
                 's
                 grown
                 troublesome
                 to
                 you
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 you
                 must
                 bear
                 that
                 fate
                 which
                 others
                 do
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 those
                 that
                 needs
                 will
                 taste
                 of
                 Parents
                 joys
                 ,
              
               
                 Must
                 too
                 indure
                 the
                 plague
                 of
                 Cradle-noise
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 On
                 my
                 Mother
                 and
                 my
                 Lady
                 
                   W
                   —
                
                 .
                 who
                 both
                 lay
                 sick
                 at
                 the
                 same
                 time
                 under
                 the
                 Hands
                 of
                 Dr.
                 Paman
                 .
              
               
                 LIke
                 two
                 sweet
                 Youths
                 strip●d
                 naked
                 on
                 the
                 Strand
                 ,
              
               
                 Ready
                 to
                 plunge
                 ,
                 in
                 consternation
                 stand
                 ,
              
               
                 Viewing
                 the
                 dimples
                 of
                 that
                 smiling
                 Face
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 frigid
                 Body
                 they
                 design
                 t'
                 imbrace
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 by
                 their
                 Angel's
                 care
                 ,
                 some
                 friend
              
               
                 Snatches
                 them
                 from
                 the
                 danger
                 they
                 intend
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 did
                 these
                 
                   Pious
                   Souls
                
                 themselves
                 prepare
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 putting
                 off
                 the
                 Robes
                 of
                 worldly
                 care
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 fitted
                 (
                 as
                 they
                 were
                 )
                 in
                 each
                 degree
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 lanch
                 into
                 a
                 bless'd
                 Eternity
                 ;
              
               
                 They
                 both
                 had
                 shot
                 the
                 Gulph
                 —
              
               
                 Had
                 not
                 thei●
                 Guardian-God
                 ,
                 good
                 Paman
                 sent
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 by
                 his
                 Skill
                 a
                 longer
                 time
                 them
                 lent
                 .
              
               
               
                 Ah
                 happy
                 Paman
                 ,
                 mightily
                 approv'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Both
                 by
                 thy
                 Patients
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Poor
                 belov'd
                 .
              
               
                 Hence
                 let
                 no
                 Slander
                 light
                 upon
                 the
                 Fame
              
               
                 Of
                 thy
                 great
                 Art
                 ,
                 much
                 less
                 upon
                 thy
                 Name
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 to
                 bad
                 Druggs
                 let
                 Fate
                 thy
                 Worth
                 expose
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 best
                 Receipts
                 are
                 baffl'd
                 oft
                 by
                 those
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 let
                 no
                 Quack
                 intrude
                 where
                 thou
                 do'st
                 come
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 crop
                 thy
                 Fame
                 ,
                 or
                 haste
                 thy
                 Patients
                 doom
                 ;
              
               
                 Base
                 Quackery
                 to
                 Sickness
                 the
                 kind
                 Nurse
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Patients
                 ruine
                 ,
                 and
                 Physicians
                 curse
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 no
                 infectious
                 Sickness
                 seize
                 thy
                 Blood
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 that
                 thou
                 may'st
                 live
                 long
                 to
                 do
                 much
                 good
                 .
              
               
                 May
                 all
                 the
                 Blessings
                 light
                 on
                 thee
                 that
                 can
              
               
                 Attend
                 a
                 Doctor
                 ,
                 or
                 a
                 Christian
                 Man.
              
               
                 Since
                 by
                 thy
                 care
                 thou
                 hast
                 restor'd
                 to
                 us
                 ,
              
               
                 Two
                 in
                 whom
                 Virtue
                 's
                 most
                 conspicuous
                 :
              
               
                 Better
                 ,
                 I
                 'm
                 sure
                 ,
                 no
                 Age
                 can
                 ever
                 shew
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Lives
                 are
                 Precepts
                 ,
                 and
                 Examples
                 too
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 In
                 Commendation
                 of
                 the
                 
                   Female
                   Sex.
                
                 Out
                 of
                 SCIPINA
                 .
              
               
                 AH
                 Beauteous
                 Sex
                 ,
                 to
                 you
                 we
                 're
                 bound
                 to
                 give
              
               
                 Our
                 thanks
                 for
                 all
                 the
                 Blessings
                 we
                 receive
                 ;
              
               
                 Ev'n
                 that
                 we
                 're
                 Men
                 ,
                 the
                 chief
                 of
                 all
                 our
                 boast
              
               
                 Were
                 without
                 you
                 ,
                 but
                 a
                 vast
                 blessing
                 lost
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 would
                 Man
                 his
                 mighty
                 Patent
                 show
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Reason
                 makes
                 him
                 Lord
                 of
                 all
                 below
                 ;
              
               
                 If
                 Woman
                 did
                 not
                 moderate
                 his
                 rule
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 'd
                 be
                 a
                 Tyrant
                 ,
                 or
                 a
                 softly
                 fool
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 e'er
                 Love's
                 documents
                 inform
                 his
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 's
                 but
                 a
                 thoughtless
                 kind
                 of
                 Houshold
                 Beast
                 .
              
               
                 Houses
                 ,
                 alas
                 ,
                 there
                 no
                 such
                 thing
                 wou'd
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 'd
                 live
                 beneath
                 the
                 umbrage
                 of
                 a
                 Tre●
                 :
              
               
                 Or
                 else
                 usurp
                 some
                 free-born
                 Native's
                 Cave
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 so
                 inhabit
                 ,
                 whilst
                 alive
                 ,
                 a
                 Grave
                 :
              
               
                 Or
                 o'er
                 the
                 World
                 this
                 Lordly
                 Brute
                 wou'd
                 rove
                 ,
              
               
                 Were
                 he
                 not
                 taught
                 and
                 civiliz'd
                 by
                 Love.
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 Love
                 and
                 Beauty
                 regulate
                 our
                 Souls
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 rules
                 so
                 certain
                 as
                 in
                 Venus
                 Schools
                 :
              
               
               
                 Your
                 Beauty
                 teacheth
                 whatsoe'er
                 is
                 good
                 ,
              
               
                 Else
                 good
                 from
                 bad
                 had
                 scarce
                 been
                 understood
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 's
                 eligible
                 by
                 your
                 smiles
                 we
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 your
                 frowns
                 refuse
                 what
                 is
                 not
                 so
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 the
                 rough
                 draught
                 of
                 Man
                 you
                 have
                 refin'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 polish'd
                 all
                 the
                 Passions
                 of
                 his
                 mind
                 .
              
               
                 His
                 Cares
                 you
                 lessen
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 Ioys
                 augment
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 both
                 extreams
                 set
                 the
                 just
                 bounds
                 Content
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 fine
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 you
                 to
                 Life
                 its
                 relish
                 give
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 't
                 were
                 insipid
                 ,
                 not
                 worth
                 while
                 to
                 live
                 :
              
               
                 Nay
                 more
                 ,
                 we
                 're
                 taught
                 Religion
                 too
                 by
                 you
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 who
                 can
                 think
                 that
                 such
                 Perfections
                 grew
              
               
                 By
                 chance
                 ?
                 no
                 ,
                 't
                 was
                 the
                 divine
                 Pow'rs
                 which
                 thus
              
               
                 Chose
                 to
                 exhibit
                 their
                 bright
                 selves
                 to
                 us
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 an
                 Antepast
                 of
                 future
                 bliss
                 ,
              
               
                 Sent
                 you
                 their
                 Images
                 from
                 Paradise
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 my
                 BROTHER
                 ,
                 whilst
                 he
                 was
                 in
                 France
                 .
              
               
                 DEar
                 Brother
                 ,
                 So
                 far
                 as
                 you
                 advance
              
               
                 Your
                 knowledge
                 ,
                 by
                 your
                 Iourney
                 into
                 France●
              
               
                 So
                 far
                 and
                 more
                 I
                 'm
                 sure
                 I
                 backward
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 I
                 can't
                 say
                 
                   As
                   in
                   praesenti
                
                 now
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 ever
                 shall
                 (
                 I
                 am
                 so
                 much
                 concern'd
              
               
                 For
                 your
                 dear
                 safety
                 )
                 whilst
                 you
                 are
                 return'd
                 .
              
               
                 Nothing
                 at
                 present
                 wonted
                 pleasure
                 yields
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Birds
                 nor
                 Bushes
                 ,
                 or
                 the
                 gaudy
                 Fields
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 Osier
                 holts
                 ,
                 nor
                 Flow'ry
                 banks
                 of
                 Glen
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 the
                 soft
                 Meadow-grass
                 seem
                 Plush
                 ,
                 as
                 when
              
               
                 We
                 us'd
                 to
                 walk
                 together
                 kindly
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 think
                 each
                 blade
                 of
                 Corn
                 a
                 Gem
                 did
                 bear
                 .
              
               
                 Instead
                 of
                 this
                 ,
                 and
                 thy
                 Philosophy
                 ,
              
               
                 Nought
                 but
                 my
                 own
                 false
                 Latin
                 now
                 I
                 see
                 ;
              
               
                 False
                 Verse
                 ,
                 or
                 Lovers
                 falsest
                 of
                 the
                 three
                 :
              
               
                 Ev'n
                 thoughts
                 of
                 formor
                 happiness
                 augment
              
               
                 My
                 Griefs
                 ,
                 and
                 are
                 my
                 present
                 punishment
                 ;
              
               
               
                 As
                 those
                 who
                 from
                 a
                 state
                 of
                 Grandeur
                 fall
                 ,
              
               
                 Find
                 adverse
                 Fate
                 hard
                 to
                 dispence
                 withall
                 .
              
               
                 Had
                 Devils
                 never
                 Heaven
                 seen
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 Hell
                 a
                 smaller
                 Curse
                 had
                 been
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 On
                 the
                 DEATH
                 of
                 my
                 Brother
                 .
              
               
                 COme
                 Sorrow
                 ,
                 come
                 ,
                 embrace
                 my
                 yielding
                 heart
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 thou'
                 rt
                 alone
                 ,
                 no
                 Passion
                 else
                 a-part
                 ;
              
               
                 Since
                 of
                 my
                 Dear
                 by
                 Death
                 I
                 am
                 bereft
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 art
                 the
                 faithfull'st
                 Lover
                 I
                 have
                 left
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 so
                 much
                 int'rest
                 thou
                 hast
                 got
                 in
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 thoughts
                 of
                 him
                 prove
                 only
                 Pimps
                 to
                 thee
                 :
              
               
                 If
                 any
                 joy
                 s●em
                 to
                 accost
                 my
                 Soul
                 ,
              
               
                 One
                 thought
                 of
                 him
                 do's
                 presently
                 controle
              
               
                 Those
                 fawning
                 Rivals
                 ;
                 all
                 which
                 steal
                 away
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 wand'ring
                 Ghosts
                 at
                 the
                 approach
                 of
                 day
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 hold
                 ,
                 fond
                 Grief
                 ,
                 thou
                 must
                 forbear
                 a
                 while
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 too
                 too
                 kind
                 Caresses
                 ,
                 which
                 beguile
              
               
                 Me
                 of
                 my
                 Reason
                 ,
                 —
                 retire
                 whilst
                 I
              
               
                 Repeat
                 the
                 Life
                 ,
                 the
                 Death
                 ,
                 the
                 Elogy
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Of
                 him
                 my
                 Soul
                 ador'd
                 with
                 so
                 much
                 pride
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 makes
                 me
                 slight
                 all
                 worldly
                 things
                 beside
                 ;
              
               
                 Of
                 him
                 who
                 did
                 by
                 his
                 fraternal
                 Love
                 ,
              
               
                 More
                 noble
                 Passions
                 in
                 my
                 Bosome
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 e'er
                 cou'd
                 be
                 infus'd
                 by
                 Cupid's
                 Darts
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 any
                 feign'd
                 ,
                 adulterate
                 ,
                 sordid
                 Arts
                 ;
              
               
                 Of
                 him
                 whose
                 blooming
                 Youth
                 pleas'd
                 each
                 Man's
                 Eye
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 tempted
                 Women
                 to
                 Idolatry
                 ;
              
               
                 Of
                 him
                 whose
                 growing
                 Art
                 made
                 Death
                 afraid
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 shou'd
                 be
                 vanquish'd
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 Throne
                 betray'd●
              
               
                 'Cause
                 with
                 success
                 ,
                 and
                 yet
                 no
                 less
                 applause
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 rescu'd
                 many
                 from
                 the
                 Tyrant's
                 jaws
                 :
              
               
                 At
                 last
                 the
                 Tyrant
                 raging
                 full
                 with
                 spight
                 ,
              
               
                 Assaults
                 his
                 Enemy
                 with
                 all
                 his
                 might
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 his
                 Second
                 brings
                 a
                 Feavour
                 too
                 ;
              
               
                 In
                 this
                 Attacque
                 what
                 could
                 our
                 Champion
                 doe
                 ?
              
               
                 He
                 bravely
                 fights
                 ,
                 but
                 forc'd
                 at
                 last
                 to
                 yield
                 ,
              
               
                 Nature
                 ,
                 his
                 Second
                 ,
                 having
                 lost
                 the
                 Field
                 :
              
               
                 *
                 Many
                 bring
                 in
                 their
                 Aid
                 ,
                 but
                 't
                 is
                 too
                 late
                 ,
              
               
                 Grim
                 Death
                 had
                 gotten
                 a
                 Decree
                 from
                 Fate
                 ;
              
               
                 Which
                 retrograded
                 all
                 that
                 g●eat
                 supply
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 pow'rfull
                 Arms
                 makes
                 Death
                 and
                 Feavers
                 fly●
              
               
               
                 But
                 why
                 ,
                 great
                 Fate
                 !
                 would'st
                 thou
                 so
                 cruel
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 Ioy
                 at
                 once
                 to
                 rob
                 the
                 World
                 and
                 Me
                 !
              
               
                 What
                 joys
                 so
                 e'er
                 we
                 to
                 our selves
                 propose
                 ,
              
               
                 Fate
                 still
                 will
                 frustrate
                 ,
                 or
                 at
                 least
                 oppose
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 her
                 Ambition
                 sure
                 to
                 let
                 us
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 has
                 the
                 Regiment
                 of
                 all
                 below
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 it
                 be
                 so
                 ,
                 command
                 some
                 mournfull
                 Muse
              
               
                 T'
                 inspire
                 my
                 Soul
                 ,
                 and
                 then
                 my
                 Heart
                 infuse
              
               
                 With
                 Essence
                 of
                 some
                 Dirges
                 ,
                 that
                 I
                 may
              
               
                 His
                 Matchless
                 worth
                 to
                 all
                 the
                 World
                 display
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 Fate
                 ,
                 nor
                 Muse
                 will
                 help
                 us
                 now
                 ,
                 I
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 flee
                 the
                 Wretched
                 ,
                 ev'n
                 as
                 Ships
                 the
                 Wind.
              
               
                 My
                 Dear
                 ,
                 had'st
                 thou
                 to
                 me
                 bequeath'd
                 thy
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Character
                 had
                 long
                 ago
                 been
                 writ
              
               
                 I'
                 th'
                 most
                 sublime
                 and
                 lasting
                 Verse
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 e'er
                 Adorn'd
                 the
                 greatest
                 Hero's
                 Herse
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 were
                 thy
                 great
                 Encomium
                 writ
                 by
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 '
                 Twou'd
                 be
                 the
                 ready
                 way
                 to
                 lessen
                 thee
                 :
              
               
                 Therefore
                 I
                 must
                 desist
                 from
                 that
                 design
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 attempt
                 to
                 better
                 hands
                 resign
                 ;
              
               
                 Only
                 repeat
                 what
                 mournfully
                 was
                 said
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 in
                 thy
                 cold
                 and
                 narrow
                 Bed
                 was
                 't
                 laid
              
               
               
                 By
                 the
                 Apollo's
                 (a)
                 of
                 thy
                 noble
                 Art
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 Who
                 seem'd
                 to
                 grudge
                 me
                 in
                 their
                 grief
                 a
                 part
                 )
              
               
                 Alas
                 ,
                 he
                 's
                 gone
                 who
                 shou'd
                 have
                 liv'd
                 to
                 be
              
               
                 An
                 honour
                 to
                 our
                 Great
                 Society
                 .
              
               
                 "
                 Alas
                 ,
                 he
                 's
                 gone
                 who
                 shou'd
                 supply
                 the
                 place
              
               
                 "
                 Of
                 some
                 of
                 us
                 ,
                 when
                 time
                 has
                 left
                 no
                 space
              
               
                 "
                 Betwixt
                 us
                 and
                 the
                 Grave
                 ;
                 but
                 now
                 we
                 see
              
               
                 "
                 How
                 they
                 're
                 deceiv'd
                 ,
                 who
                 hold
                 no
                 vacancy
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 Gallant
                 AEsculapian
                 (b)
                 Crow
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Whos
                 's
                 great
                 Example
                 from
                 Spectators
                 drew
              
               
                 "
                 Such
                 floods
                 of
                 tears
                 ,
                 that
                 some
                 mistook
                 their
                 aim
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 thought
                 a
                 real
                 show'r
                 from
                 Heav'n
                 came
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 I
                 ,
                 as
                 if
                 the
                 Fountain
                 of
                 this
                 Source
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Handkerchiefs
                 strove
                 to
                 retard
                 the
                 course
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 all
                 in
                 vain
                 ,
                 my
                 real
                 loss
                 was
                 great
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 many
                 thought
                 ,
                 whose
                 Words
                 I
                 here
                 repeat
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 I
                 cannot
                 blame
                 you
                 for
                 lamenting
                 so
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Since
                 better
                 friend
                 no
                 friend
                 did
                 e'er
                 forego
                 ;
              
               
                 "
                 A
                 publick
                 Sorrow
                 for
                 this
                 loss
                 is
                 due
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 The
                 Nation
                 surely
                 ,
                 Madam
                 ,
                 mourns
                 with
                 you
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 On
                 the
                 same
                 .
                 A
                 Pindarique
                 ODE
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   WHat
                   have
                   I
                   now
                   to
                   hope
                   or
                   fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   Death
                   has
                   taken
                   all
                   that
                   's
                   dear
                
                 
                   In
                   him
                   ,
                   who
                   was
                   my
                   joy
                   ,
                   my
                   love
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   rais'd
                   my
                   Passion
                   far
                   above
                
                 
                   What
                   e're
                   ●he
                   blind
                   God's
                   shafts
                   cou'd
                   doe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Nymph
                   or
                   Swain
                   e'er
                   knew
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   Friendship
                   do's
                   our
                   Souls
                   more
                   gently
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   a
                   Love
                   more
                   lasting
                   ,
                   noble
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   dwells
                   in
                   all
                   the
                   Amorous
                   Crew
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   Friendship
                   's
                   pure
                   ,
                   holy
                   ,
                   just
                   ,
                
                 
                   Without
                   canker
                   ,
                   soil
                   ,
                   or
                   rust
                
                 
                   Of
                   Pride
                   ,
                   Cov●tousness
                   ,
                   or
                   Lust
                   ;
                
                 
                   It
                   to
                   Ambition
                   makes
                   no
                   room
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   can
                   it
                   be
                   by
                   Int're●t
                   overcome
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   always
                   keeps
                   its
                   proper
                   state
                   ,
                
                 
                   I'
                   th'
                   midst
                   of
                   most
                   injurious
                   Fate
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   Death
                   it self
                   to
                   'ts
                   Bonds
                   can
                   give
                   no
                   date
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   But
                   O
                   Tyrant
                   !
                   thou
                
                 
                   Canst
                   at
                   one
                   blow
                
                 
                   Destroy
                   Fruition's
                   happiness
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wherein
                   we
                   Lovers
                   place
                   our
                   bliss
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   without
                   it
                   ,
                   Love
                   's
                   but
                   an
                   ample
                   theam
                
                 
                   Of
                   Imaginary
                   joys
                   ,
                
                 
                   Those
                   gay-deluding
                   toys
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   which
                   our
                   most
                   fix'd
                   thoughts
                   are
                   cros●'d
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   as
                   one
                   that
                   wakes
                   out
                   of
                   a
                   dr●am
                   ,
                
                 
                   Finds
                   all
                   the
                   pleasing
                   Objects
                   lost
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   as
                   Sodom's
                   beauteous
                   fruit
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   out-side
                   makes
                   a
                   fair
                   pretence
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   gratifie
                   another
                   sence
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   touch
                   it
                   ,
                   and
                   you
                   'll
                   find
                   how
                   destitute
                
                 
                   It
                   's
                   of
                   all
                   good
                   ,
                
                 
                   Much
                   more
                   unfit
                   for
                   food
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   may
                   our
                   pleasures
                   make
                   a
                   specious
                   shew
                
                 
                   To
                   th'
                   vulgar
                   view
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   his
                   absence
                   whom
                   I
                   now
                   deplore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Makes
                   all
                   my
                   Ioys
                   but
                   Ashes
                   at
                   the
                   core
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   Ah
                   Death
                   ,
                   thou
                   wast
                   severe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   from
                   me
                   to
                   tear
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Hopes
                   of
                   all
                   my
                   future
                   Happiness
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Co-partner
                   of
                   my
                   present
                   Bliss
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Alleviator
                   of
                   my
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   partaker
                   of
                   what
                   ever
                   Fate
                   did
                   share
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   me
                   in
                   my
                   Life's
                   progress
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   bad
                   ,
                   he
                   wou'd
                   bear
                   half
                   at
                   least
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   the
                   Storm
                   was
                   over-blown
                   or
                   ceas'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   good
                   ,
                   he
                   wou'd
                   augment
                   it
                   to
                   excess
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   no
                   les●
                   joy
                   for
                   me
                   than
                   for
                   himself
                   express
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   IV.
                   
                
                 
                   Of
                   my
                   Youth
                   he
                   was
                   the
                   Guide
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   its
                   extravagance
                   with
                   curious
                   ey●
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   wou'd
                   see
                   and
                   rectify
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   me
                   he
                   infus'd
                   such
                   humble
                   pride
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   taught
                   me
                   this
                   World's
                   pleasures
                   to
                   deride
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   made
                   me
                   know
                   I
                   was
                   above
                
                 
                   All
                   that
                   I
                   saw
                   or
                   cou'd
                   enjoy
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   In
                   this
                   giddy
                   toy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   the
                   whole
                   World's
                   happiness
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   again
                   this
                   Paradox
                   wou'd
                   prove
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   to
                   my self
                   shou'd
                   seem
                   less
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   ought
                   I
                   saw
                   i'
                   th'
                   mighty
                   Universe
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   V.
                   
                
                 
                   Nor
                   was
                   his
                   kindness
                   only
                   fix'd
                   on
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   freely
                   he
                
                 
                   Did
                   on
                   all
                   friends
                   his
                   Love
                   and
                   Wit
                   dispence
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   th'
                   Heavens
                   do
                   their
                   influence
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   likewise
                   did
                   no
                   diminution
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   his
                   Wit
                   he
                   did
                   bestow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Amongst
                   his
                   wond'ring
                   Auditors
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   cou'd
                   not
                   chuse
                   where
                   Wit
                   was
                   so
                   pro●ound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Vertue
                   did
                   so
                   much
                   abound
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   to
                   become
                   his
                   faithfull
                   Plauditors
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   which
                   he
                   did
                   receive
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   less
                   concern
                   than
                   they
                   could
                   give
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   proves
                   that
                   Pride
                   his
                   Heart
                   did
                   never
                   touch
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   this
                   he
                   always
                   understood
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   best
                   Ambition
                   still
                   was
                   such
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   less
                   desir'd
                   to
                   be
                   wise
                   than
                   good
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   VI.
                   
                
                 
                   But
                   thus
                   his
                   Vertues
                   to
                   enumerate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Serves
                   but
                   my
                   Sorrows
                   to
                   accumulate
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   cyphers
                   in
                   Accompt
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   the
                   Sum
                   
                     ad
                     infinitum
                  
                   mount
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   Sum
                   which
                   none
                   but
                   Death
                   can
                   calculate
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   he
                   most
                   dext'rously
                   can
                   doe
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   subtracting
                   the
                   one
                   Figure
                   ●rom
                   ●he
                   row
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   one's
                   but
                   one
                   ,
                   if
                   taken
                   from
                   the
                   train
                
                 
                   Of
                   
                     Pleasures
                     ,
                     Riches
                     ,
                     Honours
                     ,
                     Wit
                     :
                  
                
                 
                   Nor
                   can
                   a
                   King
                   his
                   Power
                   maintain
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   all
                   these
                   cyphers
                   should
                   recede●rom
                   ●rom
                   it
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   matter
                   then
                   what
                   our
                   attendance
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whether
                   happiness
                   or
                   miserie
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   when
                   the
                   mighty
                   Leveller
                   do's
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   seems
                   we
                   must
                   be
                   all
                   but
                   one
                   ,
                
                 
                   One
                   in
                   equality
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   VII
                   .
                
                 
                   How
                   soon
                   he
                   comes
                   ,
                   I
                   need
                   not
                   care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   may
                   to
                   me
                   a
                   better
                   fortune
                   share
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   For
                   of
                   all
                   happiness
                   I
                   here
                   despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   he
                   is
                   gone
                   who
                   Animation
                   gave
                
                 
                   To
                   all
                   that
                   's
                   pleasant
                   to
                   my
                   thoughts
                   ,
                   or
                   brave
                   :
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   my
                   Studies
                   he
                   inspir'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   lively
                   vigour
                   ,
                   which
                   with
                   him
                   retir'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   nought
                   but
                   their
                   Bodies
                   (
                   Books
                   )
                   remain
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   Sorrow
                   do's
                   their
                   Souls
                   inchain
                
                 
                   So
                   fast
                   ,
                   that
                   they
                   can
                   ne'er
                   return
                   again
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Part
                 of
                 the
                 XIX
                 .
                 PSALM
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   THE
                   Heav'ns
                   declare
                   the
                   Glory
                   of
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   th'
                   Firmament
                   doth
                   shew
                
                 
                   To
                   all
                   Mankind
                   dispers'd
                   abroad
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Works
                   his
                   mighty
                   hands
                   can
                   doe
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   silent
                   Nights
                   and
                   speechless
                   Days
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   each
                   other
                   chant
                   their
                   lays
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   make
                   a
                   tunefull
                   Serenade
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   To
                   th'
                   mighty
                   Universe
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   find
                   a
                   Language
                   to
                   reherse
                
                 
                   The
                   praise
                   of
                   him
                   who
                   them
                   and
                   us
                   has
                   made
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   them
                   he
                   hath
                   fix'd
                   a
                   place
                
                 
                   For
                   the
                   Glorious
                   Sun
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   comes
                   forth
                   with
                   Bridegroom's
                   strength
                   and
                   grace
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Earth
                   his
                   happy
                   Bride
                   t'
                   imbrace
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   as
                   a
                   Gyant
                   do's
                   rejoyce
                   to
                   run
                
                 
                   His
                   course
                   ,
                   where
                   he
                   is
                   sure
                   to
                   be
                
                 
                   Crown'd
                   with
                   glorious
                   Victory
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   nothing
                   in
                   this
                   World's
                   circumference
                   ,
                
                 
                   Can
                   be
                   hid
                   from
                   his
                   bright
                   influence
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 Coming
                 from
                 —
                 in
                 a
                 Dark
                 Night
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   FArewell
                   ,
                   O
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   which
                   I
                   ne'er
                   saw
                   before
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   't
                   is
                   my
                   int'rest
                   ne'er
                   to
                   see
                   ye
                   more
                   ;
                
                 
                   Though
                   th'
                   deprivation
                   of
                   your
                   light
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   'm
                   sure
                   ,
                   will
                   make
                   it
                   doubly
                   Night
                   ;
                
                 
                   Yet
                   rather
                   I
                   'll
                   lose
                   my
                   way
                   i'
                   th'
                   dark
                   than
                   stay
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   here
                   I
                   'm
                   sure
                   my
                   Soul
                   will
                   lose
                   her
                   way
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   Oh
                   't
                   is
                   not
                   dark
                   enough
                   ,
                   I
                   wish
                   it
                   were
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   Rays
                   are
                   still
                   on
                   my
                   Eyes
                   Atmosphere
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   give
                   sufficient
                   light
                   ,
                   I
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   Still
                   to
                   continue
                   me
                   stark
                   blind
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   to
                   Eyes
                   that
                   's
                   dazl'd
                   with
                   too
                   radiant
                   light
                   ,
                
                 
                   Darkness
                   proves
                   best
                   restorative
                   o'
                   th'
                   light
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 my
                 Dear
                 Cousin
                 Mrs.
                 
                   M.
                   T.
                
                 after
                 the
                 Death
                 of
                 her
                 Husband
                 and
                 Son.
                 
              
               
                 DEar
                 Coz.
                 I
                 hope
                 by
                 this
                 time
                 you
                 have
                 dry'd
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 least
                 set
                 bounds
                 to
                 th'almost
                 boundless
                 tide
              
               
                 Of
                 flowing
                 Tears
                 :
                 I
                 'm
                 sure
                 my
                 wish
                 is
                 so
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 Love
                 and
                 Int'rest
                 does
                 oblige
                 me
                 to
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 you
                 can
                 bear
                 no
                 Sufferings
                 alone
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 yours
                 are
                 mine
                 by
                 participation
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 doubtless
                 all
                 your
                 Friends
                 ,
                 in
                 some
                 degree
                 ,
              
               
                 Must
                 bear
                 a
                 share
                 ,
                 if
                 they
                 can
                 love
                 like
                 me
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 if
                 not
                 for
                 your
                 own
                 sake
                 ,
                 yet
                 for
                 ours
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 submission
                 to
                 th'
                 Eternal
                 Powers
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 only
                 dry
                 your
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 but
                 chear
                 your
                 Brow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 lend
                 us
                 Ioys
                 ,
                 and
                 we
                 'll
                 repay
                 them
                 you
                 .
              
               
                 Rouse
                 up
                 your
                 Soul
                 ,
                 and
                 shew
                 your self
                 indu'd
              
               
                 With
                 Mothers
                 Prudence
                 ,
                 Fathers
                 Fortitude
                 ;
              
               
                 In
                 other
                 Vertues
                 you
                 have
                 equall'd
                 them
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 these
                 strive
                 to
                 out-doe
                 your
                 worthy
                 Stem
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 here
                 Ambition
                 can't
                 excessive
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Neither
                 esteemed
                 pride
                 or
                 vanity
                 :
              
               
               
                 (
                 For
                 when
                 we
                 to
                 the
                 top
                 of
                 Vertue
                 climb
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 're
                 sure
                 in
                 no
                 mistake
                 ,
                 much
                 less
                 a
                 crime
                 .
                 )
              
               
                 But
                 by
                 this
                 brave
                 attempt
                 you
                 shall
                 subdue
              
               
                 Cross
                 Fate
                 ,
                 which
                 otherwise
                 wou'd
                 conquer
                 you
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 after
                 all
                 that
                 can
                 be
                 said
                 on
                 this
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 am
                 not
                 ignorant
                 how
                 hard
                 it
                 is
              
               
                 To
                 conquer
                 Passions
                 ,
                 and
                 our selves
                 subdue
                 ;
              
               
                 Though
                 advis'd
                 by
                 Friends
                 ,
                 and
                 assisted
                 too
              
               
                 By
                 the
                 prevailing
                 Powers
                 of
                 Grace
                 from
                 Heav'n
                 ,
              
               
                 Still
                 Counsel's
                 harder
                 to
                 be
                 took
                 than
                 giv'n
                 :
              
               
                 Not
                 that
                 I
                 thought
                 your
                 Griefs
                 profuse
                 ,
                 but
                 knew
              
               
                 Much
                 to
                 a
                 Son
                 ,
                 more
                 to
                 a
                 Husband
                 's
                 due
                 :
              
               
                 Only
                 remember
                 that
                 our
                 Lord
                 has
                 taught
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   Thy
                   will
                   be
                   done
                
                 ;
                 therefore
                 we
                 must
                 in
                 thought
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 well
                 as
                 words
                 ,
                 submit
                 to
                 his
                 intents
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 can
                 bring
                 good
                 out
                 of
                 the
                 worst
                 Events
                 ;
              
               
                 Whose
                 Mercy
                 oft
                 protracts
                 the
                 bad
                 Man's
                 doom
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 takes
                 the
                 good
                 Man
                 from
                 the
                 ill
                 to
                 come
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 TO
                 MY
                 Young
                 Lover
                 .
              
               
                 INcautious
                 Youth
                 ,
                 why
                 do'st
                 thou
                 so
                 mis-place
              
               
                 Thy
                 fine
                 Encomiums
                 on
                 an
                 o'er-blown
                 Face
                 ;
              
               
                 Which
                 after
                 all
                 the
                 Varnish
                 of
                 thy
                 Quill
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 s
                 Pristine
                 wrinkles
                 shew
                 apparent
                 still
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 is
                 it
                 in
                 the
                 power
                 of
                 Youth
                 to
                 move
              
               
                 An
                 Age-chill'd
                 heart
                 to
                 any
                 strokes
                 of
                 Love.
              
               
                 Then
                 chuse
                 some
                 budding
                 Beauty
                 ,
                 which
                 in
                 time
              
               
                 May
                 crown
                 thy
                 Wishes
                 in
                 thy
                 blooming
                 prime
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 nought
                 can
                 make
                 a
                 more
                 preposterou●
                 show
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 April
                 Flowers
                 stuck
                 on
                 St.
                 Michael's
                 Bow.
              
               
                 To
                 consecrate
                 thy
                 first-born
                 Sighs
                 to
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 superannuated
                 Deity
                 ;
              
               
                 Makes
                 that
                 Idolatry
                 and
                 deadly
                 Sin
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 otherwise
                 had
                 only
                 Venial
                 been
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 TO
                 MY
                 Young
                 Lover
                 ON
                 HIS
                 VOW
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   ALas
                   ,
                   why
                   mad'st
                   thou
                   such
                   a
                   Vow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   thou
                   wilt
                   never
                   pay
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   promise
                   that
                   from
                   very
                   now
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   everlasting
                   day
                   ?
                
                 
                   Thou
                   mean'st
                   to
                   love
                   ,
                   sigh
                   ,
                   bleed
                   ,
                   and
                   dye
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   languish
                   out
                   thy
                   breath
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   praise
                   of
                   my
                   Divinity
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   th'
                   minute
                   of
                   thy
                   Death
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   Sweet
                   Youth
                   ,
                   thou
                   know'st
                   not
                   what
                   it
                   is
                
                 
                   To
                   be
                   Love's
                   Votary
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Where
                   thou
                   must
                   for
                   the
                   smallest
                   bliss
                   ,
                
                 
                   Kneel
                   ,
                   beg
                   ,
                   and
                   sigh
                   ,
                   and
                   cry
                   .
                
                 
                   Probationer
                   thou
                   should'st
                   be
                   first
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   thereby
                   thou
                   may'st
                   try
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whether
                   thou
                   can'st
                   endure
                   the
                   worst
                
                 
                   Of
                   Love's
                   austerity
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   For
                   Worlds
                   of
                   Beauties
                   always
                   stand
                
                 
                   To
                   tempt
                   thy
                   willing
                   Eye
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Troops
                   of
                   Lusts
                   are
                   at
                   thy
                   hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   vanquish
                   thee
                   ,
                   or
                   dye
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   this
                   Vow
                   exposes
                   thee
                
                 
                   To
                   th'
                   third
                   (
                   of
                   all
                   the
                   worst
                   )
                
                 
                   The
                   Devil
                   of
                   inconstancy
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Tempter
                   most
                   accurs'd
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 TO
                 MY
                 Young
                 Lover
                 .
                 A
                 SONG
                 .
              
               
                 
                   TO
                   praise
                   sweet
                   Youth
                   ,
                   do
                   thou
                   forbear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   there
                   is
                   no
                   desert
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   ,
                   alas
                   ,
                   Encomiums
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   Iewels
                   thrown
                   i'
                   th'
                   dirt
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   For
                   I
                   no
                   more
                   deserve
                   Applause
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   Youth
                   and
                   Beauty
                   's
                   fled
                   ;
                
                 
                   Than
                   a
                   Tulip
                   ,
                   or
                   a
                   Rose
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   its
                   fair
                   Leaves
                   are
                   shed
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Howe'er
                   I
                   wish
                   thy
                   Praises
                   may
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   Prayers
                   to
                   Heaven
                   born
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   holy
                   Souls
                   for
                   Sinners
                   pray
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Prayers
                   on
                   them
                   return
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 my
                 Unkind
                 Friend
                 ,
                 Little
                 Tom
                 King.
                 
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   WEll
                   ,
                   by
                   experience
                   now
                   I
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   World
                   's
                   made
                   up
                   of
                   flattery
                   ,
                
                 
                   Complements
                   and
                   formality
                   ;
                
                 
                   Since
                   nought
                   but
                   int'rest
                   now
                   can
                   bind
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   old
                   acquaintance
                   to
                   be
                   kind
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   were
                   madness
                   then
                   to
                   hope
                   to
                   find
                
                 
                   True
                   Friendship
                   in
                   the
                   Modern
                   Crew
                
                 
                   Of
                   late-contracted
                   Friends
                   .
                
                 
                   Hence
                   then
                   acquaintance
                   all
                   adieu
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   can't
                   oblige
                   my
                   Friendship
                   to
                   pursue
                
                 
                   Such
                   dull
                   insipid
                   ends
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   nought
                   but
                   to
                   a
                   Ceremony
                   tends
                   .
                
                 
                   Since
                   Friendship
                   from
                   old
                   Friends
                   is
                   flown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rather
                   than
                   endure
                   the
                   pratlings
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   flatteries
                   and
                   the
                   censurings
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Which
                   a
                   Modish
                   Friendship
                   brings
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   pensive
                   Dove
                   shall
                   sit
                   and
                   coo
                   alone
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   But
                   perhaps
                   it
                   will
                   be
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unlucky
                   Business
                   has
                   this
                   mischief
                   made
                   :
                
                 
                   Business
                   ,
                   that
                   plausible
                   excuse
                
                 
                   Of
                   all
                   unkindness
                   to
                   a
                   Friend
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Bankrupt
                   ,
                   that
                   ne'er
                   pays
                   Principle
                   nor
                   Use
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   all
                   the
                   Time
                   that
                   e'er
                   we
                   to
                   him
                   lend
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   Bus'ness
                   now
                   's
                   a
                   Merchant
                   of
                   such
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   he
                   has
                   got
                   the
                   whole
                   Monopoly
                
                 
                   Of
                   Time
                   ,
                   Love
                   ,
                   Friends
                   ,
                   and
                   Liberty
                   ;
                
                 
                   Of
                   which
                   ,
                   if
                   there
                   be
                   scarcity
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bus'ness
                   is
                   to
                   blame
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   nought
                   can
                   vended
                   be
                   ,
                   but
                   in
                   his
                   Name
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   Since
                   then
                   the
                   World
                   's
                   so
                   much
                   to
                   Bus'ness
                   pro●e
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   time
                   that
                   idle
                   I
                   was
                   gone
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Alas
                   ,
                   why
                   do
                   I
                   stay
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVhen
                   that
                   canker
                   bus'ness
                   (
                   which
                   I
                   hate
                   )
                
                 
                   VVith
                   Int'rest
                   is
                   confederate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Eats
                   our
                   pleasant
                   shady
                   Friends
                   away
                   ?
                
                 
                   VVe're
                   left
                   obnoxious
                   to
                   the
                   storms
                   of
                   Fate
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nay
                   ev'n
                   then
                   the
                   hottest
                   Gleams
                
                 
                   Of
                   Prosperities
                   brightest
                   Beams
                   ,
                
                 
                   Help
                   but
                   to
                   make
                   us
                   dwindle
                   and
                   decay
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   though
                   we
                   strive
                   our selves
                   to
                   shade
                
                 
                   Under
                   the
                   closest
                   Rules
                   of
                   Constancy
                   ;
                
                 
                   Yet
                   when
                   the
                   Powers
                   of
                   Fate
                   invade
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   too
                   ,
                   alas
                   ,
                   will
                   shake
                   and
                   fade
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   us
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   though
                   our
                   best
                   Ambition
                   strives
                
                 
                   To
                   keep
                   a
                   reg'lar
                   harmony
                   :
                
                 
                   Yet
                   Fate
                   will
                   ring
                   her
                   Changes
                   on
                   our
                   Lives
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   discordant
                   Death
                   arrives
                   ;
                
                 
                   VVho
                   informs
                   us
                   by
                   his
                   latest
                   Knell
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whether
                   we
                   have
                   made
                   up
                   this
                   World's
                   Consort
                   well
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   IV.
                   
                
                 
                   Hence
                   I
                   'll
                   not
                   murmur
                   then
                   ,
                
                 
                   Though
                   some
                   grow
                   Proud
                   ,
                   and
                   others
                   really
                   Great
                
                 
                   Or
                   heap
                   up
                   Riches
                   by
                   deceit
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   they
                   must
                   pay
                   it
                   all
                   again
                
                 
                   To
                   Death
                   ,
                   who
                   rapaciously
                   devours
                
                 
                   All
                   ,
                   for
                   which
                   we
                   drudge
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sell
                   our
                   ease
                   for
                   fruitless
                   pain
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   which
                   we
                   like
                   mistaken
                   fools
                   call
                   ours
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   in
                   some
                   lazie
                   Solitude
                   may
                   I
                
                 
                   Enjoy
                   my self
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Free
                   from
                   this
                   VVorld's
                   buzzing
                   frantick
                   feuds
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sweets
                   and
                   stings
                   of
                   Fate
                   's
                   Vicissitudes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Have
                   nothing
                   else
                   to
                   do
                   but
                   dye
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   care
                   not
                   who
                   esteems
                   me
                   as
                   a
                   Drone
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   out
                   o'
                   th'
                   World
                   so
                   secretly
                   I
                   'll
                   steal
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   babbling
                   Fame
                   shall
                   not
                   the
                   theft
                   reveal
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   I
                   to
                   my
                   long
                   repose
                   am
                   gone
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   dearest
                   Brother
                   ,
                   who
                   is
                   gone
                   before
                   ,
                
                 
                   Half
                   way
                   will
                   meet
                   me
                   in
                   the
                   Air
                   ,
                   or
                   more
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Where
                   we
                   'll
                   be
                   happy
                   in
                   Excess
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Mansions
                   of
                   Eternal
                   blessedness
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   if
                   there
                   can
                   be
                
                 
                   Any
                   allay
                   of
                   this
                   felicity
                   ;
                
                 
                   It
                   will
                   be
                   this
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   shall
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   I
                   no
                   other
                   news
                   can
                   bring
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   his
                   Old
                   Friend
                   ,
                   my
                   
                     Little
                     King
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   that
                   he
                   was
                   unkind
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 Second
                 EPISTLE
                 .
                 To
                 my
                 Honoured
                 Friend
                 Mr.
                 
                   E.
                   S.
                
                 
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   OFt
                   has
                   my
                   Muse
                   and
                   I
                   fall'n
                   ou●
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   as
                   oft
                   have
                   banish'd
                   her
                   my
                   Breast
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   such
                   ,
                   alas
                   ,
                   still
                   was
                   her
                   interest
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   still
                   to
                   bring
                   her
                   purposes
                   about
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   great
                   her
                   cunning
                   in
                   insinuation
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   she
                   soon
                   gain'd
                   her
                   wish'd-for
                   restoration
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   I
                   found
                   this
                   wou'd
                   not
                   do
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Violent
                   Death
                   I
                   put
                   her
                   to
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   see
                   ,
                   my
                   Friend
                   ,
                   how
                   your
                   All-pow'rfull
                   Pen
                
                 
                   (
                   O
                   Miracle
                   !
                   )
                   has
                   rais'd
                   her
                   from
                   the
                   Dead
                   again
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   ,
                   alas
                   ,
                   what
                   can
                   she
                   doe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   speak
                   or
                   shew
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   very
                   much
                   she
                   is
                   oblig'd
                   to
                   you
                   ?
                
                 
                   For
                   where
                   the
                   Boon's
                   so
                   great
                   ,
                   it
                   were
                   a
                   rude
                
                 
                   Presumption
                   to
                   pretend
                   to
                   Gratitude
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   a
                   mad
                   project
                   to
                   contrive
                   to
                   give
                
                 
                   To
                   you
                   ,
                   from
                   whom
                   she
                   do's
                   her
                   All
                   receive
                   :
                
                 
                   Yet
                   if
                   she
                   Traffick
                   on
                   your
                   Stock
                   ,
                   and
                   thrive
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   fit
                   ,
                   how
                   e'er
                   the
                   Principal
                   be
                   spent
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   pay
                   the
                   Int'rest
                   of
                   Acknowledgment
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   her
                   I
                   must
                   acknowledge
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   honour
                   which
                   you
                   did
                   on
                   me
                   b●stow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Though
                   I
                   unworthy
                   were
                   of
                   it
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   but
                   your
                   Iudgment
                   knew
                   well
                   how
                   to
                   chuse
                
                 
                   A
                   worthier
                   Subject
                   than
                   my
                   Muse
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   exercise
                   th'
                   Exu'brance
                   of
                   your
                   Wit
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   that
                   your
                   Goodness
                   over
                   all
                   presides
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   nobly
                   in
                   Triumph
                   rides
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   other
                   Vertues
                   march
                   in
                   Troops
                   behind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Friendship
                   do's
                   the
                   Chariot
                   guide
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   may
                   perhaps
                   run
                   too
                   much
                   of
                   one
                   side
                   :
                
                 
                   Friendship
                   ,
                   as
                   well
                   as
                   Love
                   ,
                   sometimes
                   is
                   blind
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   she
                   may
                   be
                   always
                   so
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Prayers
                   shall
                   ever
                   tend
                   ,
                
                 
                   'Cause
                   I
                   no
                   other
                   Title
                   have
                   to
                   show
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   tenure
                   to
                   the
                   love
                   of
                   any
                   Friend
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 PASTORAL
                 DIALOGUE
                 Betwixt
                 Two
                 Shepherd
                 Boys
                 .
              
               
                 
                   1
                   Boy
                   .
                   I
                   Wonder
                   what
                   Alexis
                   ails
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   sigh
                   and
                   talk
                   of
                   Darts
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Charms
                   which
                   o'er
                   his
                   Soul
                   prevails
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Flames
                   and
                   bleeding
                   Hearts
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   saw
                   him
                   yesterday
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Walk
                   crossing
                   of
                   his
                   Arms
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Cuckow
                   like
                   was
                   in
                   a
                   tone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ah
                   Caelia
                   ,
                   ah
                   thy
                   charms
                   !
                
              
               
                 
                   2
                   Boy
                   .
                   Why
                   sure
                   thou'
                   rt
                   not
                   so
                   ignorant
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   thou
                   would'st
                   seem
                   to
                   be
                   ;
                
                 
                   Alas
                   the
                   cause
                   of
                   his
                   complaint
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   all
                   our
                   destiny
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   mighty
                   Love's
                   All-pow'rfull
                   Bow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   has
                   Alexis
                   hit
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   pow'rfull
                   Shaft
                   will
                   hit
                   us
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   E'er
                   we
                   're
                   awar●
                   of
                   it
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   1
                   
                     Boy
                     .
                     Love
                  
                   ,
                   why
                   ,
                   alas
                   ,
                   I
                   little
                   thought
                
                 
                   There
                   had
                   been
                   such
                   a
                   thing
                   ;
                
                 
                   Only
                   for
                   Rhime
                   it
                   had
                   been
                   brought
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Shepherds
                   use
                   to
                   Sing
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   'm
                   sure
                   ,
                   what
                   e're
                   they
                   talk
                   of
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   but
                   conceit
                   at
                   most
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   Fear
                   i'
                   th'
                   dark
                   our
                   fancies
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   think
                   we
                   see
                   a
                   Ghost
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   2
                   Boy
                   .
                   I
                   know
                   not
                   ,
                   but
                   the
                   other
                   day
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   wanton
                   Girl
                   there
                   were
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   took
                   my
                   Stock-Dove's
                   Eggs
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Black-birds
                   Nest
                   did
                   tear
                   .
                
                 
                   Had
                   it
                   been
                   thee
                   ,
                   my
                   dearest
                   Boy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Revenge
                   I
                   shou'd
                   have
                   took
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   she
                   my
                   Anger
                   did
                   destroy
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   th'
                   sweetness
                   of
                   her
                   Look
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   1
                   Boy
                   .
                   So
                   t'other
                   day
                   a
                   wanton
                   Slut
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   I
                   slept
                   on
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Frog
                   into
                   my
                   Bosom
                   put
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Hands
                   and
                   Feet
                   she
                   bound
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   hung
                   my
                   Hook
                   upon
                   a
                   Tree
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   laughing
                   ,
                   bad
                   me
                   wake
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   though
                   she
                   thus
                   abused
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   Revenge
                   I
                   cannot
                   take
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Chorus
                   .
                   Let
                   's
                   wish
                   these
                   Overtures
                   of
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   Don't
                   fatal
                   Omens
                   prove
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   those
                   who
                   lose
                   the
                   Power
                   to
                   hate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   soon
                   made
                   slaves
                   to
                   Love.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 Mr.
                 C.
                 B.
                 On
                 his
                 Incomparable
                 SINGING
                 .
              
               
                 
                   THE
                   Honour
                   that
                   the
                   Air
                   receives
                
                 
                   From
                   thy
                   Melodious
                   Voice
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sure
                   makes
                   it
                   grieve
                   it●
                   cannot
                   giv●
                
                 
                   More
                   Echoes
                   to
                   the
                   noise
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Whilst
                   Atoms
                   joyfully
                   advance
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   happy
                   Consort
                   they
                
                 
                   Do
                   in
                   a
                   nimble
                   careless
                   Dance
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   charming
                   Notes
                   obey
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Birds
                   have
                   been
                   said
                   to
                   fall
                   down
                   dead
                
                 
                   At
                   th'
                   shouting
                   of
                   a
                   throng
                   ;
                
                 
                   Had'st
                   thou
                   been
                   there
                   ,
                   it
                   had
                   been
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   thou
                   'dst
                   rais'd
                   'em
                   with
                   a
                   Song
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   If
                   th'
                   Mind
                   upon
                   the
                   Body
                   works
                
                 
                   By
                   secret
                   Sympathies
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   knows
                   what
                   in
                   thy
                   Musick
                   lurks
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   cure
                   all
                   Maladies
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   If
                   Fate
                   this
                   Physick
                   shou'd
                   prefer
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Practice
                   is
                   decreed
                   ;
                
                 
                   All
                   London
                   and
                   Montpelier
                   -
                
                 
                   Physicians
                   shall
                   exceed
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Hence
                   forward
                   then
                   let
                   Poets
                   Sing
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   of
                   Orpheus
                   ;
                
                 
                   Since
                   we
                   have
                   one
                   ,
                   whose
                   Voice
                   may
                   bring
                
                 
                   Health
                   to
                   attend
                   on
                   us
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 THE
                 COMPLAINT
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   HOw
                   oft
                   ,
                   ah
                   wretch
                   ,
                   hast
                   thou
                   profusely
                   swore
                
                 
                   Me
                   ,
                   as
                   the
                   Gods
                   thou
                   did'st
                   adore
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   my
                   Words
                   shou'd
                   be
                   to
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   of
                   Divine
                   Authority
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   this
                   my
                   Power
                   exceeded
                   theirs
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   me
                   thou
                   ne'er
                   did'st
                   wander
                   in
                   thy
                   Prayers
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   And
                   oft
                   thou
                   prayest
                   ,
                   bathed
                   in
                   thy
                   Tears
                   ,
                
                 
                   Drop'd
                   from
                   the
                   clouds
                   of
                   loving
                   fears
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   my
                   Hand
                   thy
                   Faith
                   confess
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   after
                   that
                   beg
                   for
                   redress
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   on
                   the
                   Altar
                   of
                   my
                   lip
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Sacrifice
                   ,
                   let
                   no
                   occasion
                   slip
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   thou'
                   rt
                   grown
                   prophane
                   Atheistical
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   chang'd
                   thy
                   Faith
                   ,
                   but
                   cast
                   off
                   all
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   Sacrilegious
                   too
                   thou
                   art
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou'
                   rt
                   not
                   c●ntent
                   to
                   rob
                   in
                   part
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   bear
                   my
                   Rites
                   (
                   thy
                   Vows
                   )
                   away
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   by
                   thy
                   cruelty
                   thou
                   do'st
                   assay
                
                 
                   To
                   bring
                   the
                   beauteous
                   Fabrick
                   to
                   decay
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 SONG
                 in
                 SCIPINA
                 .
              
               
                 
                   IN
                   vain
                   do's
                   Nature
                   her
                   free
                   gifts
                   bestow
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   us
                   wise
                   or
                   fair
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   Fortune
                   don't
                   her
                   Favours
                   show
                   ,
                
                 
                   Scorn'd
                   or
                   neglected
                   we
                   may
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   worth
                   a
                   Look
                   ,
                   much
                   less
                   a
                   Lover's
                   care
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   we
                   shou'd
                   some
                   pitying
                   Eyes
                   command
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   those
                   of
                   admiration
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   unendow'd
                   fair
                   Structures
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Admir'd
                   ;
                   but
                   not
                   one
                   helping
                   hand
                
                 
                   Will
                   rescue
                   them
                   ●rom
                   Time's
                   dilapidation
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   surely
                   vain
                   it
                   is
                   for
                   me
                   to
                   strive
                
                 
                   With
                   native
                   Charms
                   or
                   Art
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   Beauty
                   may
                   as
                   well
                   survive
                
                 
                   Her
                   Climacterick
                   Twenty-five
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   without
                   Wealth
                   to
                   get
                   or
                   keep
                   a
                   Heart
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 SONG
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   THE
                   Heart
                   you
                   lest
                   ,
                   when
                   you
                   took
                   mine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Proves
                   such
                   a
                   busie
                   Guest
                   ;
                
                 
                   Unless
                   I
                   do
                   all
                   Pow'r
                   resign
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   will
                   not
                   let
                   me
                   rest
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   It
                   my
                   whole
                   Family
                   dis●urbs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Turns
                   all
                   my
                   Thoughts
                   away
                   ;
                
                 
                   My
                   stoutest
                   Resolutions
                   curbs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Makes
                   Iudgment
                   too
                   obey
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   If
                   Reason
                   interpose
                   her
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   Alas
                   ,
                   so
                   weak
                   she
                   is
                   ;
                
                 
                   She
                   's
                   check'd
                   with
                   one
                   small
                   soft
                   Amour
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   conquer'd
                   with
                   a
                   Kiss
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 SONG
                 .
              
               
                 
                   GIve
                   o'er
                   my
                   Fidelius
                   ,
                   my
                   Fidelius
                   give
                   o'er
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   Menaelus
                   your
                   Father
                   dislikes
                   our
                   Amour
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   silence
                   let
                   us
                   our
                   misfortunes
                   deplore
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Not
                   that
                   his
                   ●air
                   Flocks
                   or
                   green
                   Pastures
                   so
                   wide
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   will
                   betwixt
                   Sylvia
                   and
                   Damon
                   divide
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   that
                   duty
                   forbids
                   thee
                   to
                   make
                   me
                   thy
                   Bride
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   if
                   for
                   our
                   duty
                   we
                   suffer
                   well
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   Heav'n
                   shall
                   for
                   such
                   Lovers
                   choice
                   Blessings
                   prepare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Honey-moon
                   shall
                   eternally
                   wait
                   on
                   us
                   there
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 SONG
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   AS
                   Am'rous
                   Corydon
                   was
                   laid
                
                 
                   I'
                   th'
                   shady
                   Myrtle
                   Grove
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thus
                   did
                   his
                   Words
                   his
                   Sighs
                   upbraid
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   telling
                   of
                   his
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Ah
                   Trayterous
                   Rebels
                   ,
                   without
                   sence
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   what
                   her
                   Scorn
                   can
                   doe
                   ;
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   I
                   must
                   dye
                   for
                   your
                   offence
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   be
                   thought
                   guilty
                   too
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   Nor
                   can
                   I
                   blame
                   ill
                   Fate
                   ,
                   for
                   this
                
                 
                   My
                   wretched
                   hopeless
                   state
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   yet
                   Philena's
                   Cruelties
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   kills
                   me
                   with
                   her
                   hate
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   your
                   audacious
                   Villani●s
                
                 
                   Occasions
                   this
                   my
                   fall
                   ;
                
                 
                   Else
                   I
                   had
                   dy'd
                   a
                   Sacrifice
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   a
                   Criminal
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 Bachanalian
                 SONG
                 .
              
               
                 
                   TRoy
                   had
                   a
                   Breed
                   of
                   brave
                   stout
                   Men
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   Greece
                   made
                   shift
                   to
                   rout
                   her
                   ;
                
                 
                   'Cause
                   ●ach
                   Man
                   drank
                   as
                   much
                   as
                   Ten
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thence
                   grew
                   Ten
                   times
                   stouter
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Though
                   Hector
                   was
                   a
                   Trojan
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   ever
                   Piss'd
                   '
                   gen
                   Wall
                   ,
                   Sir
                   ;
                
                 
                   Achilles
                   bang'd
                   him
                   black
                   and
                   blue
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   he
                   drank
                   more
                   than
                   all
                   ,
                   Sir.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Let
                   Bacchus
                   be
                   our
                   God
                   of
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   shall
                   fear
                   nothing
                   then
                   ,
                   Boys
                   ;
                
                 
                   We
                   'll
                   drink
                   all
                   dead
                   ,
                   and
                   lay
                   'em
                   to
                   bed
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   if
                   they
                   wake
                   not
                   conquered
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   'll
                   drink
                   'em
                   dead
                   again
                   ,
                   Boys
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Nor
                   were
                   the
                   Graecians
                   only
                   sam'd
                
                 
                   For
                   Drinking
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   Fighting
                   ;
                
                 
                   Bnt
                   he
                   that
                   drank
                   ,
                   and
                   wa'n't
                   asham'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Was
                   ne'er
                   asham'd
                   on
                   's
                   Writing
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   that
                   will
                   be
                   a
                   Souldier
                   then
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Witt
                   ,
                   must
                   drink
                   good
                   Liquor
                   ;
                
                 
                   It
                   makes
                   base
                   Cowards
                   fight
                   like
                   Men
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   roving
                   Thoughts
                   sly
                   quicker
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Let
                   Bacchus
                   be
                   both
                   God
                   o●
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   God
                   of
                   Wit
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   ,
                   Boys
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   'll
                   drink
                   and
                   ●ight
                   ,
                   and
                   drink
                   and
                   write
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   if
                   the
                   Sun
                   set
                   with
                   his
                   light
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   'll
                   drink
                   him
                   up
                   again
                   ,
                   Boys
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 An
                 ODE
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I
                   'Ve
                   often
                   thought
                   ,
                   but
                   ne'er
                   till
                   now
                   cou'd
                   find
                
                 
                   Why
                   Heroes
                   so
                   much
                   strove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Greatness
                   to
                   improve
                   ;
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   only
                   this
                   ,
                   that
                   Women
                   might
                   be
                   kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   answer
                   Love
                   with
                   Love.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Fortune
                   no
                   Goddess
                   is
                   ,
                   but
                   for
                   their
                   sake
                   ;
                
                 
                   Alas
                   !
                   she
                   can't
                   be
                   prest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   kiss'd
                   ,
                   nor
                   do
                   the
                   rest
                   :
                
                 
                   Riches
                   and
                   she
                   ,
                   of
                   which
                   Men
                   so
                   much
                   make
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   only
                   Pimps
                   at
                   best
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   One
                   this
                   way
                   stalks
                   ,
                   another
                   that
                   to
                   's
                   game
                   ;
                
                 
                   One's
                   brave
                   ,
                   this
                   Hector's
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   pretends
                   Piety
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   I
                   'm
                   deceiv'd
                   if
                   Woman
                   ben't
                   their
                   aim
                   ,
                
                 
                   Still
                   Woman
                   's
                   in
                   their
                   Eye
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Scepters
                   and
                   Crowns
                   were
                   silly
                   trifling
                   things
                   ;
                
                 
                   '
                   Twou'd
                   be
                   but
                   poor
                   repast
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   please
                   the
                   sight
                   and
                   tast
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   that
                   they
                   make
                   Men
                   absolutely
                   Kings
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Kings
                   chuse
                   Queens
                   at
                   last
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Absence
                 for
                 a
                 Time.
                 
              
               
                 
                   I
                   Dread
                   this
                   tedious
                   Time
                   more
                   than
                
                 
                   A
                   Fop
                   to
                   miss
                   a
                   Fashion
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   the
                   Pope's
                   Head
                   Tavern
                   can
                
                 
                   Dread
                   the
                   long
                   Vacation
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   This
                   time
                   's
                   as
                   troublesome
                   to
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   th'Town
                   when
                   Mony
                   's
                   spent
                   ;
                
                 
                   Grave
                   Lectures
                   to
                   a
                   Debauchee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Whigs
                   to
                   th'
                   Government
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Methinks
                   I
                   almost
                   wish
                   't
                   was
                   torn
                
                 
                   Out
                   of
                   the
                   Rolls
                   of
                   Fate
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   that
                   some
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                   till
                   his
                   return
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wou'd
                   me
                   annihilate
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   I
                   ,
                   alas
                   ,
                   must
                   be
                   content
                   ,
                
                 
                   Upon
                   necessity
                   ;
                
                 
                   Since
                   him
                   ,
                   untill
                   this
                   time
                   be
                   spent
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   cannot
                   hope
                   to
                   see
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   No
                   more
                   than
                   we
                   can
                   hope
                   to
                   have
                
                 
                   The
                   Life
                   of
                   perfect
                   bliss
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   by
                   Afflictions
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Grave
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   're
                   separate
                   from
                   this
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 Parting
                 with
                 —
              
               
                 
                   ALthough
                   thou
                   now
                   put'st
                   me
                   in
                   doubt
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   going
                   I
                   know
                   not
                   where
                   ;
                
                 
                   Yet
                   know
                   my
                   Soul
                   will
                   beat
                   about
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   rest
                   till
                   she
                   have
                   sound
                   thee
                   out
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   tend
                   upon
                   thee
                   there
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Look
                   to
                   your
                   actions
                   then
                   ,
                   for
                   she
                
                 
                   So
                   strict
                   a
                   watch
                   will
                   keep
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   if
                   you
                   give
                   one
                   thought
                   from
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   'll
                   swear
                   it
                   is
                   ●lat
                   Felony
                   ,
                
                 
                   Though
                   't
                   be
                   when
                   you
                   're
                   asleep
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   if
                   a
                   sigh
                   ,
                   or
                   glance
                   ,
                   or
                   smile
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   to
                   my
                   Rival
                   'scape
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   'd
                   cry
                   out
                   Robbery
                   and
                   spoil
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   a
                   kiss
                   thy
                   Lips
                   shou'd
                   soil
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   Murther
                   and
                   a
                   Rape
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   All
                   this
                   a
                   Metaphor
                   may
                   seem
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   mad
                   Philosophy
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   unthinking
                   World
                   ,
                   who
                   deem
                
                 
                   That
                   but
                   a
                   fancy
                   or
                   a
                   dream
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   Souls
                   do
                   really
                   hear
                   and
                   see
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 THE
                 Anchorite
                 IN
                 SCIPINA
                 .
              
               
                 AH
                 ,
                 happy
                 are
                 we
                 Anchorites
                 that
                 know
              
               
                 Not
                 Womens
                 Ebbs
                 ,
                 nor
                 when
                 their
                 Love
                 will
                 flow
                 .
              
               
                 We
                 know
                 no
                 Storms
                 that
                 rage
                 in
                 Womens
                 Breasts
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 here
                 in
                 quiet
                 build
                 our
                 Halcyon
                 Nests
                 ;
              
               
                 Where
                 no
                 deceitfull
                 Calm
                 our
                 Faith
                 beguiles
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 cruel
                 frowns
                 ,
                 nor
                 yet
                 more
                 cruel
                 smiles
                 ;
              
               
                 No
                 rising
                 Wave
                 of
                 Fate
                 our
                 hopes
                 advance
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 fear
                 we
                 fathomless
                 despair
                 of
                 Chance
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 our
                 strong
                 Minds
                 ,
                 like
                 Rocks
                 ,
                 their
                 firmness
                 prove
                 ,
              
               
                 Defying
                 both
                 the
                 Storms
                 of
                 Fate
                 and
                 Love.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 
                   Iane
                   ,
                   Nan
                
                 ,
                 and
                 Frank
                 ,
                 their
                 Farewell
                 to
                 Captain
                 C.
                 going
                 to
                 Sea.
                 
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   SInce
                   thou
                   wilt
                   needs
                   go
                
                 
                   To
                   Sea
                   ,
                   God
                   knows
                   whether
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   wish
                   thee
                   good
                   Company
                   ,
                
                 
                   Good
                   Wine
                   and
                   good
                   Weather
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   best
                   of
                   Sea-Cates
                   we
                   wish
                   for
                   thy
                   Diet
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   if
                   it
                   were
                   possible
                   ,
                   good
                   Sea-men
                   and
                   quiet
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   every
                   Strand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   e'er
                   thou
                   shalt
                   land
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   wish
                   there
                   may
                   be
                
                 
                   Girls
                   buxom
                   and
                   free
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   bid
                   thee
                   a
                   thousand
                   kind
                   welcoms
                   from
                   Sea.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   worst
                   Enemy
                   ,
                
                 
                   E'er
                   thou
                   may'st
                   meet
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   May
                   be
                   a
                   small
                   stragler
                
                 
                   I'
                   th'
                   seam
                   of
                   thy
                   Sheet
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   which
                   let
                   no
                   Sickness
                   thee
                   ever
                   confine
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   what
                   comes
                   by
                   drinking
                   our
                   Healths
                   in
                   choice
                   Wine
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   every
                   Strand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   e're
                   thou
                   shalt
                   land
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   wish
                   thou
                   may'st
                   find
                
                 
                   True
                   Topers
                   o'
                   th'
                   kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   can
                   turn
                   off
                   
                     Iane
                     ,
                     Nan
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Frank
                   in
                   a
                   Wind.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 her
                 Lovers
                 Complaint
                 .
                 A
                 SONG
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   IF
                   you
                   complain
                   your
                   Flames
                   are
                   hot
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   'cause
                   they
                   are
                   impure
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   strongest
                   Spirits
                   scorch
                   us
                   not
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Flames
                   we
                   can
                   endure
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   Love
                   ,
                   like
                   Zeal
                   ,
                   shou'd
                   be
                   divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ardent
                   as
                   the
                   same
                   ;
                
                 
                   Like
                   Stars
                   ,
                   which
                   in
                   cold
                   Weather
                   shine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   like
                   a
                   Lambent
                   Flame
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   It
                   shou'd
                   be
                   like
                   the
                   Morning
                   Rays
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   quickens
                   ,
                   but
                   not
                   burns
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   th'
                   innocence
                   of
                   Childrens
                   plays
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Lamps
                   in
                   Antient
                   Urns.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 my
                 Adopted
                 BROTHER
                 ,
                 Mr.
                 G.
                 P.
                 On
                 my
                 frequent
                 Writing
                 to
                 Him.
                 
              
               
                 
                   DEar
                   Brother
                   ,
                   You
                   will
                   think
                   that
                   now
                   ,
                
                 
                   Epistles
                   grow
                   on
                   every
                   Bow
                   ,
                
                 
                   O'
                   th'
                   multitude
                   of
                   Shin-gay
                   Trees
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   so
                   drop
                   off
                   like
                   Soland
                   Geese
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   this
                   the
                   Analogie
                   holds
                   forth
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   are
                   produc'd
                   of
                   airy
                   froth
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   how
                   they
                   'll
                   answer
                   in
                   the
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Without
                   conjuring
                   ,
                   may
                   be
                   guess'd
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   when
                   you
                   find
                   they
                   want
                   the
                   heat
                
                 
                   Of
                   Wit
                   and
                   Sence
                   to
                   make
                   them
                   meat
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   the
                   inside's
                   only
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   Soft
                   as
                   the
                   scope
                   they
                   grew
                   upon
                   :
                
                 
                   You
                   'll
                   curse
                   the
                   Winds
                   officious
                   wings
                   ,
                
                 
                   Because
                   to
                   you
                   no
                   good
                   it
                   brings
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   swear
                   the
                   Proverb
                   's
                   now
                   revers'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   so
                   oft
                   has
                   been
                   rehers'd
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   now
                   it
                   must
                   be
                   understood
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   's
                   happy
                   Wind
                   blows
                   any
                   good
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   thank
                   your self
                   for
                   so
                   being
                   serv'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   praise
                   no
                   more
                   where
                   'ts
                   not
                   deserv'd
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   praise
                   ,
                   the
                   Gad-fly
                   of
                   the
                   mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   pure
                   desert
                   shou'd
                   be
                   confin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lest
                   it
                   set
                   it
                   Cock-a-hoop
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   it
                   run
                   with
                   Tail
                   turn'd
                   up
                   ,
                
                 
                   Through
                   the
                   Woods
                   ,
                   and
                   o'er
                   the
                   Downs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Through
                   Cities
                   ,
                   Villages
                   ,
                   and
                   Towns
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   plague
                   both
                   genteel
                   Fops
                   and
                   Rabble
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   its
                   Nonsence
                   ,
                   Rhime
                   and
                   Babble
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   by
                   its
                   follies
                   they
                   are
                   urged
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   send
                   it
                   home
                   severely
                   scourged
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   the
                   keenest
                   Whips
                   of
                   Scosfing
                   ,
                
                 
                   Damming
                   ,
                   Censuring
                   and
                   Laughing
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   prithee
                   ,
                   George
                   ,
                   prevent
                   this
                   wretched
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   their
                   damning
                   Censures
                   antedate
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 my
                 Friends
                 against
                 POETRY
                 .
              
               
                 DEar
                 Friends
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 'll
                 be
                 rul'd
                 by
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 Beware
                 o'
                 th'
                 Charms
                 of
                 Poetry
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 meddle
                 with
                 no
                 fawning
                 Muse
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 'll
                 but
                 your
                 harmless
                 Loves
                 abuse
                 .
              
               
                 Though
                 to
                 Orinda
                 they
                 were
                 ty'd
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 nought
                 their
                 Friendship
                 cou'd
                 divide
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Cowley's
                 Mistriss
                 had
                 a
                 Flame
              
               
                 As
                 pure
                 and
                 lasting
                 as
                 his
                 Fame
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 now
                 they
                 're
                 all
                 grown
                 Prostitutes
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 wantonly
                 admit
                 the
                 Suits
              
               
                 Of
                 any
                 Fop
                 ,
                 that
                 will
                 pretend
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 their
                 Servant
                 or
                 their
                 Friend
                 .
              
               
                 Though
                 they
                 to
                 Wit
                 no
                 Homage
                 pay
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 yet
                 the
                 Laws
                 of
                 Verse
                 obey
                 ,
              
               
                 ●ut
                 ride
                 poor
                 Six-foot
                 out
                 of
                 breath
                 ,
              
               
                 ●nd
                 wrack
                 a
                 Metaphor
                 to
                 death
                 ;
              
               
                 ●ho
                 make
                 their
                 Verse
                 imbibe
                 the
                 crimes
                 ,
              
               
                 ●nd
                 the
                 lewd
                 Follies
                 too
                 o'
                 th'
                 times
                 ;
              
               
                 ●ho
                 think
                 all
                 Wit
                 consists
                 in
                 Ranting
                 ,
              
               
                 ●nd
                 Vertuous
                 Love
                 in
                 wise
                 Gallanting
                 :
              
               
               
                 And
                 Thousand
                 sorts
                 of
                 Fools
                 ,
                 like
                 these
                 ,
              
               
                 Make
                 Love
                 and
                 Vertue
                 what
                 they
                 please
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 as
                 silly
                 as
                 they
                 show
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 Favourites
                 o'
                 th'
                 Muses
                 now
                 .
              
               
                 Who
                 then
                 would
                 honour
                 such
                 a
                 Shee
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Fools
                 their
                 happier
                 Rivals
                 be●
              
               
                 We
                 ,
                 surely
                 ,
                 may
                 conclude
                 there
                 's
                 none
                 ,
              
               
                 Unless
                 they
                 're
                 drunk
                 with
                 Helicon
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 is
                 a
                 Liquor
                 that
                 can
                 make
              
               
                 A
                 Dunce
                 set
                 up
                 for
                 Rhiming
                 Quack
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 Liquor
                 of
                 so
                 strange
                 a
                 temper
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 can
                 our
                 Faculties
                 all
                 hamper
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 whoso
                 drinks
                 thereof
                 is
                 ours'd
              
               
                 Unto
                 a
                 constant
                 Rhiming
                 thirst
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 know
                 not
                 by
                 what
                 spell
                 of
                 Witch
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 strikes
                 the
                 Mind
                 into
                 an
                 itch
                 ;
              
               
                 Which
                 being
                 scrub'd
                 by
                 praise
                 ,
                 thereby
              
               
                 Becomes
                 a
                 spreading
                 Leprosie
                 ;
              
               
                 As
                 hard
                 to
                 cure
                 as
                 Dice
                 or
                 Whore
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 makes
                 the
                 Patient
                 too
                 as
                 poor
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 Poverty
                 's
                 the
                 certain
                 Fate
              
               
                 Which
                 attends
                 a
                 Poet's
                 state
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 TO
                 THE
                 Importunate
                 ADDRESS
                 OF
                 POETRY
                 .
              
               
                 KInd
                 Friend
                 ,
                 I
                 prithee
                 cease
                 t'
                 infest
              
               
                 This
                 barren
                 Region
                 of
                 my
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 never
                 can
                 a
                 Harvest
                 yield
                 ,
              
               
                 Since
                 Sorrow
                 has
                 o'er-grown
                 the
                 Field
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 Int'rest
                 won't
                 oblige
                 thee
                 to
                 't
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 least
                 let
                 Honour
                 make
                 thee
                 do
                 't
                 ;
              
               
                 'Cause
                 I
                 ungratefully
                 have
                 chose
              
               
                 Such
                 Friends
                 ,
                 as
                 will
                 thy
                 Charms
                 oppose●
              
               
                 But
                 nought
                 I
                 see
                 will
                 drive
                 thee
                 hence
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   Grief
                   ,
                   Bus'ness
                
                 ,
                 nor
                 Impertinence
                 :
              
               
                 Still
                 ,
                 still
                 thou
                 wilt
                 thy
                 Ioys
                 obtrude
              
               
                 Upon
                 a
                 Mind
                 so
                 wholly
                 rude
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 can't
                 afford
                 to
                 entertain
              
               
                 Thee
                 with
                 the
                 welcom
                 of
                 one
                 strain
                 :
              
               
                 Few
                 Friends
                 ,
                 like
                 thee
                 ,
                 will
                 be
                 so
                 kind
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 come
                 where
                 Int'rest
                 do's
                 not
                 bind
                 :
              
               
               
                 Nay
                 some
                 ,
                 because
                 they
                 want
                 excuse
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 unkind
                 ,
                 will
                 feign
                 abuse
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 thou
                 ,
                 kind
                 Friend
                 ,
                 art
                 none
                 of
                 those
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Charms
                 thou
                 always
                 do'st
                 oppose
              
               
                 'Gainst
                 all
                 Inqui●tudes
                 o'
                 th'
                 Mind
                 :
              
               
                 If
                 I
                 'm
                 displeas'd
                 ,
                 still
                 thou
                 art
                 kind
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 thy
                 Spells
                 do'st
                 drive
                 away
              
               
                 Dull
                 Spirits
                 ,
                 which
                 with
                 me
                 wou'd
                 stay
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 fill'st
                 their
                 empty
                 places
                 too
              
               
                 With
                 Thoughts
                 of
                 what
                 we
                 ought
                 to
                 doe
                 .
              
               
                 Thoughts
                 to
                 the
                 Soul
                 ,
                 if
                 they
                 be
                 good
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 both
                 its
                 physick
                 and
                 its
                 food
                 :
              
               
                 They
                 forti●ie
                 it
                 in
                 distress
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 joy
                 th'
                 augment
                 its
                 happiness
                 :
              
               
                 Thoughts
                 do
                 attend
                 us
                 at
                 all
                 times
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 urge
                 us
                 to
                 good
                 deeds
                 ,
                 and
                 crimes
                 :
              
               
                 They
                 do
                 assist
                 us
                 in
                 all
                 states
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 th'
                 Wretched
                 they
                 're
                 Associates
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 what
                 's
                 more
                 strange
                 than
                 all
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 're
                 Servants
                 to
                 the
                 innocent
                 and
                 poor
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 to
                 the
                 Rich
                 and
                 Wicked
                 ,
                 Lords
                 or
                 something
                 more
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 Farewell
                 to
                 POETRY
                 ,
                 WITH
                 A
                 Long
                 Digression
                 on
                 ANATOMY
                 .
              
               
                 
                   FArewell
                   ,
                   my
                   gentle
                   Friend
                   ,
                   kind
                   Poetry
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   we
                   no
                   longer
                   must
                   Acquaintance
                   be
                   ;
                
                 
                   Though
                   sweet
                   and
                   charming
                   to
                   me
                   as
                   thou
                   art
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   I
                   must
                   dispossess
                   thee
                   of
                   my
                   Heart
                   .
                
                 
                   On
                   new
                   Acquaintance
                   now
                   I
                   must
                   dispence
                
                 
                   What
                   I
                   receiv'd
                   from
                   thy
                   (a)
                   bright
                   influence
                   .
                
                 
                   Wise
                   Aristotle
                   and
                   Hippocrates
                   ,
                
                 
                   Galen
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   most
                   Wise
                   Socrates
                   ;
                
                 
                   AEsculapius
                   ,
                   whom
                   first
                   I
                   should
                   have
                   nam'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   Apollo's
                   younger
                   brood
                   so
                   fam'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   they
                   with
                   whom
                   I
                   must
                   Acquaintance
                   make
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   will
                   ,
                   no
                   doubt
                   ,
                   receive
                   me
                   for
                   the
                   sake
                
                 
                   Of
                   Him
                   (b)
                   ,
                   from
                   whom
                   they
                   did
                   expect
                   to
                   see
                
                 
                   New
                   Lights
                   to
                   search
                   Nature's
                   obscurity
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   Bartholine
                   ,
                   the
                   first
                   of
                   all
                   this
                   Crew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Does
                   to
                   me
                   Nature's
                   Architecture
                   shew
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   tells
                   me
                   how
                   th'
                   Foundation
                   first
                   is
                   laid
                
                 
                   Of
                   Earth
                   ;
                   how
                   Pillars
                   of
                   strong
                   Bones
                   are
                   made
                   ;
                
                 
                   How
                   th'
                   Walls
                   consist
                   of
                   carneous
                   parts
                   within
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   out-side
                   pinguid
                   ,
                   over-laid
                   with
                   Skin
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Fretwork
                   ,
                   Muscles
                   ,
                   Arteries
                   ,
                   and
                   Veins
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   their
                   Implexures
                   ,
                   and
                   how
                   from
                   the
                   Brains
                
                 
                   The
                   Nerves
                   descend
                   ;
                   and
                   how
                   they
                   do
                   dispence
                
                 
                   To
                   ev'ry
                   Member
                   ,
                   Motive
                   Pow'r
                   and
                   Sence
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   shews
                   what
                   Windows
                   in
                   this
                   Structure's
                   fix'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   tribly
                   Glaz'd
                   ,
                   (c)
                   and
                   Curtains
                   drawn
                   betwixt
                
                 
                   Them
                   and
                   Earths
                   objects
                   ;
                   all
                   which
                   proves
                   in
                   vain
                
                 
                   To
                   keep
                   out
                   Lust
                   ,
                   and
                   Innocence
                   retain
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   't
                   was
                   the
                   Eye
                   that
                   first
                   discern'd
                   the
                   food
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   pleasing
                   to
                   it self
                   ,
                   then
                   thought
                   it
                   good
                
                 
                   To
                   eat
                   ,
                   as
                   b'ing
                   inform'd
                   it
                   wou'd
                   refine
                
                 
                   The
                   half-wise
                   Soul
                   ,
                   and
                   make
                   it
                   all
                   Divine
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   ah
                   ,
                   how
                   dearly
                   Wisdom's
                   bought
                   with
                   Sin
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   shuts
                   out
                   Grace
                   ,
                   le
                   ts
                   Death
                   and
                   Darkness
                   in
                   !
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   because
                   we
                   precipitated
                   first
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Pains
                   and
                   Ignorance
                   are
                   most
                   accurs'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   by
                   our
                   Counter-parts
                   ,
                   who
                   that
                   they
                   may
                
                 
                   Exalt
                   themselves
                   ,
                   insultingly
                   will
                   say
                   ,
                
                 
                   Women
                   know
                   little
                   ,
                   and
                   they
                   practise
                   less
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   Pride
                   and
                   Sloth
                   they
                   glory
                   to
                   profess
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   as
                   we
                   were
                   expatiating
                   thus
                   ,
                
                 
                   Walaeus
                   and
                   Harvey
                   cry'd
                   ,
                   Madam
                   ,
                   follow
                   us
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   brought
                   me
                   to
                   the
                   first
                   and
                   largest
                   (d)
                   Court●
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   all
                   this
                   Building
                   ,
                   where
                   as
                   to
                   a
                   Port
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   necessaries
                   are
                   brought
                   from
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   sustentation
                   both
                   in
                   Peace
                   and
                   War
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   War
                   this
                   Common-wealth
                   do's
                   oft
                   infest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   pillages
                   this
                   part
                   ,
                   and
                   storms
                   the
                   rest
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   We
                   view'd
                   the
                   Kitchin
                   call'd
                   (e)
                   Ventriculus
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   pass'd
                   we
                   through
                   the
                   space
                   call'd
                   Pylorus
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   the
                   Dining-Room
                   we
                   came
                   at
                   last
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVhere
                   the
                   (f)
                   Lactaeans
                   take
                   their
                   sweet
                   repast
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   thence
                   we
                   through
                   a
                   Drawing-room
                   did
                   pass
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   came
                   where
                   Madam
                   Iecur
                   busie
                   was
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Sanguificating
                   (g)
                   the
                   whole
                   Mass
                   of
                   Chyle
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   severing
                   the
                   Cruoral
                   parts
                   from
                   bile
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   she
                   's
                   made
                   it
                   tolerably
                   good
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   pours
                   it
                   forth
                   to
                   mix
                   with
                   other
                   Blood.
                
                 
                   This
                   and
                   much
                   more
                   we
                   saw
                   ,
                   from
                   thence
                   we
                   went
                
                 
                   Into
                   the
                   next
                   Court
                   ,
                   (h)
                   by
                   a
                   small
                   ascent
                   :
                
                 
                   Bless
                   me
                   ,
                   said
                   I
                   ,
                   what
                   Rarities
                   are
                   here
                   !
                
                 
                   A
                   Fountain
                   like
                   a
                   Furnace
                   did
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Still
                   boyling
                   o'er
                   ,
                   and
                   running
                   out
                   so
                   fast
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   one
                   shou'd
                   think
                   its
                   Efflux
                   cou'd
                   not
                   last
                   ;
                
                 
                   Yet
                   it
                   sustain'd
                   no
                   loss
                   as
                   I
                   cou'd
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVhich
                   made
                   me
                   think
                   it
                   a
                   strange
                   Prodigie
                   .
                
                 
                   Come
                   on
                   ,
                   says
                   Harvey
                   ,
                   don't
                   stand
                   gazing
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   follow
                   me
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                   thy
                   doubts
                   will
                   clear
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   we
                   began
                   our
                   Iourney
                   with
                   the
                   Blood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Trac'd
                   the
                   Meanders
                   of
                   its
                   Purple
                   flood
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   we
                   through
                   many
                   Labyrinths
                   did
                   pass
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   such
                   ,
                   I
                   'm
                   sure
                   ,
                   Old
                   Daedalus
                   ne'er
                   was
                   ;
                
                 
                   Sometimes
                   i'
                   th'
                   Out-works
                   ,
                   sometimes
                   i'
                   th'
                   first
                   Court
                   ;
                
                 
                   Sometimes
                   i'
                   th'
                   third
                   these
                   winding
                   streams
                   wou'd
                   sport
                
                 
                 
                   Themselves
                   ;
                   but
                   here
                   methought
                   I
                   needs
                   must
                   stay
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   listen
                   next
                   to
                   what
                   the
                   Artists
                   say
                   :
                
                 
                   Here
                   's
                   Cavities
                   ,
                   says
                   one
                   ;
                   and
                   here
                   ,
                   says
                   he
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   th'
                   Seat
                   of
                   Fancy
                   ,
                   Iudgment
                   ,
                   Memory
                   :
                
                 
                   Here
                   ,
                   says
                   another
                   ,
                   is
                   the
                   fertile
                   Womb
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   whence
                   the
                   Spirits
                   Animal
                   do
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   are
                   mysteriously
                   ingender'd
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Spirits
                   from
                   Arterious
                   Blood
                   and
                   Air
                   :
                
                 
                   Here
                   ,
                   said
                   a
                   third
                   ,
                   Life
                   made
                   her
                   first
                   approach
                   ,
                
                 
                   Moving
                   the
                   Wheels
                   of
                   her
                   Triumphant
                   Coach
                   :
                
                 
                   Hold
                   there
                   ,
                   said
                   Harvey
                   ,
                   that
                   must
                   be
                   deny'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   in
                   the
                   deaf
                   Ear
                   on
                   the
                   dexter
                   side
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   there
                   arose
                   a
                   trivial
                   small
                   dispute
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   he
                   by
                   Fact
                   and
                   Reason
                   did
                   confute
                   :
                
                 
                   Which
                   being
                   ended
                   ,
                   we
                   began
                   again
                
                 
                   Our
                   former
                   Iourney
                   ,
                   and
                   forsook
                   the
                   Brain
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   after
                   some
                   small
                   Traverses
                   about
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   came
                   to
                   th'
                   place
                   where
                   we
                   at
                   first
                   set
                   out
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   I
                   perceiv'd
                   how
                   all
                   this
                   Magick
                   stood
                
                 
                   By
                   th'
                   Circles
                   of
                   the
                   circulating
                   Blood
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   Fountains
                   have
                   their
                   Waters
                   from
                   the
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   which
                   again
                   they
                   do
                   themselves
                   conveigh
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   here
                   we
                   find
                   great
                   Lower
                   by
                   his
                   Art
                   ,
                
                 
                   Surveying
                   the
                   whole
                   (i)
                   Structure
                   of
                   the
                   Heart
                   :
                
                 
                   Welcome
                   ,
                   said
                   he
                   ,
                   sweet
                   Cousin
                   ,
                   are
                   you
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sister
                   to
                   him
                   (k)
                   whose
                   Worth
                   we
                   all
                   revere
                   ?
                
                 
                   But
                   ah
                   ,
                   alas
                   ,
                   so
                   cruel
                   was
                   his
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   makes
                   us
                   since
                   almost
                   our
                   Practice
                   hate
                   ;
                
                 
                   Since
                   we
                   cou'd
                   find
                   out
                   nought
                   in
                   all
                   our
                   Art
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   cou'd
                   prolong
                   the
                   motion
                   (l)
                   of
                   his
                   Heart
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   BUT
                   now
                   ,
                   my
                   Dear
                   ,
                   thou
                   know'st
                   more
                   than
                   Art
                   can
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   know'st
                   the
                   substance
                   of
                   the
                   Soul
                   of
                   Man
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nay
                   and
                   its
                   Maker
                   too
                   ,
                   whose
                   Pow'rfull
                   breath
                
                 
                   Gave
                   Immortality
                   to
                   sordid
                   Earth
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   Ioys
                   ,
                   my
                   Dear
                   ,
                   do
                   Thee
                   surround
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   no
                   where
                   else
                   are
                   to
                   be
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   Love
                   ,
                   Musick
                   ,
                   Physick
                   ,
                   Poetry
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   each
                   Art
                   each
                   Artist
                   do's
                   abound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   's
                   converted
                   to
                   Divinity
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   No
                   drooping
                   Autumn
                   there
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   chilling
                   Winter
                   do's
                   appear
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   scorching
                   Heat
                   ,
                   nor
                   budding
                   Spring
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Sun
                   do's
                   Seasons
                   there
                   divide
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   all
                   things
                   do
                   transcend
                   their
                   native
                   pride
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   fills
                   ,
                   but
                   do's
                   not
                   naus●ate
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   change
                   or
                   want
                   of
                   any
                   thing
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   time
                   to
                   periods
                   or
                   perfection
                   brings
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   yet
                   diversity
                   of
                   state
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   of
                   Souls
                   happiness
                   there
                   is
                   no
                   date
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   Should'st
                   thou
                   ,
                   my
                   Dear
                   ,
                   look
                   down
                   on
                   us
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   how
                   busie
                   we●
                
                 
                   Are
                   in
                   Ana●omie
                   ,
                
                 
                   thou
                   d'st
                   laugh
                   to
                   see
                   our
                   Ignorance
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   some
                   things
                   miss
                   ,
                   &
                   some
                   things
                   hit
                   by
                   chance
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   we
                   ,
                   at
                   best
                   ,
                   do
                   but
                   in
                   twilight
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   thou
                   see'st
                   all
                   by
                   th'
                   most
                   Transcendent
                   light
                   ,
                
                 
                   Compar'd
                   to
                   which
                   the
                   Sun
                   's
                   bright
                   Rays
                   are
                   night
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Yet
                   so
                   Coelestial
                   are
                   thine
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Light
                   can
                   neither
                   dazzle
                   nor
                   surprize
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   all
                   things
                   there
                
                 
                   So
                   perfect
                   are
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   freely
                   they
                   their
                   qualities
                   dispence
                   ,
                
                 
                   Without
                   the
                   mixture
                   of
                   Terrestrial
                   dross
                   ,
                
                 
                   Without
                   hazard
                   ,
                   harm
                   or
                   loss
                   ;
                
                 
                   O
                   joys
                   Eternal
                   satiating
                   Sence
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   the
                   Sence
                   the
                   smallest
                   part
                   in
                   gross
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 On
                 the
                 DEATH
                 of
                 my
                 Brother
                 .
                 A
                 SONNET
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   ASk
                   me
                   not
                   why
                   the
                   Rose
                   doth
                   fade
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lillies
                   look
                   pale
                   ,
                   and
                   Flowers
                   dye
                   ;
                
                 
                   Question
                   not
                   why
                   the
                   
                     Myrtle
                     shade
                  
                
                 
                   Her
                   wonted
                   shadows
                   doth
                   deny
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   Seek
                   not
                   to
                   know
                   from
                   whence
                   begun
                
                 
                   The
                   sadness
                   of
                   the
                   Nightingale
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   why
                   the
                   Heliotrope
                   and
                   Sun
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   constant
                   Amity
                   do
                   fail
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   The
                   Tur●les
                   grief
                   look
                   not
                   upon
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   reason
                   why
                   the
                   Palm-trees
                   mourn
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   ,
                   Widow-like
                   ,
                   they
                   're
                   left
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Phoenix
                   why
                   her self
                   doth
                   burn
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   IV.
                   
                
                 
                   For
                   since
                   He
                   's
                   dead
                   ,
                   which
                   Life
                   did
                   give
                
                 
                   To
                   all
                   these
                   things
                   ,
                   which
                   here
                   I
                   name
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   fade
                   ,
                   change
                   ,
                   wither
                   ,
                   cease
                   to
                   live
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pine
                   and
                   consume
                   into
                   a
                   Flame
                   .
                
              
            
          
        
      
       
         
           
             
             
             
               MISCELLANEA
               :
               OR
               ,
               THE
               Second
               Part
               OF
               POETICAL
               RECREATIONS
               .
            
             
               Compos'd
               by
               several
               Authors
               .
            
             
               
                 —
                 Non
                 ,
                 ubi
                 plura
                 nitent
                 in
                 carmine
                 ,
                 paucis
              
               
                 Offendi
                 maculis
                 ,
                 quas
                 aut
                 incuria
                 fudit
              
               
                 Aut
                 humana
                 parum
                 cavit
                 Natura
                 .
                 —
                 
                   Hor.
                   
                
              
            
             
               LONDON
               ,
               Printed
               for
               
                 Benjamin
                 Crayle
              
               ,
               at
               the
               Peacock
               and
               Bible
               ,
               at
               the
               West-end
               of
               St.
               Pauls
               .
               1688.
               
            
          
           
             
             
             
               A
               TABLE
               OF
               THE
               POEMS
               Contained
               in
               the
               Second
               Part
               OF
               POETICAL
               RECREATIONS
               .
            
             
               
                 A
                 Paraphrase
                 on
                 an
                 Hymn
                 ,
                 Sung
                 when
                 the
                 Corps
                 is
                 at
                 the
                 Grave
                 .
                 By
                 
                   T.
                   S.
                
                 Fellow
                 of
                 Maudlin●
                 Colledge
                 ,
                 Oxon.
                 
              
               
                 
                   Page
                   1
                
              
               
                 Advice
                 to
                 his
                 Friends
                 ,
                 lamenting
                 the
                 Death
                 of
                 
                   I.
                   F.
                
                 By
                 the
                 same
                 Hand
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   3
                
              
               
                 ●pitaph
                 on
                 Mrs.
                 
                   E.
                   F.
                
                 who
                 sickned
                 of
                 the
                 
                   Small
                   Pox
                
                 ,
                 and
                 deceased
                 
                   Decemb.
                   31.
                   1686.
                
                 being
                 the
                 Day
                 before
                 her
                 intended
                 Nuptials
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   5
                
              
               
                 An
                 Epitaph
                 to
                 the
                 Memory
                 of
                 Sir
                 
                   Palme
                   Fairborn
                
                 ,
                 Governour
                 of
                 Tangier
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   6
                
              
               
                 
                 An
                 Elegy
                 on
                 the
                 Death
                 of
                 
                   N.
                   D.
                
                 Doctor
                 of
                 Physick
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   7
                
              
               
                 Upon
                 Heaven
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   1●
                
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 Martyrdom
                 of
                 King
                 Charles
                 the
                 First
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   1●
                
              
               
                 Upon
                 one's
                 Birth-day
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   1●
                
              
               
                 Upon
                 Christ's
                 Nativity
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   1●
                
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 same
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   1●
                
              
               
                 More
                 on
                 the
                 same
                 Subject
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   21.
                
                 
              
               
                 On
                 New-years-day
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   23
                
              
               
                 Eyes
                 and
                 Tears
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   2●
                
              
               
                 To
                 Mrs.
                 
                   Iane
                   Barker
                
                 on
                 her
                 Romance
                 of
                 Scipin●
                 By
                 
                   I.
                   N.
                
                 Fellow
                 of
                 St.
                 Iohn's
                 Colledge
                 ,
                 Cambridge
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   2●
                
              
               
                 To
                 Mrs.
                 
                   Iane
                   Barker
                
                 on
                 her
                 Resolution
                 of
                 Versifyin●
                 no
                 more
                 .
                 By
                 the
                 same
                 Author
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   3●
                
              
               
                 To
                 Mrs.
                 
                   Iane
                   Barker
                
                 on
                 her
                 Incomparable
                 Romanc●
                 of
                 Scipina
                 .
                 By
                 a
                 Gent.
                 of
                 St.
                 Iohn's
                 Col.
                 Camb.
                 
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   3●
                
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 Posthume
                 and
                 Precious
                 Poems
                 of
                 Sir
                 
                   Mathew
                   Hale
                
                 .
                 By
                 a
                 Gentleman
                 of
                 Lincolns-Inn
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   3●
                
              
               
                 To
                 Mr.
                 
                   Tho.
                   Wright
                
                 ,
                 on
                 his
                 Compendious
                 Histories
                 entituled
                 ,
                 
                   God's
                   Revenge
                   against
                   Murther
                   an●
                   Adultery
                   ,
                
                 with
                 
                   The
                   Triumphs
                   of
                   Friendshi●
                   and
                   Chastity
                   .
                
                 By
                 
                   I.
                   Whitehall
                
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   3●
                
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 same
                 :
                 By
                 another
                 Hand
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   4●
                
              
               
                 On
                 Christmas-day
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   4●
                
              
               
                 On
                 Death
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   4●
                
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 Divine
                 Spirit
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   4●
                
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 Memory
                 of
                 the
                 Illustrious
                 Prince
                 George
                 ,
                 Du●●
                 of
                 Buckingham
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   4●
                
              
               
                 Upon
                 the
                 Death
                 of
                 
                   Oliver
                   Cromwell
                
                 ,
                 in
                 Answer
                 〈◊〉
                 Mr.
                 W
                 —
                 's
                 Verses
                 :
                 By
                 Mr.
                 Godolphin
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   5●
                
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 last
                 Dutch
                 War
                 :
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   B.
                   Willie
                
                 ,
                 som●ti●●
                 Mr.
                 of
                 the
                 Free-School
                 of
                 Newark
                 upon
                 Trent
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   55
                
              
               
                 
                 The
                 last
                 Sayings
                 of
                 a
                 Mouse
                 ,
                 lately
                 starved
                 in
                 a
                 Cupboard
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   59
                
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 Secretary
                 of
                 the
                 Muses
                 :
                 A
                 New-years-gift
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   62.
                
                 
              
               
                 An
                 Epitaph
                 on
                 the
                 Secretary
                 to
                 the
                 Muses
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   65
                
              
               
                 A
                 Satyr
                 ,
                 in
                 Answer
                 to
                 the
                 Satyr
                 against
                 Man
                 :
                 By
                 
                   T.
                   L.
                
                 of
                 Wadham-Colledge
                 ,
                 Oxon.
                 
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   67
                
              
               
                 A
                 Congratulatory
                 Poem
                 to
                 his
                 most
                 Sacred
                 Majesty
                 ,
                 Iames
                 the
                 second
                 ,
                 &c.
                 on
                 his
                 late
                 Victories
                 o'er
                 the
                 Rebels
                 in
                 the
                 West
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   83
                
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 same
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   85
                
              
               
                 A
                 Panegyrick
                 on
                 his
                 Present
                 Majesty
                 Iames
                 the
                 Second
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   86
                
              
               
                 A
                 Congratulatory
                 Poem
                 to
                 his
                 Majesty
                 Iames
                 the
                 Second
                 ,
                 on
                 his
                 Succession
                 to
                 the
                 Crown
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   91
                
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 Presentation
                 of
                 a
                 Bird
                 to
                 his
                 Mistriss
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   94.
                
                 
              
               
                 Advice
                 to
                 silly
                 Maids
                 :
                 By
                 an
                 Unknown
                 Author
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   95
                
              
               
                 Farther
                 Advice
                 to
                 Young
                 Ladies
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   98
                
              
               
                 Advice
                 to
                 a
                 Town-Miss
                 :
                 By
                 Mr.
                 Worsdell
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   100
                
              
               
                 The
                 Pre●erence
                 of
                 a
                 Single
                 Life
                 before
                 Marriage
                 :
                 Written
                 at
                 the
                 Request
                 of
                 a
                 Lady
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   102
                
              
               
                 Upon
                 Clarinda's
                 putting
                 on
                 her
                 Vizard-Mask
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   103
                
              
               
                 The
                 Middle
                 Sister
                 ,
                 ascribed
                 to
                 Clarinda
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   105
                
              
               
                 An
                 Elougy
                 on
                 Mrs.
                 
                   M.
                   ●
                
                 .
                 By
                 a
                 Gent.
                 of
                 the
                 Inner-Temple
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   106
                
              
               
                 A
                 Love-Poem
                 :
                 By
                 an
                 Oxford
                 Gentleman
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   109
                
              
               
                 Another
                 Love-Poem
                 :
                 By
                 the
                 same
                 Author
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   112
                
              
               
                 The
                 Lov●r's
                 Will
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   114
                
              
               
                 A
                 Love
                 Letter
                 :
                 By
                 
                   W.
                   S.
                   M.
                   D.
                
                 
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   116
                
              
               
                 A
                 Speech
                 to
                 his
                 Mistriss
                 in
                 a
                 Garden
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   118
                
              
               
                 An
                 Address
                 to
                 a
                 Gentlewoman
                 walking
                 in
                 a
                 Garden
                 :
                 By
                 an
                 Oxford
                 Gentleman
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   119
                
              
               
                 
                 Upon
                 a
                 Gentlewomans
                 Refusal
                 of
                 a
                 Letter
                 from
                 one
                 she
                 was
                 engaged
                 to
                 :
                 By
                 Sir
                 
                   C.
                   S.
                
                 
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   122
                
              
               
                 In
                 Praise
                 of
                 a
                 Deformed
                 ,
                 but
                 Virtuous
                 Lady
                 :
                 or
                 a
                 Satyr
                 on
                 Beauty
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   125
                
              
               
                 A
                 Love-Letter
                 :
                 By
                 
                   W.
                   S.
                
                 Gent.
                 
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   129
                
              
               
                 In
                 Praise
                 of
                 Letters
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   131
                
              
               
                 The
                 Idea
                 :
                 By
                 
                   Charles
                   Cotton
                
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   133
                
              
               
                 Love's
                 Sympathy
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   134
                
              
               
                 A
                 Pindarique
                 Ode
                 on
                 Mr.
                 Cowley
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   136
                
              
               
                 An
                 Ode
                 :
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   R.
                   D.
                
                 of
                 Cambridge
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   137
                
              
               
                 An
                 Ode
                 of
                 Anacreon
                 Paraphras'd
                 :
                 Beauties
                 Force
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   138
                
              
               
                 A
                 Pindarique
                 Ode
                 :
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   I.
                   Whitehall
                
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   140
                
              
               
                 From
                 Ovid's
                 Amorum
                 ,
                 lib.
                 2.
                 
                 El.
                 4.
                 and
                 Lucretius
                 lib.
                 4.
                 
                 That
                 he
                 loves
                 Women
                 of
                 all
                 sorts
                 and
                 sizes
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   142
                
              
               
                 The
                 Parallel
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   145
                
              
               
                 Song
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   147
                
              
               
                 The
                 Young
                 Lover
                 ,
                 a
                 Song
                 :
                 By
                 Mr.
                 Wright
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   149
                
              
               
                 The
                 Prodigal's
                 Resolution
                 ,
                 Song
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   150
                
              
               
                 The
                 Doubtfull
                 Lover
                 Resolv'd
                 ,
                 A
                 Song
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   151
                
              
               
                 Song
                 :
                 The
                 Cavalier's
                 Catch
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   153
                
              
               
                 On
                 sight
                 of
                 a
                 Ladies
                 Face
                 in
                 the
                 Water
                 :
                 Song
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   154
                
              
               
                 A
                 Song
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   155
                
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 Serpentine
                 Combustion
                 by
                 Squibs
                 on
                 my
                 Lord
                 Mayor's
                 Day
                 :
                 An
                 Heroick
                 Poem
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   156
                
              
               
                 To
                 his
                 much
                 ●steemed
                 Friend
                 Mr.
                 
                   I.
                   N.
                
                 on
                 his
                 Reading
                 the
                 ●irst
                 Line
                 of
                 Pindar
                 ,
                 
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                
                 ,
                 &c.
                 by
                 Mr.
                 Whitehall
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   159
                
              
               
                 A
                 Dialogue
                 between
                 Iack
                 and
                 Dick
                 ,
                 concerning
                 the
                 Prohibition
                 of
                 French
                 Wines
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   161
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 12
                 following
                 Copies
                 done
                 by
                 the
                 Publisher
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 Clarinda
                 on
                 her
                 Incomparable
                 Painting
                 and
                 Wax-work
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   172
                
              
               
                 A
                 Young
                 Man
                 to
                 an
                 Old
                 Woman
                 ,
                 courting
                 him
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   174
                
              
               
                 To
                 Clarinda
                 ,
                 a
                 Song
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   177
                
              
               
                 On
                 his
                 Secret
                 Passion
                 for
                 Cosmelia
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   179
                
              
               
                 To
                 Clarinda
                 on
                 his
                 Deserting
                 her
                 ,
                 and
                 loving
                 Cosmelia
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   185
                
              
               
                 To
                 Cosmelia
                 on
                 her
                 Departure
                 into
                 the
                 Country
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   187
                
              
               
                 On
                 a
                 Rose
                 s●icking
                 on
                 a
                 Ladies
                 Breast
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   188
                
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 most
                 Charming
                 Galecia's
                 Picture
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   190
                
              
               
                 The
                 Young
                 Lover's
                 Ad●ocate
                 :
                 being
                 an
                 Answer
                 to
                 a
                 Copy
                 of
                 Verses
                 :
                 Written
                 by
                 Galaecia
                 to
                 her
                 Young
                 Lover
                 on
                 his
                 Vow
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   192
                
              
               
                 To
                 my
                 Ingenious
                 Friend
                 Mrs.
                 
                   Iane
                   Barker
                
                 on
                 my
                 Publishing
                 her
                 Romance
                 of
                 Scipina
                 .
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   194
                
              
               
                 A
                 Batchellor's
                 Life
                 ,
                 in
                 pursuit
                 of
                 Mrs.
                 Barkers
                 Verses
                 in
                 Praise
                 of
                 a
                 Single
                 Life
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   196
                
              
               
                 The
                 Exchange
                 of
                 Hearts
                 .
                 A
                 Song
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   199.
                
                 
              
               
                 Upon
                 a
                 Flock
                 of
                 Gold-finches
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   200
                
              
               
                 An
                 Answer
                 of
                 the
                 Poet
                 to
                 one
                 ,
                 complaining
                 of
                 their
                 Negligence
                 ,
                 in
                 not
                 Writing
                 the
                 Duke
                 of
                 Buckingham's
                 Elegy
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   204
                
              
            
             
               
                 These
                 13
                 following
                 Copies
                 done
                 by
                 Mr.
                 
                   Hovenden
                   Walker
                
                 ,
                 sometime
                 of
                 Trinity-Colledge
                 in
                 Dublin
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Psalm
                   139.
                
                 
                 Paraphras'd
                 from
                 Verse
                 7.
                 to
                 Verse
                 13.
                 
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   207
                
              
               
                 A
                 Pastoral
                 ,
                 in
                 imitation
                 of
                 Virgil's
                 2d
                 Eclogue
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   210
                
              
               
                 The
                 fourth
                 Elegy
                 of
                 
                   Cornelius
                   Gallus
                
                 of
                 the
                 Miseries
                 of
                 Old
                 Age.
                 
                   Made
                   English
                
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   219
                
              
               
                 To
                 my
                 Mistriss
                 :
                 Translated
                 out
                 of
                 Tibullus
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   226
                
              
               
                 
                 The
                 Agreement
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   228
                
              
               
                 Song
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   231
                
              
               
                 The
                 Innocent
                 Discov'ry
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   234
                
              
               
                 The
                 Petition
                 .
                 A
                 Song
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   234
                
              
               
                 Fate
                 .
                 A
                 Song
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   235
                
              
               
                 My
                 Religion
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   237
                
              
               
                 The
                 Kiss
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   239
                
              
               
                 The
                 Wrack
                 .
                 A
                 Song
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   241
                
              
               
                 To
                 Mr.
                 
                   P.
                   Berault
                
                 upon
                 his
                 French
                 Grammar
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   242
                
              
               
                 Song
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   245
                
              
               
                 The
                 same
                 Song
                 Inverted
                 ,
                 by
                 Mr.
                 VValker
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   246
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Five
                 following
                 Copies
                 done
                 by
                 Mr.
                 
                   C.
                   G.
                
                 of
                 AEton-Colledge
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Paraphrase
                 on
                 part
                 of
                 the
                 23d
                 Idyll
                 .
                 of
                 Theocritus
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   247
                
              
               
                 Chorus
                 1.
                 
                 Of
                 Seneca's
                 Agamemnon
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   255
                
              
               
                 The
                 Penitent
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   259
                
              
               
                 To
                 Duserastes
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   262
                
              
               
                 The
                 Vow
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   263
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Six
                 following
                 POEMS
                 by
                 Mr.
                 
                   T.
                   B.
                
                 of
                 Cambridge
              
               
                 An
                 Elegy
                 on
                 King
                 Charles
                 the
                 Second
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   265
                
              
               
                 A
                 Dithyrambique
                 ,
                 made
                 just
                 before
                 the
                 King
                 and
                 Queen
                 went
                 to
                 their
                 Coronation
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   269
                
              
               
                 To
                 their
                 Graces
                 ,
                 the
                 Duke
                 and
                 Dutchess
                 of
                 Albemarle
                 ,
                 upon
                 their
                 Voyage
                 for
                 Iamaica
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   280
                
              
               
                 
                   Ovid.
                   Amor.
                   lib.
                   2.
                   
                   Eleg.
                   15.
                   
                
                 A
                 Ring
                 presented
                 to
                 his
                 Mistriss
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   283
                
              
               
                 To
                 
                   Afer
                   .
                   Martial
                
                 .
                 Epig.
                 31.
                 lib.
                 4.
                 
                 
                   Made
                   English
                
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   285
                
              
               
                 An
                 Excuse
                 for
                 not
                 Rhiming
                 in
                 the
                 Time
                 of
                 the
                 Rebellion
              
               
                 
                   p.
                   286
                
              
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
               MISCELLANY
               POEMS
               .
            
             
               PART
               II.
               Written
               by
               several
               Authors
               .
            
             
               
                 A
                 Paraphrase
                 on
                 an
                 HYMN
                 Sung
                 when
                 the
                 Corps
                 is
                 at
                 the
                 Grave
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 
                   T.
                   S.
                
                 Fellow
                 of
                 Maudlin-Colledge
                 ,
                 Oxon.
                 
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   HOW
                   full
                   of
                   Troubles
                   is
                   the
                   Life
                   of
                   Man
                   !
                
                 
                   Vain
                   like
                   a
                   bubble
                   ,
                   shorter
                   than
                   a
                   span
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   springs
                   and
                   blossoms
                   as
                   an
                   early
                   Flower
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   silken
                   Leaves
                   the
                   Frosts
                   and
                   Snow
                   devour
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   ,
                   like
                   the
                   ●leeting
                   Shadow
                   ,
                   hastes
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unable
                   to
                   continue
                   in
                   one
                   stay
                   ;
                
                 
                   It
                   disappears
                   ,
                   and
                   can't
                   survive
                   the
                   day
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   The
                   Noon-tide
                   of
                   our
                   Life
                   is
                   plac'd
                   in
                   Death
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   're
                   not
                   secure
                   of
                   one
                   light
                   puff
                   of
                   Breath
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   ,
                   O
                   God
                   ,
                   can
                   we
                   for
                   succour
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   unto
                   thee
                   ,
                   by
                   whom
                   we
                   live
                   and
                   dye
                   ?
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   for
                   our
                   Sins
                   thou
                   dost
                   employ
                   this
                   Sting
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   justly
                   angry
                   art
                   ,
                   our
                   God
                   and
                   King
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   takest
                   no
                   delight
                   in
                   punishing
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   O
                   Holy
                   ,
                   Mighty
                   Lord
                   and
                   Saviour
                   ,
                
                 
                   Declare
                   thy
                   signal
                   Mercies
                   ,
                   and
                   thy
                   Pow'r
                   ;
                
                 
                   Condemn
                   us
                   not
                   unto
                   the
                   pains
                   of
                   Hell
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   Horror
                   reigns
                   ,
                   and
                   endless
                   Torments
                   dwell
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   whence
                   no
                   ransom
                   ever
                   can
                   be
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   we
                   our
                   bless'd
                   Redeemer
                   have
                   betray'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   both
                   his
                   Will
                   and
                   Laws
                   have
                   disobey'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   IV.
                   
                
                 
                   Thou
                   know'st
                   the
                   secret
                   Closet
                   of
                   our
                   Hearts
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   divine
                   Presence
                   fills
                   our
                   secret
                   parts
                   ;
                
                 
                   Therefore
                   be
                   mercifull
                   unto
                   our
                   Pray'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   Most
                   worthy
                   Iudge
                   ,
                   thy
                   wretched
                   People
                   spare
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Forsake
                   us
                   not
                   when
                   on
                   our
                   Death-beds
                   thrown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lest
                   through
                   despair
                   we
                   deeply
                   sigh
                   and
                   groan
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Hell
                   grow
                   proud
                   of
                   the
                   Dominion
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Advice
                 to
                 his
                 Friends
                 ,
                 lamenting
                 the
                 Death
                 of
                 
                   I.
                   F.
                
                 
              
               
                 By
                 the
                 same
                 Hand
                 .
              
               
                 RIse
                 and
                 rejoyce
                 all
                 ye
                 that
                 Mourn
                 ,
              
               
                 Dry
                 ev'ry
                 Eye
                 that
                 weeps
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Body
                 in
                 this
                 hollow
                 Urn
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 not
                 quite
                 dead
                 ,
                 but
                 sleeps
                 .
              
               
                 See
                 how
                 the
                 Leaves
                 in
                 Autumns
                 falling
                 Dew
              
               
                 Forsake
                 the
                 weeping
                 Tree
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 how
                 the
                 jocund
                 Spring
                 renews
              
               
                 With
                 Buds
                 their
                 infancie
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 though
                 the
                 Root
                 lye
                 under-ground
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Boughs
                 to
                 Heav'n
                 aspire
                 ;
              
               
                 Thus
                 Bodies
                 in
                 the
                 Grave
                 are
                 found
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Souls
                 are
                 mounted
                 higher
                 .
              
               
               
                 Hark!
                 hark
                 !
                 I
                 hear
                 the
                 Trumpet
                 's
                 Voice
              
               
                 Cry
                 ,
                 
                   Come
                   ye
                   Blessed
                   ,
                   come
                
                 ;
              
               
                 Methinks
                 I
                 hear
                 our
                 Friend
                 rejoyce
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 he
                 is
                 Summon'd
                 home
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 Dronish
                 Death
                 hath
                 lost
                 her
                 Sting
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Grave
                 her
                 Victorie
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 Christ
                 in
                 Triumph
                 rides
                 as
                 King
              
               
                 Of
                 this
                 great
                 Iubilee
                 .
              
               
                 Arise
                 ,
                 my
                 Friends
                 ,
                 and
                 wipe
                 your
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Salvation's
                 drawing
                 nigh
                 ;
              
               
                 Let
                 's
                 live
                 to
                 dye
                 ,
                 and
                 dye
                 to
                 rise
                 ,
              
               
                 T'
                 enjoy
                 Eternity
                 .
              
               
                 T.
                 S.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 EPITAPH
                 on
                 Mrs.
                 
                   E.
                   F.
                
                 who
                 sickned
                 of
                 the
                 
                   Small
                   Pox
                
                 ,
                 and
                 Deceased
                 December
                 the
                 
                   31st
                   .
                   1686.
                
                 being
                 the
                 Day
                 before
                 her
                 intended
                 Nuptials
                 .
              
               
                 THis
                 fair
                 young
                 Virgin
                 ,
                 for
                 a
                 
                   Nuptial
                   Bed
                
              
               
                 More
                 fit
                 ,
                 is
                 lodg'd
                 (
                 sad
                 Fate
                 !
                 )
                 among
                 the
                 Dead
                 ;
              
               
                 Storm'd
                 by
                 rough
                 Winds
                 ,
                 so
                 falls
                 in
                 all
                 her
                 pride
              
               
                 The
                 full-blown
                 Rose
                 design'd
                 t'
                 adorn
                 a
                 Bride
                 .
              
               
                 Truth
                 is
                 ,
                 this
                 lovely
                 Virgin
                 from
                 her
                 Birth
                 ,
              
               
                 Became
                 a
                 constant
                 strife
                 'twixt
                 Heav'n
                 and
                 Earth
                 .
              
               
                 Earth
                 claim'd
                 her
                 ,
                 pleaded
                 for
                 her
                 ;
                 either
                 cry'd
              
               
                 The
                 Nymph
                 is
                 mine
                 ,
                 at
                 length
                 they
                 did
                 divide
                 ;
              
               
                 Heav'n
                 took
                 her
                 Soul
                 ,
                 the
                 Earth
                 her
                 Corps
                 did
                 seize
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 not
                 in
                 Fee
                 ,
                 she
                 only
                 holds
                 by
                 Lease
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 this
                 proviso
                 ;
                 When
                 the
                 Iudge
                 shall
                 call
                 ,
              
               
                 Earth
                 shall
                 give
                 up
                 her
                 share
                 ,
                 and
                 Heav'n
                 have
                 all
              
            
             
               
               
                 An
                 EPITAPH
                 to
                 the
                 Memory
                 (
                 and
                 fix't
                 on
                 the
                 Tomb
                 )
                 of
                 Sir
                 
                   PALME
                   FAIRBORN
                
                 ,
                 Governour
                 of
                 Tangier
                 ,
                 who
                 ,
                 in
                 Execution
                 of
                 his
                 Command
                 ,
                 was
                 Mortally
                 Wounded
                 by
                 a
                 Shot
                 from
                 the
                 Moors
                 ,
                 that
                 then
                 besieged
                 the
                 Town
                 ,
                 
                   Octob.
                   24.
                   1680.
                
                 
              
               
                 YE
                 Sacred
                 Reliques
                 ,
                 which
                 this
                 Marble
                 keep
                 ,
              
               
                 Here
                 ,
                 undisturb'd
                 by
                 Wars
                 ,
                 in
                 quiet
                 sleep
                 :
              
               
                 Discharge
                 the
                 Trust
                 ,
                 which
                 when
                 it
                 was
                 below
                 ,
              
               
                 Fairborn's
                 undaunted
                 Soul
                 did
                 undergo
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 be
                 the
                 Towns
                 Palladium
                 from
                 the
                 Foe
                 .
              
               
                 Alive
                 and
                 dead
                 he
                 will
                 these
                 Walls
                 defend
                 ,
              
               
                 Great
                 Actions
                 ,
                 Great
                 Examples
                 must
                 attend
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Candian
                 Siege
                 his
                 early
                 Valour
                 knew
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Turkish
                 Blood
                 did
                 his
                 young
                 hands
                 embrew
              
               
                 From
                 thence
                 returning
                 with
                 deserv'd
                 applause
                 ,
              
               
                 Against
                 the
                 Moors
                 ,
                 his
                 well-flesh'd
                 Sword
                 he
                 draws
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 same
                 the
                 Courage
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 same
                 the
                 Cause
                 .
              
               
                 His
                 Youth
                 and
                 Age
                 ,
                 his
                 Life
                 and
                 Death
                 combine
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 in
                 some
                 great
                 and
                 regular
                 design
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 of
                 a
                 piece
                 throughout
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 Divine
                 .
              
               
               
                 Still
                 nearer
                 Heav'n
                 his
                 Vertues
                 shone
                 more
                 bright
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 rising
                 Flames
                 expanding
                 in
                 the
                 height
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Martyrs
                 Glory
                 crown'd
                 the
                 Souldiers
                 Fight
                 .
              
               
                 More
                 bravely
                 Brittish
                 Gen'ral
                 never
                 fell
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 Gen'rals
                 Death
                 was
                 e'er
                 reveng'd
                 so
                 well
                 ;
              
               
                 Which
                 his
                 pleas'd
                 Eyes
                 beheld
                 before
                 their
                 close
                 ,
              
               
                 Follow'd
                 by
                 Thousand
                 Victims
                 of
                 his
                 Foes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 An
                 ELEGY
                 on
                 the
                 Death
                 of
                 
                   N.
                   D.
                
                 Doctor
                 of
                 Physick
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 
                   I.
                   C.
                
                 
              
               
                 WHat
                 ,
                 will
                 my
                 Mourning
                 yet
                 no
                 period
                 find
                 !
              
               
                 Must
                 sighs
                 &
                 sorrow
                 still
                 distract
                 my
                 Mind
                 ?
              
               
                 My
                 Sense
                 grows
                 ●eeble
                 ,
                 and
                 my
                 Reason's
                 gone
                 ,
              
               
                 Passion
                 and
                 Discontent
                 usurp
                 the
                 Throne
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 blubber'd
                 Eyes
                 my
                 veiled
                 sight
                 grows
                 dim
                 ;
              
               
                 Ah
                 ,
                 cruel
                 Death
                 ,
                 cou'd
                 you
                 ●ind
                 none
                 but
                 him
              
               
                 To
                 gratifie
                 your
                 hungry
                 Iaws
                 withall
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 ,
                 if
                 in
                 haste
                 ,
                 none
                 but
                 a
                 Doctor
                 's
                 fall
                 ?
              
               
               
                 Howe'er
                 ,
                 you
                 might
                 forbore
                 your
                 stroke
                 a
                 while
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 possibly
                 you
                 thought
                 ,
                 he
                 might
                 beguile
              
               
                 Your
                 craving
                 Appetite
                 of
                 many
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 you
                 expected
                 to
                 strike
                 long
                 before
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 sure
                 my
                 Mind
                 's
                 disturb'd
                 ,
                 my
                 Passions
                 rav●
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 censure
                 Death
                 ,
                 and
                 quarrel
                 with
                 the
                 Grave●
              
               
                 Alas
                 ,
                 he
                 's
                 bound
                 ,
                 the
                 blow
                 he
                 cannot
                 give
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 his
                 Commission
                 shews
                 we
                 must
                 not
                 live
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 hence
                 we
                 learn
                 ,
                 and
                 may
                 this
                 inf'rence
                 make
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 if
                 
                   Physicians
                   Souls
                
                 their
                 Iourney
                 take
              
               
                 Into
                 a
                 distant
                 Climate
                 ,
                 well
                 may
                 Ours
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 with
                 what
                 care
                 ought
                 we
                 to
                 spend
                 those
                 hours
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 rather
                 few
                 remaining
                 Sands
                 ,
                 which
                 are
              
               
                 In
                 so
                 much
                 Bounty
                 tender'd
                 to
                 our
                 care
                 ?
              
               
                 The
                 purest
                 Druggs
                 ,
                 compos'd
                 with
                 greatest
                 Skill
                 ,
              
               
                 Can't
                 preserve
                 Life
                 ,
                 when
                 Death
                 has
                 pow'r
                 to
                 kill
                 :
              
               
                 Peasant
                 and
                 Prince
                 are
                 both
                 to
                 him
                 alike
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 an
                 equal
                 blow
                 doth
                 either
                 strike
                 .
              
               
                 All
                 must
                 surrender
                 when
                 his
                 Arm
                 is
                 stretch't
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 such
                 a
                 weighty
                 force
                 his
                 blow
                 is
                 fetch
                 't
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 oh
                 !
                 I
                 wander
                 from
                 my
                 Virtuous
                 Friend
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 true
                 indeed
                 he
                 's
                 dead
                 ,
                 but
                 yet
                 no
                 end
              
               
               
                 Can
                 e'er
                 obscure
                 or
                 hide
                 his
                 Honour'd
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 o'er
                 the
                 World
                 the
                 Golden
                 Wings
                 of
                 Fame
              
               
                 Shall
                 spread
                 his
                 praise
                 ,
                 and
                 to
                 his
                 Friends
                 proclaim
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 whilst
                 alive
                 ,
                 His
                 Soul
                 was
                 always
                 drest
              
               
                 VVith
                 Robes
                 of
                 Innocence
                 ;
                 the
                 peacefull
                 Guest
              
               
                 Of
                 a
                 good
                 Conscience
                 ,
                 ever
                 fill'd
                 his
                 Breast
                 .
              
               
                 His
                 smiling
                 Countenance
                 abroad
                 wou'd
                 send
              
               
                 His
                 hearty
                 Wishes
                 to
                 his
                 real
                 Friend
                 ;
              
               
                 His
                 Words
                 were
                 few
                 ,
                 but
                 of
                 important
                 weight
                 ,
              
               
                 Mix'd
                 with
                 no
                 stains
                 of
                 flatt'ry
                 ,
                 or
                 deceit
                 .
              
               
                 Too
                 much
                 in
                 's
                 way
                 his
                 Library
                 has
                 stood
                 ,
              
               
                 Himself
                 he
                 minded
                 not
                 for
                 others
                 good
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 strange
                 !
                 to
                 think
                 he
                 shou'd
                 himself
                 neglect
                 ,
              
               
                 VVhose
                 study
                 't
                 was
                 to
                 cure
                 what
                 e'er
                 defect
              
               
                 Nature
                 might
                 fall
                 into
                 ;
                 yet
                 this
                 he
                 did
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 short
                 ,
                 his
                 Worth
                 ,
                 though
                 smother'd
                 ,
                 can't
                 be
                 hid
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 sound
                 his
                 Praise
                 may
                 th'
                 utmost
                 Skill
                 ingage
                 ,
              
               
                 Since
                 that
                 he
                 dy'd
                 the
                 Wonder
                 of
                 his
                 Age.
              
               
                 VVell
                 may
                 his
                 friends
                 then
                 ,
                 and
                 acquaintance
                 weep
                 ,
              
               
                 VVhen
                 such
                 a
                 brave
                 Physician
                 's
                 fall'n
                 asleep
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 UPON
                 HEAVEN
                 .
              
               
                 OH
                 thou
                 Theanthropos
                 !
                 who
                 did'st
                 contain
              
               
                 In
                 one
                 joint
                 Body
                 here
                 both
                 God
                 and
                 Man
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 thou
                 who'rt
                 Alpha
                 and
                 Omega
                 still
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 blazon
                 forth
                 thy
                 Courts
                 ,
                 assist
                 my
                 Quill
                 ;
              
               
                 Inlarge
                 my
                 Fancy
                 ,
                 and
                 transport
                 my
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 Above
                 the
                 common
                 pitch
                 of
                 Humane
                 kind
                 .
              
               
                 Oh
                 represent
                 and
                 spread
                 before
                 my
                 Muse
              
               
                 One
                 glimpse
                 of
                 Heav'ns
                 great
                 light
                 ,
                 which
                 when
                 she
                 views
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 make
                 her
                 soar
                 in
                 Raptures
                 ,
                 and
                 make
                 known
              
               
                 The
                 glorious
                 Seat
                 of
                 Heav'ns
                 triumphant
                 Throne
              
               
                 But
                 first
                 ,
                 before
                 my
                 Tongue
                 begins
                 to
                 speak
              
               
                 Such
                 unknown
                 joys
                 ,
                 which
                 no
                 Man
                 yet
                 cou'd
                 make
              
               
                 A
                 true
                 description
                 of
                 (
                 though
                 Poets
                 have
              
               
                 Feign'd
                 an
                 Elyziums
                 bliss
                 beyond
                 the
                 Grave
                 )
              
               
                 I
                 crave
                 thy
                 pardon
                 for
                 my
                 bold
                 attempt
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 showing
                 Sense
                 what
                 here
                 for
                 Faith
                 was
                 meant
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 the
                 bright
                 Amathyst
                 and
                 Onyx
                 Stone
                 ,
              
               
                 This
                 glorious
                 Fabrick
                 is
                 erected
                 on
                 ;
              
               
               
                 The
                 entrance
                 Gates
                 of
                 this
                 great
                 Court
                 excell
              
               
                 The
                 most
                 Magnificent
                 and
                 Orient
                 Pearl
                 ;
              
               
                 Brighter
                 than
                 burnish't
                 Gold
                 her
                 Walls
                 appear
                 ;
              
               
                 Of
                 spangled
                 Stars
                 her
                 Floor
                 and
                 Pavements
                 are
                 ;
              
               
                 Her
                 high-built
                 Pillars
                 from
                 the
                 dazling
                 ground
                 ,
              
               
                 Look
                 as
                 beset
                 all
                 o'er
                 with
                 Diamond
                 ;
              
               
                 Like
                 purest
                 Sardonyx
                 her
                 Roof
                 do's
                 show
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 as
                 green
                 Emeralds
                 are
                 spread
                 below
              
               
                 The
                 blushing
                 Ruby
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 glitt'ring
                 Saphir
                 ,
              
               
                 Mix't
                 with
                 bright
                 Chrysolites
                 ,
                 and
                 Stones
                 of
                 Iasper
                 ,
              
               
                 Make
                 but
                 a
                 poor
                 Resemblance
                 of
                 this
                 light
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 gilt
                 and
                 radiant
                 Beams
                 appear
                 too
                 bright
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 ought
                 of
                 humane
                 Race
                 to
                 view
                 or
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 Unless
                 transform'd
                 to
                 Immortalitie
                 .
              
               
                 Thousands
                 of
                 Angels
                 guard
                 the
                 outward
                 Gate
              
               
                 From
                 th'
                 utmost
                 spleen
                 and
                 rage
                 of
                 Devil's
                 hate
                 ;
              
               
                 Who
                 keep
                 this
                 Palace
                 from
                 or
                 Siege
                 or
                 Storm
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 all
                 those
                 Martyrs
                 ,
                 who
                 have
                 bravely
                 born
              
               
                 With
                 an
                 undaunted
                 patience
                 th'
                 utmost
                 Ill
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Men
                 or
                 Devils
                 could
                 bethink
                 or
                 will
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 once
                 past
                 from
                 th'
                 outward
                 Gates
                 ,
                 you
                 'll
                 spy
              
               
                 Millions
                 of
                 Angels
                 bless'd
                 Eternally
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Also
                 Illustrious
                 
                   Cherubs
                   ,
                   Seraphins
                
                 ,
              
               
                 Clapping
                 their
                 gilded
                 and
                 rejoycing
                 Wings
                 ;
              
               
                 Numbers
                 unnumbred
                 of
                 the
                 Saints
                 in
                 light
                 ,
              
               
                 Singing
                 their
                 Hymns
                 to
                 God
                 both
                 day
                 and
                 night
                 ;
              
               
                 There
                 nought
                 but
                 simple
                 Love
                 and
                 Rest
                 abide
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 worldly
                 Grief
                 and
                 Cares
                 are
                 laid
                 aside
                 ;
              
               
                 Freed
                 from
                 all
                 cross
                 Events
                 ,
                 and
                 slavish
                 Fear
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Ioy
                 and
                 Peace
                 they
                 live
                 for
                 ever
                 there
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 ON
                 THE
                 MARTYRDOM
                 OF
                 King
                 CHARLES
                 the
                 First
                 .
              
               
                 THE
                 crimson
                 Theam
                 on
                 which
                 I
                 now
                 do
                 treat
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 not
                 unregistred
                 ,
                 or
                 out
                 of
                 date
                 ;
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 it
                 's
                 wrote
                 deep
                 in
                 ev'ry
                 Loyal
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 loud
                 Accents
                 will
                 be
                 still
                 exprest
                 ;
              
               
                 Though
                 Time
                 shou'd
                 take
                 more
                 wings
                 ,
                 and
                 faster
                 hast
              
               
                 His
                 sudden
                 flight
                 from
                 hence
                 ;
                 yet
                 soon
                 as
                 past
              
               
               
                 Such
                 Tragick
                 cruelty
                 ,
                 this
                 mournfull
                 Theam
              
               
                 In
                 bloody
                 Characters
                 wou'd
                 still
                 remain
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 wish
                 my
                 Pen
                 had
                 ne'er
                 had
                 cause
                 to
                 write
              
               
                 This
                 one
                 day's
                 Prodigie
                 ,
                 more
                 black
                 than
                 Night
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 very
                 Fiends
                 themselves
                 are
                 now
                 out-done
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 Men
                 the
                 shape
                 of
                 Devils
                 have
                 put
                 on
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 but
                 the
                 spawn
                 of
                 Hell
                 cou'd
                 thus
                 design
                 !
              
               
                 Or
                 hatch
                 such
                 treachery
                 to
                 undermine
              
               
                 The
                 best
                 of
                 Kings
                 on
                 Earth
                 ,
                 nay
                 pull
                 him
                 down
              
               
                 From
                 his
                 own
                 Regal
                 and
                 Establish'd
                 Throne
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 ,
                 was
                 there
                 none
                 but
                 Charles
                 the
                 First
                 ,
                 the
                 Great
              
               
                 And
                 most
                 indulgent
                 worthiest
                 Potentate
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 vent
                 their
                 rage
                 upon
                 ?
                 Oh
                 barb'rous
                 Crew
                 !
              
               
                 A
                 King
                 beheaded
                 !
                 by
                 's
                 own
                 Subjects
                 too
                 !
              
               
                 Ecclesiastical
                 and
                 Civil
                 Writ
              
               
                 Unto
                 the
                 World
                 did
                 ne'er
                 as
                 yet
                 transmit
              
               
                 So
                 Tragical
                 a
                 Scene
                 ,
                 or
                 mournfull
                 News
                 ,
              
               
                 Save
                 one
                 alone
                 ,
                 Iesus
                 the
                 King
                 of
                 th'
                 Iews
                 ;
              
               
                 Who
                 was
                 like
                 Charles
                 our
                 Sovereign
                 betray'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Whom
                 the
                 same
                 shew
                 of
                 Iustice
                 did
                 degrade
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 now
                 the
                 Iews
                 from
                 these
                 do
                 differ
                 hence
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 Errours
                 did
                 from
                 Ignorance
                 commence
                 ,
              
               
                 Because
                 they
                 thought
                 not
                 Christ
                 their
                 lawful
                 Prince
                 :
              
               
               
                 But
                 these
                 curs'd
                 Regicides
                 did
                 fully
                 know
              
               
                 Charles
                 was
                 their
                 King
                 ,
                 and
                 had
                 proclaim'd
                 him
                 so●
              
               
                 The
                 Antient
                 Fathers
                 always
                 own'd
                 their
                 Prince
              
               
                 God's
                 Representative
                 in
                 Truth
                 's
                 defence
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 since
                 that
                 Kings
                 to
                 God
                 Vicegerents
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 Subjects
                 ought
                 true
                 Loyalty
                 to
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 are
                 protected
                 by
                 their
                 Princely
                 care
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 as
                 if
                 Nature
                 had
                 these
                 Miscreants
                 left
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 of
                 Humanity
                 they
                 were
                 bereft
                 ;
              
               
                 '
                 Stead
                 of
                 Allegiance
                 ,
                 they
                 preach
                 up
                 Intrusion
                 ;
              
               
                 Sound
                 a
                 Battalia
                 ,
                 and
                 make
                 all
                 confusion
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 then
                 delude
                 and
                 cheat
                 the
                 Common-weal
              
               
                 With
                 a
                 pretence
                 ,
                 that
                 all
                 was
                 done
                 through
                 Zeal●
              
               
                 Whilst
                 an
                 unnat'ral
                 War
                 they
                 do
                 b●gin
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 persevere
                 in
                 their
                 Rebellious
                 Sin
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 they
                 've
                 intrench'd
                 upon
                 their
                 Soveraign's
                 Rig●●
              
               
                 By
                 Usurpation
                 ,
                 and
                 by
                 lawless
                 Might
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 next
                 they
                 seize
                 his
                 Person
                 with
                 pretence
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 they
                 're
                 his
                 chiefest
                 Bulwark
                 of
                 defence
                 ;
              
               
                 At
                 last
                 his
                 Head
                 and
                 Crown
                 lop
                 off
                 at
                 once
                 ,
              
               
                 Without
                 a
                 Reason
                 ,
                 or
                 a
                 just
                 Response
                 .
              
               
                 At
                 which
                 black
                 deed
                 ,
                 shou'd
                 th'
                 Elements
                 dissolve●
              
               
                 And
                 th'
                 Universal
                 World
                 it self
                 involve
              
               
               
                 In
                 present
                 ruin
                 ,
                 shou'd
                 th'
                 
                   infernal
                   Lake
                
              
               
                 Flash
                 out
                 in
                 Flames
                 ;
                 Or
                 shou'd
                 the
                 Waters
                 break
              
               
                 Through
                 their
                 strong
                 Banks
                 ,
                 and
                 so
                 a
                 Deluge
                 make
                 ,
              
               
                 Shou'd
                 Sun
                 and
                 Moon
                 at
                 once
                 Eclipsed
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 compleat
                 a
                 full
                 Calamity
              
               
                 Stars
                 fall
                 from
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 and
                 dash
                 in
                 pieces
                 those
              
               
                 Who
                 did
                 their
                 Sov'raign
                 and
                 his
                 Laws
                 oppose
                 :
              
               
                 This
                 we
                 might
                 judge
                 is
                 to
                 their
                 Merit
                 due
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 such
                 perfidious
                 treachery
                 pursue
                 .
              
               
                 Forgive
                 my
                 passion
                 ,
                 if
                 I
                 do
                 transgress
              
               
                 Beyond
                 the
                 limits
                 of
                 true
                 Holiness
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 wish
                 that
                 all
                 effectually
                 repent
              
               
                 This
                 bloody
                 Sin
                 ,
                 whereby
                 they
                 may
                 prevent
              
               
                 Those
                 heavy
                 Iudgments
                 which
                 predict
                 th'
                 Event
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 may
                 those
                 Persons
                 ,
                 who
                 were
                 Actors
                 in
              
               
                 This
                 cursed
                 Cause
                 against
                 the
                 Father
                 ,
                 bring
              
               
                 Their
                 true
                 Obedience
                 to
                 his
                 Son
                 ,
                 now
                 King
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 so
                 they
                 may
                 to
                 him
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 his
                 Race
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 themselves
                 ,
                 bring
                 a
                 continu'd
                 Peace
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 after
                 crown'd
                 with
                 honour
                 and
                 success
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 last
                 enjoy
                 Eternal
                 happiness
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 UPON
                 ONE'S
                 Birth-Day
                 .
              
               
                 LOok
                 upwards
                 ,
                 O
                 my
                 Soul
                 !
                 and
                 thou
                 may'st
                 see
              
               
                 Once
                 more
                 thy
                 Birth-days
                 Anniversary
                 .
              
               
                 Another
                 year
                 of
                 Time
                 is
                 passed
                 by
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 methinks
                 hath
                 slid
                 so
                 silently
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 unmeasur'd
                 yet
                 ;
                 and
                 thus
                 will
                 seem
              
               
                 Most
                 of
                 thy
                 Days
                 ,
                 when
                 spent
                 ,
                 in
                 thy
                 esteem
                 .
              
               
                 Man's
                 Life
                 is
                 fitly
                 liken'd
                 unto
                 Fire
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 unsupply'd
                 with
                 fuel
                 ,
                 do's
                 expire
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 thus
                 no
                 sooner
                 's
                 run
                 our
                 ●leeting
                 Sand
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 the
                 Glass
                 breaks
                 by
                 Death's
                 destroying
                 hand
                 .
              
               
                 Since
                 then
                 ,
                 my
                 Soul
                 ,
                 that
                 Time
                 so
                 fast
                 doth
                 slide
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 much
                 art
                 thou
                 obliged
                 to
                 provide
              
               
                 That
                 which
                 may
                 beautifie
                 thy
                 nobler
                 part
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 also
                 cleanse
                 and
                 purifie
                 thy
                 Heart
              
               
                 From
                 all
                 pollution
                 ,
                 which
                 within
                 doth
                 reign
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 that
                 Empire
                 such
                 Dominion
                 gain
                 ?
              
               
                 Make
                 firm
                 Resolves
                 ,
                 by
                 new
                 Engagements
                 tye
              
               
                 Thy
                 Passions
                 up
                 ,
                 restrain
                 their
                 liberty
                 .
              
               
               
                 Place
                 thy
                 affections
                 upon
                 things
                 above
                 ,
              
               
                 Try
                 then
                 to
                 surfeit
                 i●
                 thou
                 canst
                 on
                 Love
                 ;
              
               
                 In
                 time
                 secure
                 that
                 which
                 alone
                 can
                 last
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 youth
                 and
                 beauty
                 ,
                 strength
                 and
                 life
                 are
                 past
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 as
                 thy
                 Sands
                 do
                 was●e
                 ,
                 and
                 Years
                 increase
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 shalt
                 at
                 last
                 expire
                 with
                 Ioy
                 and
                 Peace
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 UPON
                 CHRIST's
                 NATIVITY
                 .
              
               
                 
                   BEhold
                   an
                   Universal
                   Darkness
                   has
                   o'er-spread
                
                 
                   This
                   lower
                   World
                   ,
                   and
                   Man
                   in
                   Sin
                   lyes
                   dead
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   black
                   Despair
                   his
                   heavy
                   burthen's
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   being
                   fall'n
                   ,
                   God's
                   Wrath
                   can
                   ne'er
                   be
                   paid
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   since
                   his
                   
                     Native
                     Innocence
                  
                   is
                   flown
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   the
                   first
                   promises
                   of
                   Bliss
                   are
                   gone
                   .
                
                 
                   Think
                   then
                   ,
                   O
                   Adam
                   !
                   on
                   the
                   state
                   thou'
                   rt
                   in
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   Ma●kind
                   by
                   reason
                   of
                   thy
                   Sin.
                
                 
                   Alas
                   poor
                   Man
                   !
                   thy
                   Paradise
                   is
                   lost
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thou
                   might'st
                   justly
                   from
                   thy
                   Bliss
                   be
                   toss'd
                
                 
                 
                   Into
                   th'
                   infernal
                   Lake
                   ;
                   where
                   with
                   great
                   pain
                   ,
                
                 
                   B'ing
                   exercis'd
                   ,
                   thou
                   might'st
                   lament
                   in
                   vain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   stay
                   a
                   while
                   ,
                   What
                   Musick
                   's
                   this
                   I
                   hear
                   !
                
                 
                   Which
                   sounds
                   so
                   sweetly
                   from
                   the
                   heav'nly
                   Sphere
                   !
                
                 
                   Look
                   here
                   ,
                   O
                   Man
                   !
                   are
                   thine
                   Eyes
                   upwards
                   bent
                   ?
                
                 
                   Here
                   's
                   Angels
                   ,
                   surely
                   ,
                   on
                   a
                   Message
                   sent
                   .
                
                 
                   Man.
                   What
                   Anthem's
                   this
                   ,
                   sweet
                   Angels
                   ,
                   that
                   you
                   sing
                
                 
                   Unto
                   us
                   Men
                   ?
                   do
                   ye
                   glad
                   tydings
                   bring
                   ?
                
                 
                   Ang.
                   We
                   come
                   from
                   Heaven
                   ,
                   we
                   declare
                   no
                   Ill
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Peace
                   on
                   Earth
                   ,
                   and
                   unto
                   Men
                   Good-will
                   .
                
                 
                   M.
                   How
                   so
                   ,
                   we
                   pray
                   ?
                   can
                   God
                   be
                   friends
                   agen
                   ?
                
                 
                   Will
                   he
                   be
                   reconcil'd
                   to
                   sinfull
                   Men
                   ?
                
                 
                   Is
                   God
                   so
                   kind
                   ,
                   so
                   mercifull
                   a
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   soon
                   to
                   cast
                   away
                   his
                   angry
                   Rod
                   ?
                
                 
                   A.
                   You
                   need
                   not
                   doubt
                   ,
                   wou'd
                   you
                   but
                   with
                   the
                   Eye
                
                 
                   Of
                   stedfast
                   Faith
                   ,
                   pierce
                   through
                   the
                   Starry
                   Sky
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   might
                   behold
                   there
                   God
                   himself
                   contriving
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   for
                   your
                   Death
                   ,
                   but
                   your
                   Eternal
                   Living
                   .
                
                 
                   M.
                   But
                   how
                   shall
                   we
                   of
                   this
                   assured
                   be
                   ?
                
                 
                   What
                   sign
                   or
                   token
                   may
                   we
                   find
                   or
                   see
                   ?
                
                 
                   A.
                   Want
                   ye
                   a
                   sign
                   ?
                   then
                   do
                   but
                   us
                   believe
                   :
                
                 
                   Here
                   's
                   one
                   ,
                   behold
                   a
                   Virgin
                   does
                   conceive
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   A
                   Virgin
                   true
                   and
                   chast
                   do's
                   now
                   bring
                   forth
                
                 
                   A
                   Son
                   unto
                   you
                   of
                   Transcendent
                   Worth
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   the
                   true
                   Messias
                   ,
                   whom
                   of
                   old
                
                 
                   The
                   Patriarchs
                   and
                   Prophets
                   so
                   fore-told
                   ;
                
                 
                   This
                   is
                   the
                   Seed
                   to
                   Adam
                   ,
                   promised
                
                 
                   By
                   God
                   ,
                   to
                   break
                   the
                   subtle
                   Serpent's
                   Head
                   :
                
                 
                   M.
                   This
                   being
                   then
                   the
                   day
                   of
                   Iesus
                   Birth
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   us
                   affect
                   our
                   Hearts
                   with
                   godly
                   Mirth
                   ;
                
                 
                   Let
                   us
                   ,
                   I
                   say
                   ,
                   both
                   triumph
                   ,
                   joy
                   ,
                   and
                   sing
                   ,
                
                 
                   Glory
                   be
                   to
                   our
                   Christ
                   ,
                   our
                   Priest
                   ,
                   our
                   King.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 On
                 the
                 same
                 .
              
               
                 EArly
                 i'
                 th'
                 Morn
                 I
                 wak'd
                 ,
                 and
                 first
                 my
                 Ear
              
               
                 The
                 Bell-man
                 did
                 salute
                 with
                 th'
                 time
                 of
                 Year
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 next
                 the
                 joyfull
                 Cock
                 ,
                 who
                 'd
                 left
                 his
                 Nest
                 ,
              
               
                 Ceases
                 not
                 crowing
                 
                   Christus
                   natus
                   est
                
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 lesser
                 Birds
                 in
                 sweeter
                 Notes
                 do
                 sing
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 louder
                 Sounds
                 Echo
                 from
                 Bells
                 that
                 ring
                 .
              
               
                 Amidst
                 this
                 joy
                 ,
                 I
                 upward
                 cast
                 my
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 saw
                 more
                 brighter
                 Rays
                 adorn
                 the
                 Skies
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Where
                 e'er
                 I
                 look'd
                 ,
                 a
                 happy
                 change
                 I
                 view'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Nature
                 her self
                 did
                 seem
                 as
                 if
                 renew'd
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 surpriz'd
                 with
                 such
                 a
                 beauteous
                 Scene
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 then
                 resolv'd
                 to
                 think
                 what
                 this
                 might
                 mean
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 presently
                 my
                 Thoughts
                 inlarged
                 were
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Christ
                 his
                 Incarnation
                 did
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 most
                 great
                 and
                 highest
                 Acts
                 of
                 Love
                 ,
              
               
                 Such
                 as
                 will
                 Reason
                 to
                 amazement
                 move
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 who
                 can
                 think
                 on
                 Man
                 ,
                 lost
                 and
                 undone
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 redeem'd
                 from
                 Death
                 by
                 God's
                 own
                 Son
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 not
                 be
                 stricken
                 with
                 the
                 quickest
                 sence
              
               
                 Of
                 so
                 much
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 charming
                 Excellence
                 ?
              
               
                 Rouse
                 then
                 thy
                 Minds
                 best
                 faculties
                 ,
                 and
                 soar
              
               
                 Up
                 to
                 a
                 pitch
                 ,
                 thou
                 never
                 reach't
                 before
                 :
              
               
                 Strive
                 to
                 come
                 near
                 ,
                 at
                 least
                 to
                 imitate
              
               
                 The
                 holy
                 Angels
                 ,
                 in
                 their
                 happy
                 state
                 ;
              
               
                 Who
                 always
                 in
                 a
                 constant
                 circle
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 giving
                 praises
                 unto
                 God
                 above
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 to
                 them
                 the
                 happy
                 tydings
                 came
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 gladly
                 were
                 the
                 Heralds
                 to
                 proclaim
              
               
                 The
                 joyfull
                 news
                 to
                 us
                 ;
                 then
                 shall
                 not
                 Man
              
               
                 Sing
                 the
                 same
                 Anthem
                 they
                 on
                 Earth
                 began
                 ?
              
               
               
                 Give
                 praises
                 therefore
                 unto
                 God
                 most
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 joyn
                 thy
                 Soul
                 to
                 the
                 bless'd
                 Hierarchy
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 thus
                 Seraphick-Love
                 thy
                 thoughts
                 employ
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 shalt
                 anticipate
                 that
                 Heav'nly
                 Ioy.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 More
                 on
                 the
                 same
                 Subject
                 .
              
               
                 LEt
                 this
                 days
                 triumph
                 o'er
                 the
                 World
                 be
                 crown'd
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 day
                 of
                 Iubilee
                 for
                 ever
                 own'd
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Harp
                 and
                 Violin
                 our
                 Mirth
                 we
                 'll
                 show
                 ,
              
               
                 Unto
                 this
                 day
                 all
                 gratitude
                 we
                 owe.
              
               
                 Let
                 Lute
                 and
                 Timbrel
                 ,
                 and
                 Majestick
                 touch
              
               
                 Of
                 the
                 sweet
                 Vial
                 too
                 proclaim
                 as
                 much
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 Talbrot
                 also
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 loud-spoke
                 Cymbal
              
               
                 Ioyn
                 with
                 the
                 sweeter
                 of
                 the
                 Virginal
                 ;
              
               
                 Let
                 all
                 the
                 Voices
                 ,
                 both
                 of
                 Base
                 and
                 Trebble
                 ,
              
               
                 Ioyn
                 in
                 this
                 harmony
                 ;
                 let
                 polish't
                 Marble
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 future
                 Ages
                 ,
                 keep
                 his
                 honour'd
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 they
                 with
                 equal
                 pleasure
                 speak
                 the
                 same
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 that
                 a
                 p●rfect
                 joy
                 may
                 be
                 express'd
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 the
                 Solemnity
                 of
                 such
                 a
                 Feast
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Let
                 the
                 whole
                 Earth
                 put
                 on
                 her
                 Robes
                 of
                 Green
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 be
                 in
                 Triumph
                 when
                 this
                 day
                 is
                 seen
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 also
                 let
                 the
                 pretty
                 winged
                 Quire
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 their
                 warm
                 Nests
                 with
                 joyfulness
                 retire
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 fill
                 the
                 Air
                 with
                 sweet
                 melodious
                 Notes
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 they
                 sing
                 forth
                 from
                 out
                 their
                 warbling
                 Throats
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 the
                 Floods
                 clap
                 their
                 hands
                 ,
                 and
                 therein
                 show
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 they
                 rejoyce
                 with
                 all
                 the
                 World
                 below
                 ;
              
               
                 Let
                 Angels
                 too
                 above
                 bedeck
                 the
                 Sky
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 soft
                 strains
                 divulge
                 their
                 Harmony
                 ;
              
               
                 Let
                 the
                 Illustrious
                 Cherubins
                 descend
              
               
                 With
                 their
                 delicious
                 Carrols
                 to
                 attend
              
               
                 Man's
                 happy
                 change
                 ,
                 which
                 Christ
                 alone
                 did
                 bring
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 is
                 become
                 our
                 Prophet
                 ,
                 Priest
                 ,
                 and
                 King.
              
               
                 O
                 bless'd
                 Redeemer
                 !
                 why
                 would'st
                 thou
                 come
                 down
                 ,
              
               
                 Rather
                 so
                 lowly
                 ,
                 than
                 with
                 great
                 Renown
                 ?
              
               
                 As
                 soon
                 as
                 born
                 ,
                 why
                 did'st
                 thou
                 not
                 give
                 order
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 proclaim'd
                 the
                 World's
                 great
                 Emperour
                 ?
              
               
                 Or
                 cam'st
                 not
                 vailed
                 in
                 an
                 Angel's
                 Shrine
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 took
                 the
                 Nature
                 of
                 a
                 Seraphin
                 ?
              
               
                 But
                 this
                 had
                 been
                 contrary
                 to
                 thy
                 Will
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 came
                 the
                 Prophet's
                 Sayings
                 to
                 fulfill
                 :
              
               
               
                 Besides
                 ,
                 thy
                 Message
                 had
                 a
                 nobler
                 End
                 ,
              
               
                 Namely
                 ,
                 the
                 World
                 of
                 Sin
                 to
                 reprehend
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 refine
                 and
                 purge
                 our
                 thoughts
                 from
                 Earth
                 ,
              
               
                 Conveying
                 to
                 us
                 Grace
                 by
                 second
                 Birth
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 influence
                 our
                 Minds
                 from
                 Heav'n
                 above
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 possess
                 us
                 here
                 with
                 Peace
                 and
                 Love.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 ON
                 NEW-YEARS-DAY
                 .
              
               
                 OH
                 Time
                 ,
                 with
                 Wings
                 thou
                 well
                 may'st
                 painted
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 that
                 shows
                 swiftness
                 and
                 celerity
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 thy
                 keen
                 Scythe
                 as
                 truly
                 doth
                 bespeak
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 mighty
                 devastations
                 thou
                 do'st
                 make
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 which
                 thy
                 hand
                 incircles
                 is
                 a
                 Glass
                 ,
              
               
                 VVhose
                 Sands
                 with
                 fleeting
                 constancy
                 do
                 pass
              
               
                 An
                 Emblem
                 ,
                 which
                 adapted
                 is
                 to
                 show
                 ,
              
               
                 VVhat
                 short
                 duration
                 all
                 things
                 have
                 below
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Revolution
                 of
                 another
                 Year
                 ,
              
               
                 Do's
                 plain
                 and
                 obvious
                 to
                 each
                 Eye
                 appear
                 :
              
               
               
                 The
                 New-Year
                 is
                 in
                 Infancy
                 begun
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 its
                 latter
                 period
                 soon
                 will
                 run
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 when
                 the
                 last
                 Years
                 Scene
                 of
                 things
                 are
                 gone
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Revolutions
                 of
                 the
                 New
                 post
                 on
                 .
              
               
                 View
                 the
                 Creation
                 made
                 with
                 curious
                 Art
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 you
                 'll
                 see
                 motion
                 run
                 through
                 ev'ry
                 part
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 whensoe'er
                 that
                 ceases
                 ,
                 presently
              
               
                 The
                 Object
                 do's
                 begin
                 to
                 wast
                 and
                 dye
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 now
                 this
                 Festival
                 of
                 New-years-day
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 more
                 exalted
                 Subject
                 doth
                 display
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 it
                 exhibiteth
                 upon
                 Record
              
               
                 The
                 Circumcision
                 of
                 our
                 blessed
                 Lord
                 ;
              
               
                 VVhich
                 Institution
                 was
                 by
                 God
                 decreed
              
               
                 For
                 a
                 distinction
                 unto
                 Abr'am's
                 Seed
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 our
                 Saviour
                 came
                 ,
                 what
                 need
                 was
                 there
              
               
                 But
                 that
                 this
                 Iewish
                 Rite
                 shou'd
                 disappear
                 ?
              
               
                 The
                 Circumcision
                 of
                 the
                 Heart
                 was
                 then
              
               
                 E●teem'd
                 more
                 proper
                 for
                 the
                 Sons
                 of
                 Men
                 ;
              
               
                 Instead
                 of
                 Circumcision
                 and
                 the
                 Passover
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 Saviour
                 therefore
                 did
                 enjoyn
                 two
                 other
              
               
                 More
                 Sacred
                 Sacraments
                 ,
                 which
                 Christians
                 now
              
               
                 Do
                 celebrate
                 with
                 a
                 most
                 solemn
                 Vow
                 .
              
               
               
                 The
                 former
                 (a)
                 Rite
                 Mortification
                 taught
                 ,
              
               
                 (b)
                 This
                 a
                 more
                 comprehensive
                 meaning
                 brought
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 wash
                 off
                 Adam's
                 Sin
                 is
                 the
                 intent
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 Water
                 is
                 a
                 cleansing
                 Element
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 Laws
                 our
                 Saviour
                 did
                 enjoyn
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 those
                 he
                 has
                 remov'd
                 ,
                 are
                 more
                 sublime
                 ;
              
               
                 Since
                 nothing
                 came
                 from
                 him
                 but
                 what
                 's
                 Divine
                 .
              
               
                 Each
                 Festival
                 that
                 keeps
                 his
                 Memory
                 ,
              
               
                 Shou'd
                 not
                 without
                 our
                 due
                 respe●t
                 pass
                 by
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 fit
                 we
                 shou'd
                 commemorate
                 such
                 days
              
               
                 With
                 an
                 ecstatick
                 and
                 exalted
                 praise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 our
                 Faculties
                 in
                 Transport
                 raise
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 EYES
                 and
                 TEARS
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   HOW
                   wisely
                   Nature
                   did
                   decree
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVith
                   the
                   same
                   Eyes
                   to
                   weep
                   and
                   se●
                   !
                
                 
                   That
                   having
                   view'd
                   the
                   Object
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVe
                   might
                   be
                   ready
                   to
                   complain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   What
                   in
                   the
                   World
                   most
                   fair
                   appears
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yea
                   ev'n
                   laughter
                   turns
                   to
                   tears
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   Iewels
                   which
                   we
                   prize
                   ,
                
                 
                   Melt
                   in
                   these
                   Pendents
                   of
                   the
                   Eyes
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   Lo
                   ,
                   the
                   All-seeing
                   Sun
                   each
                   day
                
                 
                   Distills
                   the
                   World
                   with
                   Chymick
                   Ray
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   finds
                   the
                   Essence
                   only
                   show'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   straight
                   in
                   pity
                   back
                   he
                   pow'rs
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   IV.
                   
                
                 
                   Yet
                   happy
                   they
                   whom
                   Grief
                   doth
                   bless
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   weep
                   the
                   more
                   ,
                   and
                   see
                   the
                   less
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   preserve
                   their
                   Sight
                   more
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bathe
                   still
                   their
                   Eyes
                   in
                   their
                   own
                   Dew
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   V.
                   
                
                 
                   So
                   Magdalen
                   in
                   Tears
                   more
                   wise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dissolv'd
                   those
                   Captivating
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   VVhose
                   liquid
                   Chains
                   cou'd
                   flowing
                   meet
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   fetter
                   her
                   Redeemers
                   Feet
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   VI.
                   
                
                 
                   The
                   sparkling
                   Glance
                   that
                   shoots
                   desire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Drench't
                   in
                   these
                   Waves
                   ,
                   do's
                   lose
                   its
                   ●ire
                   :
                
                 
                   Yea
                   oft
                   the
                   Thunderer
                   pity
                   takes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   here
                   the
                   hissing
                   Lightning
                   slakes
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   VII
                   .
                
                 
                   Ope
                   then
                   mine
                   Eyes
                   your
                   double
                   sluice
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   practise
                   so
                   your
                   noblest
                   use
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   others
                   too
                   can
                   see
                   ,
                   or
                   sleep
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   only
                   humane
                   Eyes
                   can
                   weep
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   VIII
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   like
                   two
                   Clouds
                   dissolving
                   drop
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   at
                   each
                   Tear
                   in
                   distance
                   stop
                   :
                
                 
                   Now
                   like
                   two
                   Fountains
                   trickle
                   down
                   ;
                
                 
                   Now
                   like
                   two
                   Floods
                   return
                   and
                   drown
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   IX
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   let
                   your
                   Streams
                   o'er-●low
                   your
                   Springs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   Eyes
                   and
                   Tears
                   be
                   the
                   same
                   things
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   each
                   the
                   others
                   diff'rence
                   bears
                   ,
                
                 
                   These
                   
                     weeping
                     Eyes
                  
                   those
                   
                     seeing
                     Tears
                  
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 Mrs.
                 
                   IANE
                   BARKER
                
                 ,
                 on
                 her
                 most
                 Delightfull
                 and
                 Excellent
                 Romance
                 of
                 SCIPINA
                 ,
                 now
                 in
                 the
                 Press
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 
                   I.
                   N.
                
                 Fellow
                 of
                 St.
                 Iohn's
                 Colledge
                 in
                 Cambridge
                 .
              
               
                 
                   HAil
                   !
                   
                     Fair
                     Commandress
                  
                   of
                   a
                   gentle
                   Pen
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   once
                   the
                   Dread
                   ,
                   and
                   dear
                   Delight
                   of
                   Men
                   ;
                
                 
                   who
                   'll
                   read
                   with
                   Transports
                   those
                   soft
                   joys
                   you
                   've
                   writ
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   fear
                   their
                   Laurels
                   do
                   but
                   loosely
                   ●it
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   You
                   invade
                   the
                   Primacy
                   of
                   Wit.
                
                 
                   Accept
                   ,
                   kind
                   Guardian
                   ,
                   of
                   our
                   sleeping
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Those
                   modest
                   Praises
                   ,
                   which
                   your
                   Merits
                   claim
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   'as
                   been
                   our
                   
                     Country's
                     Scandal
                  
                   ,
                   now
                   of
                   late
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   want
                   of
                   Fancy
                   ,
                   poorly
                   to
                   Translate
                   :
                
                 
                   Each
                   pregnant
                   Term
                   ,
                   some
                   honest
                   ,
                   labouring
                   brain
                
                 
                   With
                   toilsome
                   drudgery
                   ,
                   and
                   mighty
                   pain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Has
                   told
                   some
                   new
                   Amour
                   from
                   France
                   or
                   Spain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Running
                   us
                   still
                   so
                   shamefully
                   o'
                   th'
                   score
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   we
                   have
                   scarcely
                   credit
                   left
                   for
                   more
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   Thou
                   ,
                   in
                   whom
                   all
                   Graces
                   are
                   combin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   native
                   Wit
                   with
                   equal
                   Iudgment
                   joyn'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hast
                   taught
                   us
                   how
                   to
                   quell
                   our
                   
                     Bankrupt
                     Fear
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   bravely
                   quitting
                   all
                   the
                   
                     long
                     Arrear
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   Thy
                   single
                   Payment
                   ,
                   they
                   'll
                   with
                   thanks
                   allow
                
                 
                   A
                   just
                   return
                   for
                   all
                   those
                   Debts
                   we
                   owe.
                
                 
                   What
                   though
                   their
                   Tale
                   more
                   numerous
                   appear
                   ?
                
                 
                   Our
                   Coyn's
                   more
                   noble
                   ,
                   and
                   our
                   Stamp
                   more
                   fair
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   have
                   I
                   seen
                   a
                   Score
                   o'
                   th'
                   Dunning
                   Race
                   ,
                
                 
                   Discharg'd
                   their
                   
                     Paltry
                     Ticks
                  
                   with
                   one
                   Broadpi●●
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   hast
                   Thou
                   more
                   engag'd
                   thy
                   Home●
                
                 
                   Than
                   the
                   bare
                   Memory
                   of
                   ancient
                   Rome
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   far
                   thy
                   generous
                   Obligations
                   spread
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   both
                   to
                   bind
                   the
                   Living
                   and
                   the
                   Dead
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   would
                   please
                   thy
                   Hero's
                   awfull
                   Shade
                   ,
                   to
                   see
                
                 
                   His
                   Part
                   thus
                   Acted
                   o'er
                   again
                   by
                   Thee
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   ev'n
                   his
                   bare
                   Idea
                   has
                   that
                   pow'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   
                     Real
                     Scipio
                  
                   only
                   had
                   before
                   :
                
                 
                   Such
                   tenderness
                   his
                   very
                   Image
                   moves
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   ev'ry
                   gentle
                   Maid
                   that
                   reads
                   it
                   ,
                   Loves
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   ●o
                   see
                   with
                   what
                   new
                   Air
                   the
                   Lover
                   charms
                   !
                
                 
                   ●ill
                   doubly
                   bless'd
                   in
                   fair
                   Clarinthia's
                   Arms.
                
                 
                   ●riumphs
                   of
                   War
                   were
                   less
                   than
                   those
                   of
                   Peace
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   was
                   He
                   e'er
                   so
                   Great
                   in
                   any
                   Arms
                   ,
                   as
                   these
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   What
                   crowds
                   of
                   
                     Weeping
                     Loves
                  
                   wilt
                   Thou
                   create
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   in
                   thy
                   Lines
                   they
                   find
                   their
                   
                     Pictur'd
                     Fate
                  
                   ?
                
                 
                   Thou
                   'st
                   fram'd
                   each
                   Passion
                   with
                   so
                   soft
                   an
                   Art
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   needs
                   must
                   melt
                   the
                   hardest
                   Stoick's
                   heart
                   .
                
                 
                   Did
                   Zeno
                   live
                   to
                   see
                   thy
                   moving
                   sence
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   'd
                   sure
                   in
                   Love
                   an
                   Epicure
                   commence
                   ;
                
                 
                   ●he
                   
                     cold
                     Insensible
                  
                   would
                   disappear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   each
                   
                     Mourning
                     Fair
                  
                   he
                   'd
                   shed
                   a
                   Tear.
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   He
                   reads
                   the
                   happy
                   Lover's
                   Ioys
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   'd
                   tell
                   the
                   rapturous
                   pleasures
                   with
                   his
                   Eyes
                   :
                
                 
                   On
                   's
                   wrinkl'd
                   brows
                   a
                   smiling
                   Calm
                   would
                   shine
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   'd
                   think
                   each
                   Period
                   of
                   thy
                   Book
                   Divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   impatience
                   kiss
                   each
                   tender
                   line
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Yet
                   all
                   this
                   while
                   ,
                   such
                   are
                   thy
                   harmless
                   Flames
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   neither
                   Age
                   it self
                   ,
                   nor
                   Envy
                   blames
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Precise-Grave-Ones
                   cannot
                   disapprove
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Hero's
                   honourable
                   Love.
                
                 
                 
                   Thy
                   Lines
                   may
                   pass
                   severest
                   Virtue
                   's
                   Test
                   ,
                
                 
                   More
                   than
                   Astraea's
                   soft
                   ,
                   more
                   than
                   Orinda's
                   chast
                   .
                
                 
                   Young
                   
                     Country
                     Squires
                  
                   may
                   read
                   without
                   offence
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   
                     Lady
                     Mothers
                  
                   fear
                   their
                   debauch't
                   Innocence
                   .
                
                 
                   Only
                   beware
                   ,
                   
                     Incautious
                     Youths
                  
                   beware
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lest
                   when
                   you
                   see
                   such
                   
                     lovely
                     Pictures
                  
                   there
                   ;
                
                 
                   You
                   ,
                   as
                   of
                   old
                   the
                   
                     Fair
                     Enamour'd
                     Boy
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   Languish
                   for
                   those
                   feign'd
                   Beauties
                   you
                   descry
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   pine
                   away
                   for
                   
                     Visionary
                     Ioy.
                  
                
                 
                   Then
                   if
                   by
                   day
                   they
                   kindle
                   noble
                   Fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   gay
                   thoughts
                   your
                   nightly
                   Dreams
                   inspire
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Bless
                     ,
                     Bless
                  
                   the
                   Author
                   of
                   your
                   soft
                   desire
                   .
                
              
               
                 PHILASTER
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 Mrs.
                 
                   IANE
                   BARKER
                
                 ,
                 on
                 her
                 Resolution
                 of
                 Versifying
                 no
                 more
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 the
                 same
                 Author
                 .
              
               
                 MAdam
                 ,
                 I
                 can't
                 but
                 wonder
                 why
                 of
                 late
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 you
                 so
                 lov'd
                 ,
                 you
                 now
                 so
                 much
                 shou'd
                 hate
                 .
              
               
                 Your
                 Muse
                 ,
                 with
                 whom
                 you
                 thought
                 your self
                 once
                 blest
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 now
                 shou'd
                 banish'd
                 be
                 from
                 your
                 fair
                 Breast
                 :
              
               
                 'T
                 may
                 convince
                 some
                 (
                 but
                 that
                 it
                 ne'er
                 shall
                 me
                 )
              
               
                 That
                 in
                 your
                 Sex
                 there
                 is
                 inconstancy
                 ;
              
               
                 Whom
                 formerly
                 with
                 name
                 of
                 (a)
                 Gallant
                 grac'd
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 you
                 so
                 suddenly
                 shou'd
                 be
                 displac'd
                 .
              
               
                 Is
                 this
                 the
                 recompence
                 which
                 you
                 intend
              
               
                 Now
                 to
                 bestow
                 on
                 your
                 so
                 early
                 Friend
                 ?
              
               
                 Who
                 when
                 a
                 Child
                 ,
                 put
                 in
                 your
                 hand
                 a
                 Bough
                 (b)
                 ,
              
               
                 Hoping
                 ,
                 in
                 time
                 ,
                 it
                 might
                 adorn
                 your
                 Brow.
              
               
                 Methinks
                 you
                 do
                 't
                 ,
                 as
                 if
                 you
                 did
                 design
              
               
                 Fate
                 's
                 all
                 resistless
                 pow'r
                 to
                 countermine
                 .
              
               
               
                 What
                 else
                 shou'd
                 be
                 the
                 cause
                 ,
                 I
                 cannot
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 makes
                 you
                 so
                 averse
                 to
                 Poetry
                 ;
              
               
                 Unless
                 't
                 be
                 this
                 ,
                 'Cause
                 each
                 poor
                 rhiming
                 Fool
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 get
                 a
                 place
                 i'
                 th'
                 Ballad-maker's
                 School
                 ,
              
               
                 Spews
                 forth
                 his
                 Dogrel-rhimes
                 ,
                 which
                 only
                 are
              
               
                 Like
                 rubbish
                 sent
                 i'
                 th'
                 Streets
                 ,
                 and
                 every
                 Fair.
              
               
                 Is
                 this
                 an
                 Argument
                 ,
                 'cause
                 Beggars
                 Eat
                 ,
              
               
                 Therefore
                 you
                 'll
                 fast
                 ,
                 and
                 go
                 without
                 your
                 Meat
                 ?
              
               
                 So
                 Vertue
                 may
                 as
                 well
                 aside
                 be
                 laid
                 ,
              
               
                 Because
                 a
                 Cloak
                 for
                 Vice
                 too
                 oft
                 it
                 's
                 made
                 .
              
               
                 Shall
                 a
                 true
                 Diamond
                 of
                 less
                 value
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Because
                 abroad
                 some
                 Counterfeits
                 we
                 see
                 ?
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 compar'd
                 ,
                 how
                 eas'ly
                 may
                 we
                 know
              
               
                 Which
                 are
                 for
                 sale
                 ,
                 and
                 which
                 are
                 for
                 a
                 show
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 give
                 not
                 o'er
                 ,
                 for
                 in
                 this
                 Town
                 they
                 'll
                 say
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 new
                 Gallant
                 has
                 stol'n
                 your
                 Heart
                 away
                 :
              
               
                 Besides
                 ,
                 the
                 Muses
                 cannot
                 chuse
                 but
                 pine
                 ;
              
               
                 In
                 losing
                 You
                 ,
                 they
                 'll
                 lose
                 their
                 Number
                 Nine
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 the
                 Incomparable
                 AUTHOR
                 ,
                 Mrs.
                 
                   IANE
                   BARKER
                
                 ,
                 On
                 her
                 Excellent
                 ROMANCE
                 of
                 SCIPINA
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 a
                 Gentleman
                 of
                 St.
                 Iohn's
                 College
                 ,
                 Cambridge
                 .
              
               
                 FAir
                 
                   Female
                   Conquerour
                
                 ,
                 we
                 all
                 submit
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 joynt
                 force
                 of
                 Beauty
                 ,
                 and
                 of
                 Wit
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 thus
                 like
                 vanquish'd
                 Slaves
                 in
                 Triumph
                 led
                 ,
              
               
                 Lawrels
                 and
                 Crowns
                 before
                 the
                 Victor
                 spread
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 stupid
                 Enemy
                 to
                 Wit
                 and
                 Sence
                 ,
              
               
                 Dares
                 to
                 dispute
                 your
                 Sexes
                 Excellence
                 ?
              
               
                 That
                 Sex
                 which
                 doth
                 in
                 you
                 Triumphant
                 come
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 praise
                 with
                 Wit
                 of
                 Greece
                 the
                 Arms
                 of
                 Rome
                 ;
              
               
                 Secur'd
                 by
                 
                   solid
                   Sence
                
                 ,
                 you
                 soar
                 sublime
              
               
                 Above
                 the
                 little
                 flutt'ring
                 flights
                 of
                 Rhime
                 .
              
               
                 Antient
                 Philosophy
                 ,
                 embrac'd
                 by
                 few
                 ,
              
               
                 Smiles
                 and
                 looks
                 young
                 to
                 be
                 caress'd
                 by
                 you
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Out-rivals
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 drives
                 him
                 from
                 your
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 is
                 alone
                 of
                 your
                 whole
                 self
                 possest
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 Word
                 of
                 yours
                 the
                 nicest
                 can
                 reprove
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 show
                 a
                 more
                 than
                 modest
                 sense
                 of
                 Love
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 something
                 still
                 like
                 inspiration
                 shines
                 ,
              
               
                 Through
                 the
                 bright
                 
                   Virgin
                   Candor
                
                 of
                 your
                 lines
                 .
              
               
                 How
                 well
                 are
                 all
                 your
                 Hero's
                 toyls
                 and
                 fights
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 long
                 laborious
                 Days
                 ,
                 and
                 restless
                 Nights
                 ,
              
               
                 Re-paid
                 with
                 Glory
                 by
                 your
                 charming
                 Pen
                 ?
              
               
                 How
                 gladly
                 wou'd
                 he
                 act
                 them
                 o'er
                 again
                 ?
              
               
                 The
                 Great
                 Cornelian
                 Race
                 with
                 wonder
                 view
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Asian
                 Conquerour
                 ,
                 thus
                 adorn'd
                 by
                 you
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 th'
                 younger
                 Scipio
                 willingly
                 wou'd
                 quit
              
               
                 His
                 Titles
                 for
                 your
                 more
                 Triumphant
                 Wit.
              
               
                 On
                 then
                 ,
                 brave
                 Maid
                 ,
                 secure
                 of
                 Fame
                 advance
                 ,
              
               
                 'Gainst
                 the
                 Scaroons
                 and
                 Scudderies
                 of
                 France
                 .
              
               
                 Shew
                 them
                 your
                 claim
                 ,
                 let
                 nought
                 your
                 Merit
                 awe
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 Title
                 's
                 good
                 spight
                 of
                 the
                 Salique-Law
                 ;
              
               
                 Safe
                 in
                 the
                 Triumphs
                 of
                 your
                 Wit
                 remain
                 ;
              
               
                 Our
                 English
                 Laws
                 admit
                 a
                 Woman's
                 Reign
                 .
              
               
                 EXILIUS
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 ON
                 THE
                 POSTHUME
                 and
                 Precious
                 POEMS
                 OF
                 Sir
                 
                   MATTHEW
                   HALE
                
                 ,
                 Late
                 Lord
                 Chief
                 Iustice
                 of
                 His
                 Majesty's
                 Court
                 of
                 King's-Bench
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 a
                 Gentleman
                 of
                 Lincolns-Inn
                 .
              
               
                 THE
                 Rose
                 and
                 other
                 fragrant
                 Flow'rs
                 smell
                 best
              
               
                 When
                 they
                 are
                 pluck'd
                 and
                 worn
                 in
                 Hand
                 or
                 Breast
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 this
                 fair
                 Flow'r
                 of
                 Vertue
                 ,
                 this
                 rare
                 Bud
              
               
                 Of
                 Wit
                 ,
                 smells
                 now
                 as
                 fresh
                 as
                 when
                 he
                 stood
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 his
                 Poetry
                 doth
                 let
                 us
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 on
                 the
                 Banks
                 of
                 Helicon
                 did
                 grow
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Beauties
                 of
                 his
                 Soul
                 apparent
                 shine
                 ,
              
               
                 Both
                 in
                 his
                 Works
                 and
                 Poetry
                 Divine
                 ;
              
               
                 In
                 him
                 all
                 Vertues
                 met
                 ,
                 th'
                 Exemplary
              
               
                 Of
                 Wisdom
                 ,
                 Learning
                 ,
                 and
                 true
                 Piety
                 .
              
               
                 Farewell
                 Fam'd
                 Iudge
                 ,
                 Minion
                 of
                 Thespian
                 Dame●
                 ,
              
               
                 Apollo's
                 Darling
                 born
                 with
                 Enthian
                 Flames
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Which
                 in
                 thy
                 numbers
                 wave
                 ,
                 and
                 shine
                 so
                 clear
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 sparks
                 refracted
                 in
                 rich
                 Iems
                 appear
                 ;
              
               
                 Such
                 Flames
                 as
                 may
                 inspire
                 ,
                 and
                 Atoms
                 cast
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 new
                 Poets
                 not
                 like
                 him
                 in
                 hast
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 the
                 Admir'd
                 AUTHOR
                 ,
                 Mr.
                 
                   THOMAS
                   WRIGHT
                
                 ,
                 ON
                 HIS
                 Incomparable
                 HISTORIES
                 ,
                 ENTITULED
                 ,
                 God's
                 Revenge
                 against
                 Murther
                 and
                 Adultery
                 ,
                 with
                 the
                 Triumphs
                 of
                 Friendship
                 and
                 Chastity
                 .
                 Newly
                 published
                 in
                 a
                 small
                 Vol.
                 80.
              
               
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   I.
                   Whitehall
                
                 .
              
               
                 SInce
                 the
                 too
                 bold
                 aspiring
                 Angel
                 fell
              
               
                 (
                 By
                 his
                 Ambition
                 and
                 his
                 Pride
                 )
                 to
                 Hell
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 since
                 Rebellious
                 Man
                 lost
                 Paradise
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 World
                 is
                 fill'd
                 with
                 various
                 sorts
                 of
                 Vice
                 ;
              
               
                 Murther
                 and
                 Lust
                 ,
                 twin
                 Tyrants
                 ,
                 long
                 have
                 reign'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 a
                 vast
                 Empire
                 through
                 the
                 World
                 maintain'd
                 .
              
               
               
                 The
                 Sword
                 of
                 Iustice
                 could
                 not
                 stop
                 their
                 rage
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 've
                 boldly
                 tyranniz'd
                 in
                 ev'ry
                 Age
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 cou'd
                 Divines
                 their
                 furious
                 heat
                 asswage
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 doubtless
                 ,
                 Friend
                 ,
                 th'
                 Examples
                 you
                 have
                 giv'n
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 give
                 them
                 prospect
                 of
                 revenging
                 Heav'n
                 .
              
               
                 Your
                 Pen
                 with
                 Eloquence
                 divine
                 inspir'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Will
                 cool
                 the
                 Souls
                 with
                 Lust
                 and
                 Murther
                 fir'd
                 .
              
               
                 Tame
                 all
                 the
                 Passions
                 ,
                 regulate
                 the
                 Will
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 stop
                 that
                 Rage
                 which
                 guiltless
                 blood
                 wou'd
                 spill
                 .
              
               
                 Such
                 charming
                 Oratory
                 it
                 doth
                 give
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 teacheth
                 us
                 by
                 others
                 Death
                 to
                 live
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 a
                 Life
                 of
                 Chastity
                 and
                 Love
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 great
                 Advantage
                 to
                 our selves
                 improve
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 tell
                 thy
                 Fame
                 ,
                 I
                 want
                 great
                 Spencer's
                 Skill
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 gentle
                 charming
                 pow'r
                 of
                 Cowley's
                 Quill
                 :
              
               
                 All
                 Men
                 of
                 Sence
                 will
                 praise
                 thy
                 matchless
                 Prose
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 sharpest
                 Briar
                 bears
                 the
                 sweetest
                 Rose
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 his
                 Ingenious
                 FRIEND
                 ,
                 Mr.
                 
                   THOMAS
                   WRIGHT
                
                 ,
                 ON
                 HIS
                 Compendious
                 HISTORIES
                 OF
                 
                   Murther
                   ,
                   Adultery
                   ,
                   Friendship
                
                 and
                 Chastity
                 .
                 Some
                 of
                 the
                 former
                 being
                 Epitomiz'd
                 from
                 Mr.
                 Reynold's
                 Murthers
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 another
                 Hand
                 .
              
               
                 MAny
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 true
                 ,
                 knew
                 of
                 this
                 Golden
                 Mine
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 all
                 their
                 Skill
                 cou'd
                 not
                 the
                 Ore
                 Refine
                 :
              
               
                 Th'
                 inimitable
                 REYNOLD's
                 very
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 Startled
                 at
                 first
                 our
                 greatest
                 Men
                 of
                 Fame
                 ;
              
               
                 Each
                 one
                 by
                 fear
                 ,
                 from
                 that
                 great
                 task
                 was
                 hurl'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 tho'lanch'd
                 out
                 their
                 Sails
                 ,
                 were
                 quickly
                 furl'd
                 .
              
               
                 Wanting
                 thy
                 courage
                 ,
                 they
                 cou'd
                 never
                 soar
              
               
                 To
                 this
                 high
                 pitch
                 ,
                 which
                 none
                 e'er
                 reach'd
                 be●or●
                 .
              
               
               
                 The
                 Vulgar
                 paths
                 thou
                 shun'st
                 ,
                 soaring
                 sublime
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 with
                 quaint
                 Eloquence
                 thou
                 fraught'st
                 each
                 line
                 .
              
               
                 None
                 yet
                 so
                 sweetly
                 charm'd
                 with
                 Sence
                 the
                 times
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 gently
                 ,
                 and
                 so
                 well
                 rebuk'd
                 such
                 crimes
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 you
                 ,
                 my
                 Friend
                 ,
                 have
                 done
                 ;
                 for
                 you
                 present
              
               
                 Vice
                 so
                 deform'd
                 ,
                 the
                 Wicked
                 will
                 repent
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 Examples
                 of
                 the
                 chast
                 and
                 kind
                 ,
              
               
                 Fix
                 bright
                 Embellishments
                 upon
                 the
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 Such
                 as
                 may
                 make
                 us
                 to
                 improve
                 ,
                 and
                 be
              
               
                 Like
                 patterns
                 of
                 Heroick
                 Piety
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Wit
                 and
                 Skill
                 may
                 former
                 Artists
                 blame
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Reynold's
                 Murthers
                 now
                 we
                 must
                 not
                 name
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 sable
                 Darkness
                 ,
                 which
                 attends
                 the
                 Night
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 Days
                 Sun-beams
                 is
                 its
                 opposite
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 Vice
                 from
                 
                   Vertue
                   ,
                   Wrong
                
                 from
                 Right
                 's
                 the
                 same
                 ;
              
               
                 Then
                 how
                 canst
                 thou
                 write
                 wrong
                 ,
                 when
                 WRIGHT's
                 thy
                 Name
                 ?
              
            
             
               
               
                 ON
                 Christmas-day
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 God!
                 who
                 art
                 most
                 Excellent
                 and
                 Wise
                 !
              
               
                 I
                 see
                 the
                 
                   Morning
                   Beams
                
                 break
                 through
                 the
                 Skies
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 great
                 admiration
                 view
                 the
                 Light
              
               
                 Which
                 dissipates
                 
                   Nights
                   darkness
                
                 from
                 my
                 sight
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 with
                 a
                 greater
                 wonder
                 I
                 look
                 on
              
               
                 Those
                 bright
                 Illuminations
                 ,
                 which
                 thy
                 Son
              
               
                 Hath
                 brought
                 to
                 light
                 by
                 's
                 Incarnation
                 .
              
               
                 Look
                 and
                 admire
                 I
                 may
                 ,
                 but
                 can't
                 express
              
               
                 Such
                 heights
                 and
                 depths
                 of
                 Love
                 ,
                 in
                 Prose
                 or
                 Verse
                 :
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 beyond
                 th'
                 art
                 of
                 Rhet'rick
                 to
                 display
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 Chris●ians
                 solemnize
                 this
                 
                   F●stal
                   day
                
                 .
              
               
                 Two
                 sacred
                 Words
                 ,
                 are
                 an
                 Epi●ome
              
               
                 Of
                 what
                 's
                 effected
                 in
                 this
                 Mystery
                 ,
              
               
                 Redemption
                 and
                 Salvation
                 ;
                 heav'nly
                 Letters
                 !
              
               
                 Which
                 freed
                 fall'n
                 Man
                 from
                 th'
                 Bondage
                 of
                 his
                 Fetters
                 :
              
               
                 Lust
                 and
                 Ambition
                 ,
                 Avarice
                 and
                 Fraud
                 ,
              
               
                 Was
                 then
                 his
                 Master
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 Passions
                 Lord
                 :
              
               
               
                 Till
                 Christ
                 ,
                 his
                 great
                 Redeemer
                 ,
                 broke
                 the
                 Chain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 placed
                 him
                 in
                 Paradise
                 again
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 Love
                 most
                 infinite
                 !
                 O
                 Love
                 divine
                 !
              
               
                 This
                 Mystery
                 of
                 Love
                 was
                 truly
                 thine
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 neither
                 Men
                 nor
                 Angels
                 could
                 atone
              
               
                 Th'
                 Almighty's
                 Wrath
                 ,
                 but
                 God
                 and
                 Man
                 in
                 one
                 :
              
               
                 Wherefore
                 Divinity
                 submits
                 to
                 be
              
               
                 Lodg'd
                 in
                 a
                 Vessel
                 of
                 Humanity
                 .
              
               
                 How
                 ioyfully
                 ●he
                 heav'nly
                 Host
                 above
                 ,
              
               
                 Proclaim
                 to
                 Man
                 ,
                 glad
                 tydings
                 of
                 thy
                 Love
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 shall
                 Mankind
                 so
                 much
                 ungrateful
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 rather
                 sink
                 into
                 stupidity
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 not
                 with
                 equal
                 Ioy
                 this
                 Message
                 hear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 due
                 Rev'rence
                 to
                 their
                 Saviour
                 bear
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 finally
                 ,
                 Let
                 's
                 end
                 these
                 
                   Festal
                   days
                
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 sweet
                 Doxologies
                 ,
                 and
                 
                   Songs
                   of
                   Praise
                
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 UPON
                 DEATH
                 .
              
               
                 NAked
                 I
                 came
                 from
                 out
                 my
                 
                   Mother's
                   Womb
                
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 naked
                 must
                 return
                 unto
                 my
                 Tomb
                 ;
              
               
                 Disrob'd
                 of
                 all
                 Injoyments
                 here
                 below
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 what
                 my
                 Fancy
                 had
                 esteemed
                 so
                 ;
              
               
                 Laid
                 down
                 in
                 silence
                 ,
                 and
                 by
                 all
                 forgot
                 ;
              
               
                 Left
                 in
                 an
                 Earthly
                 Sepulchre
                 to
                 rot
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 turn
                 to
                 noisome
                 and
                 corrupted
                 Clay
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Manly
                 Shape
                 and
                 Figure
                 worn
                 away
                 :
              
               
                 Thus
                 when
                 our
                 little
                 breath
                 ,
                 and
                 life
                 's
                 once
                 gone
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 make
                 a
                 Feast
                 for
                 Worms
                 to
                 feed
                 upon
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 though
                 we
                 shou'd
                 the
                 most
                 Endearments
                 have
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 Wife
                 and
                 Children
                 too
                 ,
                 yet
                 we
                 must
                 leave
              
               
                 Them
                 ,
                 and
                 their
                 Fortunes
                 ,
                 unto
                 Providence
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 pale-fac'd
                 Death
                 shall
                 summon
                 us
                 from
                 hence
              
               
                 Why
                 do
                 we
                 stand
                 amaz'd
                 ,
                 and
                 seem
                 to
                 fear
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 e'er
                 the
                 news
                 of
                 a
                 Friend's
                 Death
                 we
                 hear
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 not
                 much
                 rather
                 to
                 applaud
                 the
                 Tongue
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 brought
                 intelligence
                 ,
                 he
                 liv'd
                 so
                 long
                 ;
              
               
               
                 For
                 Life's
                 so
                 mutable
                 ,
                 each
                 little
                 blast
              
               
                 May
                 the
                 whole
                 Fabrick
                 unto
                 ruin
                 hast
                 :
              
               
                 Life
                 is
                 a
                 Bubble
                 ,
                 which
                 now
                 you
                 see
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 a
                 moments
                 time
                 do's
                 disappear
                 ;
              
               
                 Full
                 as
                 inconstant
                 as
                 the
                 Wind
                 ;
                 alas
                 !
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 far
                 more
                 brittle
                 than
                 a
                 Venice-Glass
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 as
                 a
                 Shadow
                 ,
                 which
                 is
                 quickly
                 fled
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 as
                 a
                 Word
                 ,
                 which
                 in
                 as
                 small
                 time
                 's
                 said
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 as
                 a
                 Vapour
                 rising
                 from
                 the
                 Earth
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 at
                 the
                 most
                 't
                 is
                 but
                 a
                 little
                 Breath
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 is
                 this
                 truly
                 so
                 ?
                 and
                 shall
                 my
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Together
                 with
                 my
                 Souls
                 bright
                 Faculties
                 ,
              
               
                 Be
                 cheated
                 with
                 the
                 Worlds
                 gay
                 Vanities
                 ?
              
               
                 Certainly
                 no!
                 Adieu
                 ye
                 cheating
                 Pleasures
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 only
                 bear
                 the
                 empty
                 name
                 of
                 Treasures
                 ;
              
               
                 No
                 Sophistry
                 ,
                 or
                 stratagem
                 ,
                 can
                 hide
              
               
                 Your
                 gilded
                 Vanity
                 ,
                 your
                 Lust
                 and
                 Pride
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 as
                 for
                 Honour
                 ,
                 that
                 I
                 'll
                 most
                 avoid
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 lonesome
                 Cottage
                 shall
                 not
                 be
                 annoy'd
              
               
                 By
                 th'
                 noisome
                 Breath
                 of
                 a
                 confused
                 Rabble
                 ;
              
               
                 Void
                 of
                 calm
                 Reason
                 ,
                 full
                 of
                 nonsence
                 ,
                 babble
                 .
              
               
                 Besides
                 ,
                 my
                 Eyes
                 are
                 both
                 too
                 weak
                 and
                 dimm
              
               
                 To
                 guide
                 my
                 Feet
                 ,
                 whilst
                 I
                 so
                 high
                 must
                 climb
                 ,
              
               
               
                 To
                 reach
                 her
                 Pinacles
                 ;
                 which
                 if
                 I
                 do
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 but
                 to
                 make
                 me
                 fall
                 from
                 thence
                 more
                 low
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 as
                 for
                 worldly
                 Wealth
                 ,
                 my
                 bounds
                 I
                 set
                 ,
              
               
                 According
                 to
                 what
                 Prudence
                 do's
                 direct
                 .
              
               
                 Our
                 honest
                 Industry
                 is
                 not
                 deny'd
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 all
                 
                   disponding
                   Thoughts
                
                 are
                 laid
                 aside
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 much
                 I
                 can
                 most
                 lawfully
                 desire
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 may
                 with
                 decency
                 my
                 Life
                 attire
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 bear
                 me
                 up
                 ,
                 lest
                 I
                 too
                 much
                 shou'd
                 Mourn
                 ,
              
               
                 Before
                 I
                 fill
                 my
                 dark
                 and
                 silent
                 Urn.
              
               
                 Such
                 serious
                 Thoughts
                 as
                 these
                 delight
                 me
                 best
                 ;
              
               
                 Death
                 ,
                 when
                 fore-seen
                 in
                 time
                 ,
                 do's
                 quite
                 devest
              
               
                 A
                 Man
                 of
                 dubious
                 Thoughts
                 ,
                 and
                 frightful
                 Fears
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 a
                 Plaudit
                 closeth
                 up
                 his
                 Years
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 ON
                 THE
                 Divine
                 Spirit
                 .
              
               
                 AS
                 when
                 the
                 lab'ring
                 Sun
                 hath
                 wrought
                 his
                 track
              
               
                 Up
                 to
                 the
                 top
                 of
                 lofty
                 Cancer's
                 back
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 
                   Icie
                   Ocean
                
                 cracks
                 the
                 
                   Frozen
                   Pole
                
                 ,
              
               
                 Thaws
                 with
                 the
                 heat
                 of
                 
                   Celestial
                   Coal
                
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 when
                 thy
                 absent
                 Beams
                 begin
                 t'
                 impart
              
               
                 Again
                 a
                 Solstice
                 on
                 my
                 ●rozen
                 Heart
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Winter
                 's
                 o'er
                 ,
                 my
                 drooping
                 Spirits
                 sing
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 every
                 part
                 revives
                 into
                 a
                 Spring
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 if
                 thy
                 quickning
                 Beams
                 a
                 while
                 decline
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 their
                 Light
                 bless
                 not
                 this
                 Orb
                 of
                 mine
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 chilly
                 Frost
                 surprizeth
                 every
                 Member
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 the
                 midst
                 of
                 Iune
                 I
                 feel
                 December
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 how
                 this
                 
                   Earthly
                   temper
                
                 doth
                 debase
              
               
                 The
                 noble
                 Soul
                 ,
                 in
                 this
                 her
                 humble
                 place
                 !
              
               
                 VVhose
                 wingy
                 Nature
                 ever
                 doth
                 aspire
              
               
                 To
                 reach
                 that
                 place
                 ,
                 whence
                 ●irst
                 it
                 took
                 its
                 ●ire
                 .
              
               
                 These
                 Flames
                 I
                 feel
                 ,
                 which
                 in
                 my
                 Heart
                 do
                 dwell
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 not
                 thy
                 Beams
                 ,
                 but
                 take
                 their
                 fire
                 from
                 Hell.
              
               
               
                 O
                 quench
                 them
                 all
                 ,
                 and
                 let
                 thy
                 Light
                 Divine
              
               
                 Be
                 as
                 the
                 Sun
                 to
                 this
                 poor
                 Orb
                 of
                 mine
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 thy
                 Sacred
                 Spirit
                 convert
                 those
                 Fires
                 ,
              
               
                 VVhose
                 Earthly
                 fumes
                 crack
                 my
                 
                   devout
                   Aspires
                
                 !
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 the
                 Memory
                 of
                 the
                 Illustrious
                 Prince
                 GEORGE
                 ,
                 Duke
                 of
                 Buckingham
                 .
              
               
                 WHen
                 the
                 dread
                 Summons
                 of
                 
                   Commanding
                   Fate
                
              
               
                 
                   Sounds
                   the
                   
                     Last
                     Call
                  
                   at
                   some
                   proud
                   Palace-Gate
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   both
                   the
                   Rich
                   ,
                   the
                   Fair
                   ,
                   the
                   Great
                   ,
                   and
                   High.
                
                 
                   Fortunes
                   most
                   darling
                   Favourites
                   must
                   die
                   ;
                
                 
                   Strait
                   at
                   th'
                   Alarm
                   the
                   busie
                   Heraulds
                   wait
                
                 
                   To
                   fill
                   the
                   
                     Solemn
                     Pomp
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   
                     Mourn
                     in
                     State
                  
                   :
                
                 
                   Scutcheons
                   and
                   Sables
                   then
                   make
                   up
                   the
                   Show
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   on
                   the
                   Herse
                   the
                   mourning
                   Streamers
                   flow
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   all
                   the
                   rich
                   Magnificence
                   of
                   Woe
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   If
                   
                     Common
                     Greatness
                  
                   these
                   just
                   Rights
                   can
                   claim
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   
                     Nobler
                     Train
                  
                   must
                   wait
                   on
                   Buckingham
                   !
                
                 
                   When
                   so
                   much
                   Wit
                   's
                   Great
                   Re●ormer
                   ,
                   dyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   very
                   Muses
                   at
                   thy
                   Obsequies
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   The
                   Muses
                   ,
                   that
                   melodious
                   cheersull
                   Quire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   Misery
                   could
                   ne'er
                   untune
                   ,
                   nor
                   tire
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   chirp
                   in
                   Rags
                   ,
                   and
                   ev'n
                   in
                   Dungeons
                   sing
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Now
                   with
                   their
                   broken
                   Notes
                   ,
                   and
                   flagging
                   Wing
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   thy
                   sad
                   Dirge
                   their
                   murm'ring
                   Plaints
                   shall
                   bring
                   .
                
                 
                   Wit
                   ,
                   and
                   Wit
                   's
                   god
                   ,
                   for
                   Buckingham
                   shall
                   mourn
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   His
                   lov'd
                   Laurel
                   into
                   Cypress
                   turn
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   shall
                   the
                   
                     Nine
                     sad
                     Sisters
                  
                   only
                   keep
                
                 
                   
                     This
                     mourning
                     Day
                  
                   :
                   even
                   Time
                   himself
                   shall
                   weep
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   new
                   Brine
                   his
                   hoary
                   furrows
                   steep
                   .
                
                 
                   Time
                   ,
                   that
                   so
                   much
                   must
                   thy
                   great
                   Debtor
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   to
                   have
                   borrow'd
                   ev'n
                   new
                   Life●rom
                   ●rom
                   Thee
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   thy
                   gay
                   Wit
                   has
                   made
                   his
                   sullen
                   Glass
                
                 
                   And
                   tedious
                   Hours
                   with
                   new-born
                   Raptures
                   pass
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   What
                   tho'black
                   Envy
                   with
                   her
                   ranc'rous
                   Tongue
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   angry
                   Poets
                   in
                   embitter'd
                   Song
                
                 
                 
                   (
                   Whilst
                   to
                   new
                   tracks
                   thy
                   boundless
                   Soul
                   aspires
                   )
                
                 
                   Charge
                   thee
                   with
                   roving
                   Change
                   ,
                   and
                   wandring
                   Fires●
                
                 
                   Envy
                   more
                   base
                   did
                   never
                   Virtue
                   wrong
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Wit
                   ,
                   a
                   Torrent
                   for
                   the
                   Banks
                   too
                   strong
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   twenty
                   smaller
                   Rills
                   o'er-flow'd
                   the
                   Dam
                   ,
                
                 
                   Though
                   the
                   
                     main
                     Channel
                  
                   still
                   was
                   Buckingham
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Let
                   Care
                   the
                   busie
                   Statesman
                   over-whelm
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tugging
                   at
                   th'
                   Oar
                   ,
                   or
                   drudging
                   at
                   the
                   Helm
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   lab'ring
                   Pain
                   so
                   half-soul'd
                   Pilots
                   plod
                   ,
                
                 
                   Great
                   Buckingham
                   a
                   sprightlier
                   Measure
                   trod
                   :
                
                 
                   When
                   o'er
                   the
                   mounting
                   Waves
                   the
                   Vessel
                   rod
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unshock'd
                   by
                   Toyls
                   ,
                   by
                   Tempests
                   undismay'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Steer'd
                   the
                   
                     Great
                     Bark
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   as
                   that
                   danc'd
                   ,
                   He
                   play'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   bounds
                   thy
                   Praise
                   to
                   Albion's
                   narrow
                   Coast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Gallantry
                   shall
                   Foreign
                   Nations
                   boast
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   Gallick
                   Shore
                   ,
                   with
                   all
                   the
                   Trumps
                   of
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   endless
                   Ages
                   shall
                   resound
                   thy
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   Buckingham
                   ,
                   Great
                   CHARLES
                   Embassador
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   such
                   a
                   Port
                   the
                   
                     Royal
                     Image
                  
                   bore
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   So
                   near
                   the
                   Life
                   th'
                   
                     Imperial
                     Copy
                  
                   drew
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   ev'n
                   the
                   Mighty
                   Louis
                   could
                   not
                   View
                
                 
                   With
                   Wonder
                   only
                   ,
                   but
                   with
                   Envy
                   too
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   very
                   Fleur-de-Lize's
                   ●ainting
                   Light
                
                 
                   Half
                   droopt
                   to
                   see
                   the
                   
                     English
                     Rose
                  
                   so
                   bright
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Let
                   
                     Groveling
                     Minds
                  
                   of
                   Nature's
                   basest
                   mould
                
                 
                   Hug
                   and
                   Adore
                   their
                   dearest
                   Idol
                   ,
                   Gold
                   :
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Nobler
                   Soul
                   did
                   the
                   weak
                   Charms
                   defie
                   ,
                
                 
                   Disdain
                   the
                   
                     Earthly
                     Dross
                  
                   to
                   mount
                   more
                   High.
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   
                     Humbler
                     Merit
                  
                   on
                   Court-Smiles
                   depends
                
                 
                   For
                   the
                   
                     Gilt
                     Show'r
                  
                   in
                   which
                   their
                   Iove
                   descends
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thou
                   mount'st
                   to
                   Honour
                   for
                   a
                   Braver
                   End
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   others
                   borrow
                   ,
                   Thou
                   cam'st
                   there
                   to
                   lend
                   :
                
                 
                   Did'st
                   sacred
                   Vertues
                   naked
                   Self
                   adore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   left'st
                   her
                   Portion
                   for
                   her
                   sordid
                   Woer
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   poorer
                   Miser
                   how
                   dost
                   thou
                   out-shine
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   the
                   
                     Worlds
                     Slave
                  
                   ,
                   but
                   thou
                   hast
                   made
                   it
                   thine
                   :
                
                 
                   Great
                   Buckingham's
                   Exalted
                   Character
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   in
                   the
                   Prince
                   liv'd
                   the
                   Philosopher
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   all
                   the
                   Wealth
                   thy
                   Generous
                   Hand
                   has
                   spent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   raise
                   thy
                   
                     Everlasting
                     Monument
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   So
                   the
                   fam'd
                   Phoenix
                   builds
                   her
                   dying
                   Nest
                
                 
                   Of
                   all
                   the
                   richest
                   Spices
                   of
                   the
                   East
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   the
                   heap'd
                   Mass
                   prepar'd
                   for
                   a
                   kind
                   Ray
                
                 
                   Some
                   warmer
                   Beam
                   of
                   the
                   
                     Great
                     God
                     of
                     Day
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   Do's
                   in
                   one
                   hallow'd
                   Conflagration
                   burn
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   precious
                   Incense
                   to
                   her
                   
                     Funeral
                     Urn.
                  
                
                 
                   So
                   Thy
                   bright
                   Blaze
                   felt
                   the
                   same
                   Funeral
                   Doom
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   wealthier
                   Pile
                   than
                   old
                   Mausolus
                   Tomb.
                
                 
                   Only
                   too
                   Great
                   ,
                   too
                   Proud
                   to
                   imitate
                
                 
                   The
                   poorer
                   Phoenix
                   more
                   Ignoble
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   
                     Matchless
                     Worth
                  
                   all
                   Successors
                   defies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   scorn'd
                   an
                   Heir
                   shou'd
                   from
                   thy
                   Ashes
                   rise
                   :
                
                 
                   Begins
                   and
                   finishes
                   that
                   Glorious
                   Spheer
                   ,
                
                 
                   Too
                   Mighty
                   for
                   a
                   Second
                   Charioteer
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 UPON
                 THE
                 DEATH
                 OF
                 OLIVER
                 CROMWELL
                 ,
                 In
                 Answer
                 to
                 Mr.
                 W
                 —
                 '
                 s
                 Verses
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 Mr.
                 Godolphin
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 IS
                 well
                 he
                 's
                 gone
                 ,
                 (
                 O
                 had
                 he
                 never
                 been
                 !
                 )
              
               
                 Hurry'd
                 in
                 Storms
                 loud
                 as
                 his
                 crying
                 Sin
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Pines
                 and
                 Oaks
                 fell
                 prostrate
                 to
                 his
                 Urn
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 with
                 his
                 Soul
                 his
                 Body
                 too
                 might
                 burn
                 .
              
               
                 Winds
                 pluck
                 up
                 Roots
                 ,
                 and
                 fixed
                 Cedars
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 Roaring
                 for
                 Vengeance
                 to
                 the
                 Heavens
                 above
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 Guilt
                 from
                 him
                 like
                 Romulus
                 did
                 grow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 such
                 a
                 Wind
                 did
                 at
                 his
                 Ruin
                 blow
                 .
              
               
                 Praying
                 themselves
                 the
                 lofty
                 Trees
                 shou'd
                 fell
              
               
                 Without
                 the
                 Ax
                 ,
                 so
                 Orpheus
                 went
                 to
                 Hell
                 :
              
               
                 At
                 whose
                 descent
                 the
                 sturdiest
                 Oaks
                 were
                 cleft
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 whole
                 Wood
                 its
                 wonted
                 Station
                 left
                 .
              
               
               
                 In
                 Battle
                 Herc'les
                 wore
                 the
                 Lyon's
                 Skin
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 our
                 Fierce
                 Nero
                 wore
                 the
                 Beast
                 within
                 ;
              
               
                 Whose
                 Heart
                 was
                 Brutish
                 ,
                 more
                 than
                 Face
                 or
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 the
                 shape
                 of
                 Man
                 was
                 in
                 disguise
                 .
              
               
                 Where
                 ever
                 Men
                 ,
                 where
                 ever
                 pillage
                 lyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 rav'nous
                 Vultures
                 ,
                 or
                 wing'd
                 Navy
                 flyes
                 .
              
               
                 Under
                 the
                 Tropicks
                 he
                 is
                 understood
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 brings
                 home
                 Rapine
                 through
                 a
                 Purple
                 Flood
                 .
              
               
                 New
                 Circulations
                 found
                 ,
                 our
                 Blood
                 is
                 hurl'd
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 round
                 the
                 lesser
                 ,
                 so
                 the
                 greater
                 VVorld
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 
                   Civil
                   Wars
                
                 he
                 did
                 us
                 first
                 engage
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 made
                 
                   Three
                   Kingdoms
                
                 subject
                 to
                 his
                 rage
                 .
              
               
                 One
                 fatal
                 stroke
                 slew
                 Iustice
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 cause
              
               
                 Of
                 Truth
                 ,
                 Religion
                 ,
                 and
                 our
                 Sacred
                 Laws
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 fell
                 Achilles
                 by
                 the
                 Trojan
                 Band
                 ,
              
               
                 Though
                 he
                 still
                 fought
                 with
                 Heav'n
                 it self
                 in
                 hand
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 cou'd
                 
                   Domestick
                   Spoil
                
                 confine
                 his
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 limits
                 to
                 his
                 fury
                 ,
                 but
                 Mankind
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Brittish
                 Youth
                 in
                 Foreign
                 Coasts
                 are
                 sent
                 ,
              
               
                 Towns
                 to
                 destroy
                 ,
                 but
                 more
                 to
                 Banishment
                 .
              
               
                 VVho
                 since
                 they
                 cannot
                 in
                 this
                 Isle
                 abide
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 confin'd
                 Pris'ners
                 to
                 the
                 VVorld
                 beside
                 .
              
               
               
                 No
                 wonder
                 then
                 if
                 we
                 no
                 tears
                 allow
              
               
                 To
                 him
                 who
                 gave
                 us
                 Wars
                 and
                 Ruin
                 too
                 :
              
               
                 Tyrants
                 that
                 lov'd
                 him
                 ,
                 griev'd
                 ,
                 concern'd
                 to
                 see
              
               
                 There
                 must
                 be
                 punishment
                 to
                 crueltie
                 .
              
               
                 Nature
                 her self
                 rejoyced
                 at
                 his
                 Death
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 on
                 the
                 Halter
                 sung
                 with
                 such
                 a
                 Breath
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 made
                 the
                 Sea
                 dance
                 higher
                 than
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 her
                 glad
                 Waves
                 came
                 dancing
                 to
                 the
                 shore
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 ON
                 THE
                 LAST
                 DUTCH
                 WAR
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Benjamin
                   Willy
                
                 ,
                 sometime
                 Master
                 of
                 the
                 Free-School
                 of
                 Newark
                 upon
                 Trent
                 .
              
               
                 
                   RObb'd
                   of
                   our
                   Rights
                   !
                   and
                   by
                   such
                   Water-Rats
                   !
                
                 
                   We
                   'll
                   doff
                   their
                   Heads
                   ,
                   if
                   they
                   won't
                   doff
                   their
                   Hats
                   .
                
                 
                   Affront
                   from
                   
                     Hogen
                     Mogen
                  
                   to
                   endure
                   !
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   time
                   to
                   box
                   these
                   Butter-Boxes
                   sure
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   they
                   the
                   Flag
                   's
                   undoubted
                   Right
                   deny
                   us
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   won't
                   strike
                   to
                   us
                   ,
                   they
                   must
                   be
                   struck
                   by
                   Us.
                
                 
                 
                   A
                   Crew
                   of
                   Boors
                   ,
                   and
                   Sooterkins
                   ,
                   that
                   know
                
                 
                   Themselves
                   they
                   to
                   our
                   Blood
                   and
                   Valour
                   owe.
                
                 
                   Did
                   we
                   for
                   this
                   knock
                   off
                   their
                   Spanish
                   Fetters
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   'em
                   able
                   to
                   abuse
                   their
                   Betters
                   ?
                
                 
                   If
                   at
                   this
                   rate
                   they
                   rave
                   ,
                   I
                   think
                   't
                   is
                   good
                
                 
                   Not
                   to
                   omit
                   the
                   Spring
                   ,
                   but
                   let
                   'em
                   Blood.
                
                 
                   Rouse
                   then
                   ,
                   Heroick
                   Britains
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   not
                   Words
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Wounds
                   must
                   work
                   with
                   Leather-Apron-Lords
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   're
                   deaf
                   ,
                   and
                   must
                   be
                   talk'd
                   withall
                   ,
                   alas
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Words
                   of
                   Iron
                   ,
                   spoke
                   by
                   Mouths
                   of
                   Brass
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   hope
                   we
                   shall
                   to
                   purpose
                   the
                   next
                   bout
                
                 
                   Cure
                   'em
                   ,
                   as
                   we
                   did
                   Opdam
                   of
                   the
                   Gout
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   i'
                   th'
                   bottom
                   of
                   the
                   Sea
                   they
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   'll
                   have
                   enough
                   of
                   
                     Mare
                     Liberum
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   Our
                   brandish't
                   Steel
                   (
                   tho'
                   now
                   they
                   seem
                   so
                   tall
                   )
                
                 
                   Shall
                   make
                   'em
                   lower
                   than
                   Low-Countries
                   fall
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   they
                   'll
                   e'er
                   long
                   come
                   to
                   themselves
                   you
                   'll
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   we
                   in
                   earnest
                   are
                   at
                   Snick-a-snee
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   once
                   the
                   Boars
                   perceive
                   our
                   Swords
                   are
                   drawn
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   we
                   converting
                   are
                   those
                   Boars
                   to
                   Brawn
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Methinks
                   the
                   Ruin
                   of
                   their
                   
                     Belgick
                     Banners
                  
                
                 
                   Last
                   Fight
                   ,
                   almost
                   as
                   ragged
                   as
                   their
                   Manners
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Might
                   have
                   perswaded
                   'em
                   to
                   better
                   things
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   to
                   be
                   sawcy
                   with
                   the
                   best
                   of
                   Kings
                   .
                
                 
                   Is
                   it
                   of
                   Wealth
                   so
                   proud
                   they
                   are
                   become
                   ?
                
                 
                   Charles
                   has
                   a
                   Wain
                   ,
                   I
                   hope
                   ,
                   to
                   fetch
                   it
                   home
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   it
                   pay
                   himself
                   his
                   just
                   Arrears
                
                 
                   Of
                   
                     Fishing
                     Tribute
                  
                   for
                   this
                   Hundred
                   years
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   we
                   may
                   say
                   ,
                   as
                   all
                   the
                   Store
                   comes
                   in
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Dutch
                   ,
                   alas
                   ,
                   have
                   but
                   our
                   Factors
                   bin
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   fathom
                   Sea
                   and
                   Land
                   ,
                   we
                   ,
                   when
                   we
                   please
                   ,
                
                 
                   Have
                   both
                   the
                   Indies
                   brought
                   to
                   our
                   own
                   Seas
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   Rich
                   and
                   Proud
                   they
                   bring
                   in
                   Ships
                   by
                   Shoals
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   we
                   humble
                   them
                   to
                   save
                   their
                   Souls
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Pox
                   of
                   their
                   Pictures
                   !
                   if
                   we
                   had
                   'em
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   We'd
                   find
                   'em
                   Frames
                   at
                   Tyburn
                   ,
                   or
                   elsewhere
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   next
                   they
                   draw
                   be
                   it
                   their
                   Admirals
                   ,
                
                 
                   Transpeciated
                   into
                   Finns
                   and
                   Scales
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   which
                   wou'd
                   do
                   as
                   well
                   ,
                   draw
                   ,
                   if
                   they
                   please
                   ,
                
                 
                   Opdam
                   with
                   th'
                   
                     Seven
                     sinking
                     Provinces
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   draw
                   their
                   Captains
                   from
                   the
                   conqu'ring
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   F●rst
                   beaten
                   home
                   ,
                   then
                   beaten
                   back
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   after
                   this
                   so
                   just
                   ,
                   though
                   fatal
                   strife
                   ,
                
                 
                   Draw
                   their
                   dead
                   Boars
                   again
                   unto
                   the
                   Life
                   .
                
                 
                   Lastly
                   ,
                   Remember
                   to
                   prevent
                   all
                   Laughter
                   ;
                
                 
                   Drawing
                   goes
                   first
                   ,
                   but
                   Hanging
                   follows
                   after
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   then
                   Lampooning
                   thus
                   be
                   their
                   undoing
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   pities
                   them
                   that
                   purchase
                   their
                   own
                   Ruin
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   will
                   hereafter
                   trust
                   their
                   treacheries
                   ,
                
                 
                   Untill
                   they
                   leave
                   their
                   Heads
                   for
                   Hostages
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   as
                   the
                   Proverb
                   thus
                   of
                   Women's
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   Believe
                   'em
                   nothing
                   ,
                   though
                   you
                   think
                   'em
                   dead
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Dutch
                   are
                   stubborn
                   ,
                   and
                   will
                   yield
                   no
                   Fruit
                
                 
                   Till
                   ,
                   like
                   the
                   Wallnut-Tree
                   ,
                   ye
                   beat
                   'em
                   to
                   't
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 THE
                 LAST
                 SAYINGS
                 OF
                 A
                 MOUSE
                 ,
                 Lately
                 Starved
                 in
                 a
                 Cupboard
                 .
                 As
                 they
                 were
                 taken
                 in
                 Short-hand
                 by
                 a
                 Zealous
                 Rat-catcher
                 ,
                 who
                 listned
                 at
                 the
                 Key-hole
                 of
                 the
                 Cupboard
                 Door
                 .
              
               
                 
                   WRetch
                   that
                   I
                   am
                   !
                   and
                   is
                   it
                   come
                   to
                   this
                   ?
                
                 
                   O
                   short
                   continuance
                   of
                   Earthly
                   bliss
                   .
                
                 
                   Did
                   I
                   for
                   this
                   forsake
                   my
                   Country
                   Ease
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Liberty
                   ,
                   my
                   Bacon
                   ,
                   Beans
                   ,
                   and
                   Pease
                   ?
                
                 
                   Call
                   ye
                   me
                   this
                   the
                   breeding
                   of
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   my
                   young
                   Master
                   bragg'd
                   when
                   he
                   came
                   down
                   ?
                
                 
                   Fool
                   that
                   I
                   was
                   !
                   I
                   heard
                   my
                   Father
                   say
                
                 
                   (
                   A
                   Rev'rend
                   Mouse
                   he
                   was
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Beard
                   gray
                   )
                
                 
                   "
                   Young
                   Hunt-crum
                   ,
                   mark
                   me
                   well
                   ,
                   you
                   needs
                   must
                   rome
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   And
                   leave
                   me
                   and
                   your
                   Mother
                   here
                   at
                   home
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   "
                   Great
                   is
                   your
                   Spirit
                   ,
                   at
                   high
                   food
                   you
                   aim
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   But
                   have
                   a
                   care
                   —
                   believe
                   not
                   
                     lying
                     Fame
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   "
                   Vast
                   Bodies
                   oft
                   are
                   mov'd
                   by
                   slender
                   Springs
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   
                     Great
                     Men
                  
                   and
                   Tables
                   are
                   two
                   diff'rent
                   things
                   :
                
                 
                   "
                   Assure
                   thy self
                   ,
                   all
                   is
                   not
                   Gold
                   that
                   shines
                   ;
                
                 
                   "
                   He
                   that
                   looks
                   always
                   fa●
                   ,
                   not
                   always
                   dines
                   :
                
                 
                   "
                   For
                   oft
                   I
                   've
                   seen
                   one
                   strut
                   in
                   laced
                   Cloak
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   And
                   at
                   th'
                   same
                   instant
                   heard
                   his
                   Belly
                   croak
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   By
                   sad
                   experience
                   now
                   I
                   find
                   too
                   well
                   ,
                
                 
                   Old
                   Hunt-crum
                   was
                   an
                   arrant
                   Sydrophel
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   must
                   I
                   dye
                   ?
                   and
                   is
                   there
                   no
                   relief
                   ?
                
                 
                   No
                   Cheese
                   ,
                   though
                   I
                   give
                   over
                   thoughts
                   of
                   Beef
                   .
                
                 
                   Where
                   is
                   grave
                   Madge
                   ,
                   and
                   brisk
                   Grimalkin
                   now
                   ,
                
                 
                   Before
                   whose
                   Feet
                   our
                   Race
                   was
                   wont
                   to
                   bow
                   ?
                
                 
                   No
                   Owl
                   ,
                   no
                   Cat
                   ,
                   to
                   end
                   my
                   wofull
                   days
                   ?
                
                 
                   No
                   
                     Gresham
                     Engine
                  
                   my
                   lean
                   Corps
                   to
                   squeese
                   ?
                
                 
                   I
                   'd
                   rather
                   fall
                   to
                   Foes
                   a
                   noble
                   prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   squeek
                   my
                   Soul
                   out
                   under
                   Lock
                   and
                   Key●
                
                 
                   What
                   's
                   this
                   ?
                   a
                   pissing
                   Candles
                   latter
                   end
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   dear
                   beloved
                   Country-Save-all
                   Friend
                   ?
                
                 
                   Thou
                   dreadfull
                   Emblem
                   of
                   Mortality
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   nothing
                   savour'st
                   of
                   solidity
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Detested
                   Droll'ry
                   of
                   my
                   cruel
                   Fate
                   !
                
                 
                   This
                   shadow
                   of
                   a
                   Comfort
                   comes
                   too
                   late
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   you
                   my
                   Brethren
                   Mice
                   ,
                   if
                   any
                   be
                
                 
                   As
                   yet
                   unstarv'd
                   in
                   all
                   our
                   Family
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   your
                   obscure
                   Retreats
                   rise
                   and
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   your
                   ,
                   or
                   to
                   your
                   Ghosts
                   I
                   now
                   draw
                   near
                   .
                
                 
                   Unto
                   my
                   pristine
                   dust
                   I
                   hast
                   apace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Observe
                   my
                   hollow
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   and
                   meager
                   Face
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   learn
                   from
                   me
                   the
                   sad
                   reverse
                   of
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   better
                   to
                   be
                   innocent
                   than
                   great
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Good
                     Consciences
                  
                   and
                   Bellies
                   full
                   ,
                   say
                   I
                   ,
                
                 
                   Exceed
                   the
                   pomp
                   that
                   only
                   fills
                   the
                   Eye
                   .
                
                 
                   Farewell
                   you
                   see
                   (
                   my
                   friends
                   )
                   that
                   knew
                   me
                   once
                
                 
                   Pamper'd
                   and
                   smooth
                   ,
                   reduc'd
                   to
                   Skin
                   and
                   Bones
                   .
                
                 
                   Poor
                   as
                   a
                   Church-Mouse
                   !
                   O
                   I
                   faint
                   !
                   I
                   dye
                   !
                
                 
                   Fly
                   ,
                   fly
                   from
                   Cat
                   in
                   shape
                   of
                   Famine
                   ,
                   f●y
                   ;
                
                 
                   VVhilst
                   at
                   ●y
                   Death
                   I
                   my
                   Ambition
                   rue
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   this
                   my
                   Cupboard
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Coffin
                   too
                   ;
                
                 
                   Farewell
                   to
                   Victuals
                   ,
                   Greatness
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   you
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 TO
                 THE
                 SECRETARY
                 OF
                 THE
                 MUSES
                 .
                 A
                 NEW-YEARS-GIFT
                 .
              
               
                 IULIAN
                 ,
              
               
                 WIth
                 care
                 peruse
                 the
                 lines
                 I
                 send
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 when
                 you
                 've
                 done
                 ,
                 you
                 'll
                 find
                 I
                 am
                 your
                 friend
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 write
                 not
                 for
                 Applause
                 ,
                 or
                 if
                 I
                 doe
                 ,
              
               
                 who
                 'd
                 value
                 the
                 Applause
                 that
                 comes
                 from
                 you
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 from
                 your
                 Patrons
                 ,
                 who
                 of
                 late
                 we
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 However
                 they
                 're
                 distinguish'd
                 in
                 degree
                 ,
              
               
                 Forget
                 themselves
                 ,
                 and
                 grow
                 as
                 dull
                 as
                 thee
                 ?
              
               
                 As
                 often
                 drunk
                 ,
                 as
                 awkward
                 in
                 their
                 dress
                 ,
              
               
                 Fight
                 with
                 thy
                 courage
                 ,
                 Court
                 with
                 thy
                 success
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 their
                 fond
                 Impertinences
                 fail
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 strait
                 turn
                 Satyrists
                 ,
                 and
                 learn
                 to
                 rail
                 ;
              
               
               
                 With
                 false
                 Aspersions
                 whitest
                 truths
                 they
                 touch
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 will
                 abuse
                 ,
                 because
                 they
                 can't
                 debauch
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 Iulian
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 not
                 my
                 design
                 to
                 glean
              
               
                 Applauses
                 either
                 from
                 thy self
                 ,
                 or
                 them
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 meerly
                 to
                 assume
                 a
                 friendly
                 care
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 give
                 thee
                 Counsel
                 for
                 th'
                 ensuing
                 Year
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 if
                 all
                 pow'rfull
                 dullness
                 keep
                 its
                 station
                 ,
              
               
                 Dullness
                 chief
                 Manufacture
                 of
                 the
                 Nation
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 certainly
                 must
                 starve
                 the
                 next
                 Vacation
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 prevent
                 which
                 ,
                 observe
                 the
                 rules
                 I
                 give
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 never
                 are
                 too
                 old
                 to
                 learn
                 to
                 live
                 .
              
               
                 First
                 then
                 ,
                 to
                 all
                 thy
                 railing
                 Scriblers
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 do
                 their
                 wit
                 and
                 worth
                 in
                 Libels
                 show
                 ;
              
               
                 Bid
                 'em
                 correct
                 their
                 Manners
                 ,
                 and
                 their
                 Style
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 both
                 of
                 'em
                 begin
                 to
                 grow
                 so
                 vile
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 are
                 beneath
                 a
                 Carr-man's
                 scornfull
                 smile
                 :
              
               
                 Tell
                 'em
                 their
                 false
                 Coyn
                 will
                 no
                 longer
                 pass
                 ;
              
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 tell
                 'em
                 that
                 thou
                 know'st
                 it
                 to
                 be
                 Brass
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 above
                 all
                 ,
                 beg
                 'em
                 to
                 mend
                 their
                 strain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 I
                 fear
                 thy
                 pray'rs
                 will
                 be
                 in
                 vain
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 though
                 the
                 Old
                 year
                 ,
                 Iulian
                 ,
                 now
                 is
                 done
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 know
                 there
                 comes
                 another
                 rowling
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 still
                 another
                 too
                 when
                 that
                 is
                 gone
                 .
              
               
               
                 But
                 Wit
                 lyes
                 unmanur'd
                 ,
                 the
                 barren
                 stor●
              
               
                 Is
                 ebbing
                 out
                 —
                 I
                 fear
                 't
                 will
                 flow
                 no
                 more
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 well
                 thou
                 dost
                 not
                 live
                 on
                 Wit
                 alone
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 the
                 dull
                 trash
                 the
                 Men
                 of
                 Sence
                 disown
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 duller
                 Coxcombs
                 with
                 Applauses
                 crown
                 .
              
               
                 Since
                 folly
                 then
                 ,
                 and
                 nonsence
                 find
                 success
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 this
                 dull
                 trifle
                 pass
                 amongst
                 the
                 rest
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 swear
                 withall
                 the
                 Author
                 is
                 a
                 Wit
                 ;
              
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 when
                 thou'
                 rt
                 in
                 th'
                 Enthusiastick
                 fit
                 ,
              
               
                 Swear
                 't
                 is
                 the
                 highest
                 thing
                 that
                 e'er
                 was
                 writ
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 with
                 thy
                 noise
                 prepare
                 'em
                 by
                 degrees
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou'
                 rt
                 us'd
                 to
                 dullness
                 ,
                 and
                 thou
                 know'st
                 't
                 will
                 please
                 ,
              
               
                 Dull
                 then
                 as
                 't
                 is
                 ,
                 this
                 New-years-gift
                 of
                 mine
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 manag'd
                 well
                 ,
                 may
                 help
                 to
                 get
                 thee
                 thine
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 EPITAPH
                 ON
                 THE
                 SECRETARY
                 to
                 the
                 MUSES
                 .
              
               
                 UNder
                 this
                 weeping
                 Monumental
                 Stone
              
               
                 There
                 lies
                 a
                 Scribe
                 ,
                 who
                 ,
                 while
                 he
                 liv'd
                 ,
                 was
                 known
              
               
                 To
                 ev'ry
                 Bawd
                 ,
                 Whore
                 ,
                 Pimp
                 ,
                 Fop
                 ,
                 Fool
                 in
                 Town
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 scandal
                 he
                 was
                 born
                 ,
                 and
                 we
                 shall
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 now
                 he
                 's
                 dead
                 ,
                 there
                 's
                 little
                 left
                 behind
                 :
              
               
                 Vast
                 was
                 his
                 Courage
                 ,
                 witness
                 all
                 the
                 store
              
               
                 Of
                 noble
                 Scars
                 ,
                 that
                 to
                 his
                 Grave
                 he
                 bore
                 ;
              
               
                 All
                 got
                 in
                 War
                 ,
                 for
                 he
                 abhorr'd
                 a
                 Whore.
              
               
                 Of
                 spreading
                 Libels
                 nothing
                 shall
                 be
                 said
                 ,
              
               
                 Because
                 't
                 was
                 that
                 which
                 brought
                 him
                 in
                 his
                 Bread
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 't
                 is
                 a
                 crime
                 to
                 vilifie
                 the
                 Dead
                 .
              
               
                 His
                 Honour
                 for
                 Religion
                 still
                 was
                 great
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Covent-Garden
                 Church
                 he
                 'd
                 slumb'ring
                 sit
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 shew
                 his
                 Piety
                 was
                 like
                 his
                 Wit.
              
               
               
                 But
                 above
                 all
                 ,
                 Drink
                 was
                 his
                 chief
                 delight
                 ;
              
               
                 He
                 drank
                 all
                 day
                 ,
                 yet
                 left
                 not
                 off
                 at
                 night
                 :
              
               
                 Drink
                 was
                 his
                 Mistress
                 ;
                 Drinking
                 was
                 his
                 Health
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 without
                 Drinking
                 he
                 was
                 ne'er
                 himself
                 .
              
               
                 Ah
                 ,
                 cruel
                 Gods
                 !
                 what
                 Mercy
                 can
                 ye
                 boast
              
               
                 If
                 the
                 poor
                 Secretary's
                 frighted
                 Ghost
              
               
                 Shou'd
                 chance
                 to
                 touch
                 upon
                 the
                 Stygian
                 Coast
                 ?
              
               
                 But
                 ah
                 his
                 loss
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 now
                 too
                 late
                 to
                 Mourn
                 ;
              
               
                 He
                 's
                 gone
                 ,
                 and
                 Fate
                 admits
                 of
                 no
                 return
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 whither
                 is
                 he
                 gone
                 ?
                 to
                 's
                 Grave
                 ,
                 no
                 doubt
                 ;
              
               
                 Where
                 ,
                 if
                 there
                 's
                 any
                 Drink
                 ,
                 he
                 'll
                 find
                 it
                 out
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 SATYR
                 ,
                 In
                 Answer
                 to
                 the
                 SATYR
                 against
                 MAN.
                 
              
               
                 By
                 
                   T.
                   L.
                
                 of
                 Wadham
                 Colledge
                 ,
                 Oxon.
                 
              
               
                 
                   WEre
                   I
                   a
                   Sp'rit
                   ,
                   to
                   chuse
                   for
                   my
                   own
                   share
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   case
                   of
                   Flesh
                   and
                   Blood
                   I
                   'd
                   please
                   to
                   wear
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   'd
                   be
                   the
                   same
                   that
                   to
                   my
                   joy
                   I
                   am
                   ,
                
                 
                   One
                   of
                   those
                   brave
                   and
                   glorious
                   Creatures
                   ,
                   Man
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   is
                   from
                   Reason
                   justly
                   nam'd
                   the
                   bright
                
                 
                   And
                   perfect
                   Image
                   of
                   the
                   Infinite
                   :
                
                 
                   Reason's
                   Mankind's
                   Prerogative
                   ,
                   no
                   less
                
                 
                   Their
                   Nature's
                   honour
                   ,
                   than
                   their
                   happiness
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   which
                   alone
                   ,
                   the
                   meanest
                   Creature
                   blest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Were
                   truly
                   styl'd
                   the
                   Lord
                   of
                   all
                   the
                   rest
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whence
                   Man
                   makes
                   good
                   his
                   Title
                   to
                   the
                   Throne
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   th'
                   whole
                   Creation
                   his
                   Dominion
                   own
                   .
                
                 
                   Whence
                   he
                   o'er
                   others
                   ,
                   and
                   himself
                   presides
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   safe
                   from
                   Errour
                   as
                   Ten
                   thousand
                   Guides
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Through
                   Doubt's
                   distracting
                   Lab'rinths
                   it
                   directs
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   subtil
                   Windings
                   there
                   detects
                   .
                
                 
                   As
                   safely
                   steers
                   through
                   Life's
                   wide
                   Ocean
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   Skilful
                   Pilates
                   through
                   the
                   boundless
                   Main
                   ;
                
                 
                   It
                   shews
                   here
                   Scylla
                   ,
                   there
                   Charybdi●
                   lyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   between
                   both
                   securely
                   leads
                   the
                   Wise
                   ;
                
                 
                   VVho
                   Quick-sands
                   ,
                   Rocks
                   &
                   Gulfs
                   supinely
                   braves
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   desp'rate
                   Fool
                   may
                   perish
                   in
                   the
                   Waves
                   ;
                
                 
                   VVho
                   mad
                   and
                   heedless
                   wou'd
                   his
                   Guide
                   refuse●
                
                 
                   Can't
                   blame
                   that
                   reason
                   which
                   he
                   cannot
                   use
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   that
                   will
                   close
                   ,
                   or
                   leave
                   his
                   Eyes
                   behind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   not
                   accuse
                   his
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   because
                   they
                   're
                   blind
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   knowingly
                   ,
                   vain
                   Man
                   ,
                   his
                   Iourney
                   makes
                
                 
                   Through
                   Error
                   's
                   fenny
                   Bogs
                   ,
                   and
                   thorny
                   Brakes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   craggy
                   ,
                   steep
                   ,
                   untrodden
                   Paths
                   he
                   takes
                   ;
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   down-right
                   Nonsence
                   then
                   to
                   look
                   upon
                
                 
                   His
                   Errors
                   (
                   Nature's
                   Imperfection
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   Mankind
                   endite
                   with
                   a
                   wrong
                   Bill
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   reaches
                   not
                   his
                   Nature
                   ,
                   but
                   his
                   Will.
                
                 
                   Besides
                   ,
                   it
                   's
                   better
                   reason
                   to
                   infer
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   is
                   most
                   perfect
                   ,
                   which
                   can
                   mostly
                   Err
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Hound
                   that
                   's
                   fam'd
                   for
                   far
                   more
                   politick
                   Nose
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   Men
                   in
                   Parliament
                   or
                   Coffee-house
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Than
                   Country-Iustice
                   ,
                   or
                   Old
                   
                     Caesar's
                     Horses
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Consul
                   's
                   made
                   for
                   's
                   Skill
                   in
                   State-affairs
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   closest
                   Plots
                   can
                   scent
                   and
                   spoil
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   as
                   much
                   ease
                   as
                   he
                   devours
                   a
                   Bone
                   :
                
                 
                   Iowler
                   the
                   Wise
                   the
                   plodding
                   Iowler
                   is
                   ,
                
                 
                   Oft
                   at
                   a
                   fault
                   ,
                   and
                   oft
                   his
                   Hare
                   doth
                   miss
                   ;
                
                 
                   While
                   through
                   unerring-paths
                   a
                   Stone
                   descends
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   still
                   arrives
                   at
                   that
                   tow'rds
                   which
                   it
                   tends
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   therefore
                   those
                   are
                   wisest
                   which
                   attain
                
                 
                   By
                   surest
                   means
                   the
                   Ends
                   at
                   which
                   they
                   aim
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   latter
                   ,
                   doubtless
                   ,
                   will
                   be
                   wiser
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   Though
                   this
                   is
                   but
                   a
                   Stone
                   ,
                   th'
                   other
                   a
                   Hound
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   much
                   for
                   Reason
                   ,
                   th'
                   next
                   Attempt's
                   for
                   Man
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   him
                   I
                   must
                   defend
                   ,
                   and
                   him
                   I
                   can
                   .
                
                 
                   Well
                   then
                   :
                   Man
                   is
                   compos'd
                   of
                   Cruelty
                   and
                   Fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   these
                   his
                   great
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   best
                   Actions
                   are
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   charge
                   runs
                   high
                   ,
                   and
                   deeply
                   Man's
                   arraign'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Blood
                   is
                   poyson'd
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Nature
                   stain'd
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   I
                   shall
                   make
                   it
                   straight
                   with
                   ease
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   the
                   brisk
                   accusation's
                   too
                   severe
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   undertaking
                   to
                   disparage
                   him
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   leave
                   their
                   Text
                   ,
                   and
                   make
                   the
                   Beast
                   their
                   Theme
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   first
                   the
                   Fears
                   that
                   trouble
                   him
                   within
                   ,
                
                 
                   Proceed
                   not
                   from
                   his
                   Nature
                   ,
                   but
                   his
                   Sin
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   like
                   
                     pale
                     Ghosts
                  
                   ,
                   while
                   they
                   the
                   Murth'rer
                   haunt
                   ,
                
                 
                   Do
                   cramp
                   his
                   Soul
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   his
                   Courage
                   daunt
                   .
                
                 
                   Frame
                   gastly
                   Fantomes
                   in
                   his
                   guilty
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Frightfull
                   above
                   ,
                   below
                   ,
                   before
                   ,
                   behind
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   in
                   the
                   House
                   ,
                   alas
                   the
                   House
                   will
                   fall
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   in
                   the
                   Street
                   ,
                   each
                   is
                   a
                   tot'ring
                   Wall
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   in
                   the
                   Fields
                   ,
                   what
                   if
                   the
                   Poles
                   shou'd
                   crack
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   vast
                   Orbs
                   come
                   tumbling
                   on
                   his
                   back
                   ?
                
                 
                   A
                   Bird
                   ,
                   a
                   Wasp
                   ,
                   a
                   Beetle
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   no
                   small
                   dread
                   approach
                   his
                   trembling
                   Eye
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   lately
                   't
                   is
                   evinc'd
                   ,
                   all
                   Creatures
                   are
                
                 
                   No
                   less
                   than
                   Man
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   wild
                   state
                   of
                   War
                   ;
                
                 
                   VVhich
                   long
                   ago
                   the
                   wary
                   Emp'rour
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVho
                   hostile
                   flies
                   ,
                   with
                   Princely
                   Valour
                   slew
                   .
                
                 
                   Is
                   he
                   alone
                   ?
                   he
                   startles
                   when
                   he
                   sees
                
                 
                   His
                   moving
                   shadow
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   shadow
                   flees
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   who
                   can
                   evidence
                   but
                   that
                   may
                   be
                
                 
                   No
                   meer
                   privation
                   ,
                   but
                   an
                   Enemy
                   ?
                
                 
                   So
                   when
                   alone
                   a
                   tim'rous
                   Wretch
                   is
                   scar'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   he
                   's
                   not
                   ,
                   he
                   's
                   fearfull
                   of
                   his
                   Guard.
                
                 
                 
                   VVhat
                   shall
                   he
                   do
                   ?
                   or
                   whither
                   shall
                   he
                   fly
                   ?
                
                 
                   VVho
                   durst
                   not
                   live
                   ,
                   and
                   yet
                   he
                   durst
                   not
                   dye
                   :
                
                 
                   Say
                   you
                   who
                   e'er
                   have
                   felt
                   those
                   painfull
                   stabs
                   ;
                
                 
                   Say
                   wretched
                   Nero
                   ,
                   or
                   more
                   wretched
                   Hobbs
                   .
                
                 
                   Guilt
                   is
                   of
                   all
                   ,
                   and
                   always
                   is
                   afraid
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   fear
                   to
                   fear
                   successively
                   betray'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   guilt
                   alone
                   breeds
                   cow'rdise
                   and
                   distrust
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   all
                   Men
                   wou'd
                   be
                   Valiant
                   if
                   they
                   durst
                   ;
                
                 
                   Those
                   only
                   can't
                   ,
                   who
                   swear
                   ,
                   and
                   whore
                   ,
                   and
                   cheat
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sell
                   their
                   Honour
                   at
                   the
                   cheapest
                   rate
                   :
                
                 
                   Whom
                   brawling
                   Surfeits
                   ,
                   Drunkenness
                   and
                   Claps
                   ;
                
                 
                   Hurry
                   on
                   head-long
                   to
                   the
                   Grave
                   perhaps
                   :
                
                 
                   Such
                   some
                   call
                   Devils
                   ,
                   but
                   we
                   think
                   the
                   least
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   therefore
                   kindly
                   head
                   them
                   with
                   the
                   best
                   .
                
                 
                   Chuse
                   they
                   themselves
                   whose
                   Case
                   they
                   'll
                   please
                   to
                   wear
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Case
                   of
                   Dog
                   ,
                   the
                   Monkey
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   Bear.
                
                 
                   So
                   far
                   ,
                   I
                   doubt
                   not
                   ,
                   but
                   you
                   'll
                   find
                   it
                   clear
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   's
                   no
                   true
                   Man
                   ,
                   who
                   's
                   thus
                   compos'd
                   of
                   Fear
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   o'er
                   whose
                   Actions
                   Reason
                   doth
                   preside
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   makes
                   the
                   radiant
                   Light
                   his
                   constant
                   Guide
                   ;
                
                 
                   Vain
                   fear
                   can
                   never
                   o'er
                   his
                   Mind
                   prevail
                   ,
                
                 
                   Integrity
                   to
                   him
                   's
                   a
                   Coat
                   of
                   Mail
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Of
                   Vertues
                   and
                   of
                   Honesty
                   possest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Against
                   all
                   ills
                   h'as
                   trebly
                   arm'd
                   his
                   Breast
                   :
                
                 
                   Steel
                   ,
                   Bra●s
                   ,
                   and
                   Oak
                   ,
                   are
                   but
                   a
                   weak
                   defence
                   ,
                
                 
                   Compar'd
                   to
                   firm-resolved
                   Innocence
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   makes
                   the
                   Champion
                   ,
                   '
                   midst
                   the
                   Bloody
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bolder
                   than
                   he
                   who
                   ●ore
                   the
                   sev'n-fold
                   Shield
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   brave
                   the
                   World
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   dangers
                   there
                   ,
                
                 
                   Though
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   Air
                   ,
                   Sea
                   &
                   Land
                   all
                   constant
                   were
                   .
                
                 
                   As
                   unconcern'd
                   as
                   were
                   the
                   Forrest
                   Oak
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   feels
                   the
                   Lightning
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Thunder-stroak
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   meets
                   the
                   Lyon
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Ragged
                   Bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   a
                   great
                   mind
                   that
                   never
                   stoop'd
                   to
                   fear
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   the
                   Winds
                   blow
                   ,
                   they
                   spend
                   their
                   Breath
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   they
                   enrage
                   and
                   swell
                   their
                   boist'rous
                   Main
                   .
                
                 
                   Till
                   Waves
                   arise
                   ,
                   and
                   foaming
                   Billows
                   rowl
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   calm
                   in
                   spight
                   of
                   Tempest
                   is
                   his
                   Soul
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Syren-like
                   he
                   sings
                   amongst
                   the
                   Storms
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   brave
                   can
                   dye
                   ,
                   but
                   can
                   receive
                   no
                   harms
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   Men
                   are
                   cruel
                   :
                   no
                   ,
                   they
                   're
                   never
                   so
                
                 
                   While
                   they
                   continue
                   Men
                   ,
                   not
                   Monsters
                   grow
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   degen'rate
                   ,
                   they
                   their
                   pow'r
                   employ
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   to
                   preserve
                   their
                   kind
                   ,
                   but
                   to
                   destroy
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   When
                   once
                   unnat'ral
                   ,
                   they
                   themselves
                   engage
                
                 
                   In
                   Blood
                   and
                   Rapine
                   ,
                   Cruelty
                   and
                   Rage
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Beasts
                   on
                   Beasts
                   with
                   greater
                   Mercy
                   prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   rav'nous
                   Tygers
                   are
                   less
                   fierce
                   than
                   they
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   greatest
                   Good
                   abus'd
                   ,
                   turns
                   greatest
                   Evil
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   so
                   
                     fall'n
                     Lucifer
                  
                   became
                   a
                   Devil
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   who
                   'd
                   not
                   therefore
                   Blessed
                   Michael
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   'Cause
                   Devils
                   are
                   Angels
                   too
                   as
                   well
                   as
                   he
                   ?
                
                 
                   Or
                   else
                   to
                   instance
                   in
                   their
                   proper
                   sphere
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pale
                   and
                   corrupted
                   Wine
                   turns
                   Vinegar
                   ,
                
                 
                   Will
                   they
                   beyond
                   it
                   therefore
                   praise
                   
                     small
                     Beer
                  
                   ?
                
                 
                   While
                   they
                   debauch't
                   ,
                   are
                   to
                   each
                   other
                   Fiends
                   ,
                
                 
                   True
                   Men
                   are
                   good
                   unto
                   themselves
                   and
                   Friends
                   .
                
                 
                   Whose
                   kindness
                   ,
                   affability
                   and
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   Make
                   these
                   aboad
                   below
                   ,
                   like
                   those
                   above
                   :
                
                 
                   Good
                   without
                   self
                   ,
                   and
                   without
                   fawning
                   kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   own
                   no
                   Greatness
                   but
                   a
                   
                     Vertuous
                     Mind
                  
                   :
                
                 
                   Grave
                   ,
                   Learned
                   ,
                   Noble
                   ,
                   Valorous
                   and
                   Wise
                   ;
                
                 
                   High
                   without
                   pride
                   ,
                   and
                   meek
                   without
                   disguise
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Having
                   at
                   large
                   compleated
                   our
                   defence
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   will
                   in
                   short
                   describe
                   the
                   Men
                   of
                   Sence
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   first
                   their
                   Prowess
                   ,
                   next
                   their
                   Learning
                   shew
                   ;
                
                 
                   Lastly
                   their
                   Wit
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   we
                   'll
                   let
                   them
                   go
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   "
                   For
                   that
                   which
                   fools
                   the
                   World
                   ,
                   Religion
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Your
                   pains
                   are
                   sav'd
                   ,
                   because
                   the
                   Wise
                   have
                   none●
                
                 
                   Here
                   Hell's
                   great
                   Agent
                   Hobbs
                   i'
                   th'
                   front
                   appears●
                
                 
                   Trembling
                   beneath
                   a
                   load
                   of
                   guilt
                   and
                   fears
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Devil's
                   Apostle
                   sent
                   to
                   preach
                   up
                   Sin
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   so
                   convert
                   the
                   debauch'd
                   World
                   to
                   him
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whom
                   Pride
                   drew
                   in
                   as
                   Cheats
                   ,
                   their
                   Bubbles
                   catch
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   made
                   him
                   venture
                   to
                   be
                   made
                   a
                   Wretch
                   .
                
                 
                   Hobbs
                   ,
                   Natures
                   pest
                   ,
                   unhappy
                   England's
                   shame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   damns
                   his
                   Soul
                   to
                   get
                   himself
                   a
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Resolute
                   Villain
                   from
                   a
                   proud
                   desire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   being
                   Immortal
                   ,
                   leaps
                   into
                   the
                   fire
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   can
                   the
                   Caitiff
                   miss
                   his
                   desp'rate
                   aim
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   luscious
                   Doctrine
                   Proselytes
                   will
                   gain
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Though
                   't
                   is
                   sufficiently
                   absurd
                   ,
                   and
                   vain
                   )
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   proud
                   ,
                   ill-natur'd
                   ,
                   lustfull
                   Men
                   remain
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   's
                   as
                   long
                   as
                   Heav'n
                   and
                   Earth
                   endure
                   ;
                
                 
                   This
                   th'Halter
                   once
                   ,
                   but
                   nothing
                   now
                   can
                   cure
                   .
                
                 
                   Next
                   him
                   his
                   learn'd
                   and
                   wise
                   Disciples
                   view
                   ,
                
                 
                   Persons
                   of
                   signal
                   parts
                   ,
                   and
                   honour
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   the
                   ensuing
                   Catalogue
                   will
                   shew
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Huffs
                   ,
                   Fops
                   ,
                   Gamesters
                   ,
                   Highway-Men
                   ,
                   and
                   Players
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bawds
                   ,
                   Pimps
                   ,
                   Misses
                   ,
                   Gallants
                   ,
                   Grooms
                   ,
                   Lacquies
                   ,
                   and
                   Pages
                   ;
                
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   the
                   Poet
                   justly
                   thought
                   a
                   crime
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   place
                   in
                   Verse
                   ,
                   or
                   grace
                   them
                   with
                   a
                   Rhime
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   methinks
                   I
                   see
                   towards
                   me
                   Iig
                   ,
                
                 
                   Huge
                   Pantaloons
                   and
                   hu●fing
                   Periwig
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Hat
                   and
                   gaudy
                   Feather
                   o'er
                   it
                   spread
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   underneath
                   looks
                   something
                   like
                   a
                   Head.
                
                 
                   Bless
                   me
                   !
                   what
                   is
                   this
                   Antick
                   shape
                   ?
                   I
                   can
                
                 
                   Believe
                   it
                   any
                   thing
                   besides
                   a
                   Man
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   such
                   it
                   is
                   ,
                   for
                   I
                   no
                   sooner
                   ask
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   he
                   bears
                   up
                   ,
                   and
                   takes
                   me
                   thus
                   to
                   task
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Devil
                   —
                   straight
                   down
                   drop
                   I
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   my
                   weak
                   under-hearted
                   Friend
                   that
                   's
                   by
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Fiend
                   broke
                   loose
                   ,
                   cry'd
                   he
                   ,
                   I
                   fear
                   him
                   worse
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   shou'd
                   a
                   Hobbist
                   be
                   by
                   th'size
                   of
                   's
                   Curse
                   .
                
                 
                   Plague
                   —
                   for
                   a
                   peevish
                   snarling
                   Curr
                   ;
                
                 
                   Mercy
                   ,
                   I
                   cry
                   your
                   Mercy
                   ,
                   dreadfull
                   Sir
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   a
                   Broad-side
                   these
                   Weapons
                   fitter
                   are
                   ,
                
                 
                   Three
                   wou'd
                   at
                   least
                   sink
                   a
                   
                     Dutch
                     Man
                     of
                     War.
                  
                
                 
                   These
                   are
                   the
                   Sparks
                   ,
                   who
                   friends
                   with
                   stabs
                   do
                   greet
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bravely
                   Murther
                   the
                   next
                   Man
                   they
                   meet
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   boldness
                   break
                   a
                   sturdy
                   Drawer's
                   pate
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   the
                   Wine
                   's
                   bad
                   ,
                   or
                   Reck'ning
                   is
                   too
                   great
                   .
                
                 
                   Kill
                   a
                   poor
                   Bell-man
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   his
                   own
                   Bell
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   a
                   rare
                   jest
                   to
                   ring
                   the
                   Rascal's
                   Knell
                   :
                
                 
                   Cry
                   ,
                   
                     Dam
                     you
                  
                   to
                   a
                   Dog
                   that
                   takes
                   the
                   Wall
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   for
                   th'
                   affront
                   the
                   ill-bred
                   Cur
                   must
                   fall
                   :
                
                 
                   Swear
                   at
                   a
                   Coach-man
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Horses
                   kill
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   send
                   th'
                   uncivil
                   Sons
                   of
                   Whores
                   to
                   Hell.
                
                 
                   Upon
                   a
                   rude
                   and
                   justling
                   Sign-post
                   draw
                   ,
                
                 
                   Though
                   the
                   fam'd
                   Champion
                   George
                   look't
                   down
                   and
                   saw
                   .
                
                 
                   Assault
                   Glass-windows
                   ,
                   which
                   like
                   Crystal
                   Rock
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   firmly
                   stood
                   the
                   sharp
                   impetuous
                   shock
                
                 
                   Of
                   Twenty
                   Winters
                   ,
                   and
                   despis'd
                   their
                   pow'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   can't
                   withstand
                   their
                   matchless
                   Rage
                   one
                   hour
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   all
                   th'
                   Atchievements
                   of
                   
                     Romantick
                     Knights
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   bold
                   Encounters
                   and
                   heroick
                   Fights
                   ;
                
                 
                   One
                   only
                   Parallel
                   to
                   this
                   is
                   brought
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   furious
                   Don
                   the
                   
                     Gyant
                     Windmill
                  
                   fought
                   .
                
                 
                   Oh
                   that
                   this
                   Age
                   some
                   Homer
                   wou'd
                   afford
                   !
                
                 
                   Who
                   might
                   these
                   deeds
                   in
                   deathless
                   Verse
                   record
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   wou'd
                   his
                   large
                   Poetick
                   Soul
                   obtain
                
                 
                   A
                   subje●t
                   worthy
                   his
                   immortal
                   vein
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Where
                   greater
                   deeds
                   wou'd
                   his
                   great
                   Muse
                   employ
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   when
                   she
                   sang
                   the
                   tedious
                   Siege
                   of
                   Troy.
                
                 
                   Then
                   stout
                   
                     Achilles
                     ,
                     Ajax
                     ,
                     Diomede
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   future
                   Ages
                   with
                   contempt
                   wou'd
                   read
                   ;
                
                 
                   Despise
                   their
                   Name
                   ,
                   and
                   undeserv'd
                   Renown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   Ten
                   years
                   spent
                   to
                   win
                   a
                   paultry
                   Crown
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   War-like
                   boldness
                   ,
                   and
                   Advent'rous
                   deeds
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Camp
                   of
                   Venus
                   that
                   of
                   Mars
                   exceeds
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   an
                   Exploit
                   ,
                   no
                   doubt
                   ,
                   that
                   's
                   nobler
                   far
                
                 
                   T'
                   attempt
                   the
                   Dangers
                   of
                   a
                   
                     Female
                     War
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   in
                   vast
                   numbers
                   ,
                   resolute
                   and
                   bold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Viragoes
                   fight
                   for
                   Honour
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   Gold
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   unweary'd
                   Violence
                   oppose
                
                 
                   The
                   fiercest
                   Squadrons
                   of
                   assaulting
                   Foes
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   just
                   such
                   weapons
                   ,
                   and
                   such
                   courage
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   Did
                   war-like
                   Amazons
                   their
                   Men
                   subdue
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   venom'd
                   Arrows
                   from
                   their
                   Quiver
                   flew
                   .
                
                 
                   Next
                   we
                   'll
                   describe
                   ,
                   from
                   a
                   few
                   gen'ral
                   hints
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   usual
                   Learning
                   ,
                   and
                   Accomplishments
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   the
                   starch't
                   Notions
                   of
                   the
                   Hat
                   and
                   Knee
                   ,
                
                 
                   T'
                   excell
                   them
                   ,
                   they
                   defie
                   the
                   bravest
                   He.
                
                 
                   How
                   long
                   they
                   cringe
                   ,
                   when
                   within
                   doors
                   they
                   greet
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   y'
                   accoast
                   one
                   in
                   the
                   open
                   Street
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   VVhether
                   a
                   Lady
                   led
                   must
                   have
                   the
                   Wall
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   if
                   there
                   's
                   none
                   ,
                   which
                   Hand
                   to
                   lead
                   withall
                   .
                
                 
                   Which
                   of
                   the
                   two
                   the
                   House
                   first
                   enters
                   in
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   which
                   first
                   shou'd
                   the
                   vain
                   prate
                   begin
                   .
                
                 
                   VVhen
                   three
                   full
                   hours
                   ,
                   without
                   one
                   word
                   of
                   sense
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   'll
                   talk
                   you
                   on
                   genteel
                   impertinence
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   shall
                   be
                   surprizing
                   Complement
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   each
                   shall
                   have
                   at
                   least
                   five
                   Madams
                   in
                   't
                   ;
                
                 
                   Besides
                   the
                   Courtish
                   A-la-modish
                   He
                   ,
                
                 
                   Intriegue
                   Divine
                   ,
                   and
                   pleasant
                   Repartee
                   .
                
                 
                   Ladies
                   of
                   Pleasure
                   ,
                   they
                   from
                   Honour
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   the
                   Hood-knot
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   loose
                   Gestico
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   'll
                   tell
                   exactly
                   ,
                   if
                   her
                   temper
                   Red
                
                 
                   Be
                   bounteous
                   Nature's
                   gift
                   ,
                   or
                   borrowed
                   .
                
                 
                   Descry
                   a
                   Beauty
                   through
                   her
                   Mask
                   and
                   Shroud
                   ,
                
                 
                   Call
                   her
                   a
                   Sun
                   that
                   's
                   got
                   behind
                   a
                   Cloud
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   vigour
                   of
                   those
                   fopperies
                   I
                   lose
                
                 
                   For
                   want
                   of
                   breeding
                   ,
                   but
                   you
                   must
                   excuse
                
                 
                   For
                   this
                   a
                   Clownish
                   ,
                   rude
                   and
                   Cloyster'd
                   Muse.
                
                 
                   Nor
                   must
                   we
                   all
                   their
                   Acts
                   of
                   Lust
                   forget
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Excellence
                   surpassing
                   any
                   yet
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   Lust's
                   more
                   beastly
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   num'rous
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   Nero's
                   Pimp
                   ,
                   Petronius
                   ,
                   ever
                   knew
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   More
                   than
                   Albertus
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   Stagyrite
                   ,
                
                 
                   Though
                   both
                   profoundly
                   on
                   the
                   Subject
                   write
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   for
                   their
                   Wit.
                   
                
                 
                   They
                   have
                   one
                   waggery
                   the
                   top
                   o'
                   th'
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVhich
                   we
                   'll
                   put
                   first
                   ,
                   because
                   it
                   is
                   the
                   best
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   cheat
                   a
                   Link-Boy
                   of
                   three-half
                   pence
                   pay
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   slily
                   stealing
                   through
                   some
                   blind
                   back-way
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   what
                   compleats
                   the
                   Iest
                   ,
                   the
                   Boy
                   goes
                   on
                   ,
                
                 
                   Untill
                   the
                   place
                   appointed
                   he
                   's
                   upon
                   ,
                
                 
                   Never
                   suspects
                   the
                   cunning
                   Hero's
                   gone
                   .
                
                 
                   Having
                   thus
                   chous'd
                   the
                   Boy
                   ,
                   and
                   '
                   scap'd
                   by
                   flight
                   ,
                   speed
                
                 
                   He
                   scarcely
                   sleeps
                   for
                   laughing
                   all
                   the
                   Night
                   .
                
                 
                   Tricks
                   himself
                   up
                   th'
                   next
                   Morn
                   ,
                   and
                   hies
                   with
                
                 
                   To
                   tell
                   his
                   Miss
                   th'
                   intriegue
                   of
                   what
                   he
                   did
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   makes
                   reply
                   ,
                   'T
                   was
                   neatly
                   done
                   indeed
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   he
                   all
                   Company
                   do's
                   tire
                   and
                   worry
                
                 
                   For
                   a
                   whole
                   week
                   with
                   that
                   ridic'lous
                   Story
                   :
                
                 
                   Last
                   night
                   I
                   hapned
                   at
                   the
                   Tavern
                   late
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   be
                   where
                   five
                   of
                   these
                   great
                   Wits
                   were
                   sate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   was
                   so
                   nigh
                   as
                   to
                   o'er-hear
                   their
                   prate
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   dare
                   to
                   swear
                   ,
                   that
                   three
                   amongst
                   the
                   five
                   ,
                
                 
                   Were
                   
                     Woodcock
                     ,
                     Ninney
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Sir
                   Loslitive
                   .
                
                 
                   Had
                   Shadwell
                   heard
                   them
                   ,
                   he
                   had
                   stol'n
                   from
                   thence●
                
                 
                   A
                   Second
                   part
                   of
                   his
                   Impertinence
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Prologues
                   and
                   Epilogues
                   they
                   did
                   reherse
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   scraps
                   and
                   ends
                   of
                   stiff
                   untoward
                   Verse
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   strong
                   Almansor
                   Rants
                   cull'd
                   from
                   the
                   Plays
                
                 
                   Of
                   Goff
                   and
                   Settle
                   ,
                   and
                   great
                   Poet-Bays
                   .
                
                 
                   An
                   hour
                   or
                   two
                   being
                   spent
                   in
                   this
                   discourse
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   their
                   store
                   quite
                   drein'd
                   ,
                   they
                   fall
                   to
                   worse
                   ;
                
                 
                   T'
                   applaud
                   th'
                   invention
                   of
                   a
                   swinging
                   Oath
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   better-humour'd
                   Curse
                   that
                   fills
                   the
                   Mouth
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Bawdy
                   Iest
                   commands
                   the
                   gen'ral
                   Vogue
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   admire
                   and
                   hug
                   the
                   witty
                   Rogue
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   if
                   you
                   once
                   but
                   chance
                   to
                   break
                   a
                   Iest
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   the
                   dull
                   phlegmatick
                   and
                   formal
                   Priest
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   rather
                   vent
                   a
                   Droll
                   on
                   Sacred
                   Writ
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   th'
                   more
                   ingenious
                   still
                   ,
                   the
                   better
                   Wit.
                
                 
                   If
                   he
                   can
                   wrest
                   a
                   scrap
                   to
                   's
                   present
                   Theme
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   pretty
                   often
                   daringly
                   blaspheme
                   ;
                
                 
                   Oh
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   the
                   Archest
                   Rogue
                   ,
                   the
                   wittiest
                   Thing
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   shall
                   e'er
                   long
                   be
                   Iester
                   to
                   the
                   King
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   parallels
                   the
                   Thrice-renown'd
                   Archee
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   he
                   shail
                   write
                   a
                   Book
                   as
                   well
                   as
                   He
                   :
                
                 
                   Nay
                   more
                   ,
                   Sir
                   ,
                   he
                   's
                   an
                   excellent
                   Poet
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   'll
                   all
                   the
                   City
                   Ballad-men
                   out-doe
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   formal
                   high-bound
                   Muse
                   waits
                   to
                   expect
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   pensive
                   Mony-wanters
                   will
                   contract
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   Clov'n-foot
                   Satan
                   ,
                   or
                   some
                   wanton
                   Maid
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   shape
                   of
                   Sweet-heart
                   is
                   by
                   him
                   betray'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Each
                   common
                   trivial
                   humour
                   of
                   the
                   City
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fills
                   him
                   with
                   Rapture
                   ,
                   and
                   creates
                   a
                   Ditty
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   bawlers
                   of
                   Small-coals
                   ,
                   Brooms
                   ,
                   Pins
                   &
                   Spoons
                   ,
                
                 
                   Afford
                   him
                   matter
                   to
                   endite
                   Lampoons
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   Sir
                   Knight
                   take
                   a
                   Purge
                   a
                   Tunbridge
                   Waters
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   'll
                   shew
                   in
                   rhime
                   how
                   oft
                   ,
                   how
                   far
                   he
                   Squatters
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   forty
                   couples
                   of
                   Heroick
                   Verse
                   ,
                
                 
                   Express
                   the
                   features
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   springs
                   of
                   's
                   
                     A
                     —
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   Had
                   Hopkins
                   burlesqu'd
                   David
                   with
                   design
                   ,
                
                 
                   These
                   Wits
                   had
                   styl'd
                   his
                   silly
                   rhimes
                   divine
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   since
                   he
                   did
                   it
                   with
                   an
                   honest
                   Heart
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Tom
                     Hopkins
                  
                   Muses
                   are
                   not
                   worth
                   a
                   
                     F
                     —
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   Certainly
                   if
                   the
                   Dev'l
                   struck
                   up
                   and
                   sung
                   ,
                
                 
                   After
                   a
                   pawse
                   so
                   many
                   Ages
                   long
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   play'd
                   the
                   Poet
                   after
                   once
                   again
                   ,
                
                 
                   Though
                   in
                   that
                   old
                   abominable
                   strain
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   once
                   deliver'd
                   his
                   dark
                   Oracle
                   ;
                
                 
                   '
                   Twoud
                   pass
                   for
                   Wit
                   ,
                   because
                   it
                   came
                   from
                   Hell.
                
                 
                   But
                   being
                   of
                   Patience
                   totally
                   bere●t
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Room
                   and
                   house
                   in
                   rage
                   and
                   haste
                   I
                   left
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Now
                   sum
                   up
                   all
                   their
                   Courage
                   ,
                   Wit
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                
                 
                   Tell
                   me
                   if
                   Reason
                   will
                   allow
                   them
                   Men
                   ;
                
                 
                   Rather
                   a
                   large
                   and
                   handsome
                   sort
                   of
                   Apes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   Nature
                   hath
                   deny'd
                   our
                   Sulphur
                   ,
                   giv'n
                   our
                   Shapes
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   in
                   hot
                   Africk
                   Travellers
                   relate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mankind
                   in
                   folly
                   only
                   imitate
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   a
                   thing
                   s'
                   unlikely
                   shou'd
                   be
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   they
                   both
                   wear
                   our
                   Shape
                   and
                   Nature
                   too
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   'd
                   live
                   contented
                   under
                   any
                   state
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rather
                   than
                   prove
                   so
                   vain
                   ,
                   absurd
                   ,
                   degenerate
                   :
                
                 
                   An
                   Owl
                   ,
                   a
                   Kite
                   ,
                   a
                   Serpent
                   ,
                   or
                   a
                   Rat
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   a
                   more
                   hated
                   thing
                   ,
                   let
                   me
                   be
                   that
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   them
                   laugh
                   on
                   ,
                   and
                   site
                   the
                   thinking
                   Fools
                
                 
                   In
                   Rev'rend
                   Bedlam's
                   Colledges
                   and
                   Schools
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   Men
                   distracted
                   do
                   deride
                   the
                   Wise
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   their
                   concern
                   to
                   pity
                   and
                   despise
                   ;
                
                 
                   Let
                   me
                   to
                   Chains
                   and
                   Nakedness
                   condemn'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   wretched
                   life
                   in
                   frantick
                   Bedlam
                   spend
                   ;
                
                 
                   There
                   sigh
                   ,
                   pick
                   straws
                   ,
                   or
                   count
                   my
                   fingers
                   o'er
                   ,
                
                 
                   Weep
                   ,
                   laugh
                   ,
                   swagger
                   ,
                   huff
                   ,
                   quarrel
                   ,
                   sing
                   and
                   roar
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   with
                   Noll's
                   heav'nly
                   Porter
                   preach
                   and
                   pray
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rather
                   than
                   live
                   but
                   half
                   so
                   mad
                   as
                   they
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 Congratulatory
                 POEM
                 To
                 His
                 most
                 Sacred
                 Majesty
                 IAMES
                 the
                 Second
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
                 On
                 His
                 late
                 Victories
                 o'er
                 the
                 Rebels
                 in
                 the
                 West
                 .
              
               
                 SInce
                 Heav'n
                 your
                 Righteous
                 Cause
                 has
                 own'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 success
                 your
                 pow'rful
                 Army
                 Crown'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Silence
                 were
                 now
                 an
                 injury
                 as
                 rude
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 were
                 the
                 Rebel
                 's
                 base
                 ingratitude
                 .
              
               
                 While
                 th'
                 Glories
                 of
                 your
                 Arms
                 &
                 Triumphs
                 shine
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 to
                 Congratulate
                 ,
                 were
                 to
                 repine
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 Enemies
                 themselves
                 wou'd
                 strangely
                 raise
              
               
                 By
                 dis-ingenious
                 and
                 inglorious
                 Ways
                 ;
              
               
                 By
                 means
                 no
                 Vulgar
                 Spirit
                 wou'd
                 endure
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 such
                 as
                 either
                 Courage
                 want
                 ,
                 or
                 Power
                 .
              
               
               
                 But
                 while
                 your
                 Clemency
                 proclaims
                 aloud
                 ,
              
               
                 Compassion
                 to
                 the
                 miserable
                 Croud
                 .
              
               
                 Your
                 Royal
                 Breast
                 with
                 Love
                 and
                 Anger
                 burns
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 your
                 Resentment
                 into
                 Pity
                 turns
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 they
                 your
                 Princely
                 Pardon
                 did
                 refuse
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 were
                 resolv'd
                 all
                 Outrages
                 to
                 use
                 .
              
               
                 Stern
                 Murtherers
                 ,
                 that
                 rise
                 before
                 the
                 light
              
               
                 To
                 kill
                 the
                 Innocent
                 ,
                 and
                 rob
                 at
                 Night
                 :
              
               
                 Unclean
                 Adulterers
                 ,
                 whose
                 longing
                 Eyes
              
               
                 Wait
                 for
                 the
                 Twilight
                 ;
                 Enter
                 in
                 disguise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 say
                 ,
                 Who
                 sees
                 us
                 ?
                 Thieves
                 ,
                 who
                 daily
                 mark
              
               
                 Those
                 Houses
                 which
                 they
                 plunder
                 in
                 the
                 dark
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 whilst
                 your
                 Loyal
                 Subjects
                 Blood
                 they
                 seek
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 th'
                 Gibbet
                 or
                 the
                 Ax
                 at
                 last
                 they
                 meet
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 On
                 the
                 same
                 .
              
               
                 COu'd
                 I
                 but
                 use
                 my
                 Pen
                 ,
                 as
                 you
                 your
                 Sword
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'd
                 write
                 in
                 Blood
                 ,
                 and
                 kill
                 at
                 ev'ry
                 Word
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Rebels
                 then
                 my
                 Muse's
                 pow'r
                 shou'd
                 feel
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 find
                 my
                 Verse
                 as
                 fatal
                 as
                 your
                 Steel
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 sure
                 ,
                 
                   Great
                   Prince
                
                 ,
                 none
                 can
                 presume
                 to
                 write
              
               
                 With
                 such
                 success
                 as
                 you
                 know
                 how
                 to
                 Fight
                 ;
              
               
                 Who
                 carry
                 in
                 your
                 Looks
                 th'
                 Events
                 of
                 War
                 ,
              
               
                 Design'd
                 ,
                 like
                 Caesar
                 ,
                 for
                 a
                 Conquerour
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 World
                 of
                 your
                 Atchievements
                 are
                 afraid
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 th'
                 Rebels
                 sly
                 before
                 you
                 quite
                 dismay'd
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 ,
                 
                   Great
                   Prince
                
                 ,
                 may
                 you
                 Victorious
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 Fame
                 and
                 Arms
                 o'er-spreading
                 Land
                 and
                 Sea.
              
               
                 May
                 you
                 our
                 haughty
                 Neighbours
                 over-come
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 bring
                 rich
                 Spoils
                 and
                 peaceful
                 Laurels
                 home
                 ;
              
               
                 Whilst
                 they
                 their
                 Ruine
                 ,
                 or
                 your
                 Pardon
                 meet
                 ,
              
               
                 Sink
                 by
                 your
                 Side
                 ,
                 or
                 fall
                 before
                 your
                 Feet
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 PANEGYRICK
                 On
                 His
                 Present
                 Majesty
                 IAMES
                 the
                 SECOND
                 :
                 Occasionally
                 Written
                 since
                 His
                 late
                 Victories
                 obtained
                 over
                 the
                 Scotch
                 and
                 Western
                 Rebels
                 .
              
               
                 WHilst
                 with
                 a
                 strong
                 ,
                 yet
                 with
                 a
                 gentle
                 hand
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 bridle
                 Faction
                 ,
                 &
                 our
                 Hearts
                 command
                 ;
              
               
                 Protect
                 us
                 from
                 our
                 selves
                 ,
                 and
                 from
                 the
                 Foe
                 ;
              
               
                 Make
                 us
                 Unite
                 ,
                 and
                 make
                 us
                 Conquer
                 too
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 partial
                 Spirits
                 still
                 aloud
                 complain
                 ,
              
               
                 Think
                 themselves
                 injur'd
                 ,
                 'cause
                 they
                 cannot
                 reign
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 own
                 no
                 liberty
                 ,
                 but
                 whilst
                 they
                 may
                 ,
              
               
                 Without
                 controul
                 ,
                 upon
                 their
                 Fellows
                 prey
                 .
              
               
                 Above
                 the
                 Waves
                 ,
                 as
                 Neptune
                 shew'd
                 his
                 Face
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 chide
                 the
                 Winds
                 ,
                 and
                 save
                 the
                 Trojan
                 Race
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 has
                 your
                 Majesty
                 (
                 rais'd
                 above
                 the
                 rest
                 )
              
               
                 Storms
                 of
                 Ambition
                 tossing
                 us
                 represt
                 :
              
               
               
                 Your
                 drooping
                 Country
                 torn
                 with
                 Civil
                 hate
                 ,
              
               
                 Preserv'd
                 by
                 you
                 remains
                 a
                 Glorious
                 State.
              
               
                 The
                 Sea
                 's
                 our
                 own
                 ,
                 and
                 now
                 all
                 Nations
                 greet
              
               
                 With
                 
                   bending
                   Sails
                
                 ,
                 each
                 Vessel
                 of
                 our
                 Fleet.
              
               
                 Your
                 Power
                 extends
                 as
                 far
                 as
                 Winds
                 can
                 blow
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 
                   swelling
                   Sails
                
                 upon
                 the
                 Globe
                 can
                 go
                 .
              
               
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 that
                 has
                 plac'd
                 this
                 Island
                 to
                 give
                 Law
              
               
                 To
                 ballance
                 Europe
                 ,
                 and
                 her
                 States
                 to
                 awe
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 this
                 Conjunction
                 do's
                 o'er
                 Brittain
                 smile
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 greatest
                 Monarch
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 greatest
                 Isle
                 .
              
               
                 Whether
                 the
                 portion
                 of
                 this
                 World
                 were
                 rent
              
               
                 By
                 the
                 rude
                 Ocean
                 from
                 the
                 Continent
                 :
              
               
                 Or
                 thus
                 Created
                 ,
                 it
                 was
                 sure
                 design'd
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 the
                 sacred
                 refuge
                 of
                 Mankind
                 .
              
               
                 Hither
                 th'
                 Oppressed
                 shall
                 henceforth
                 resort
                 ,
              
               
                 Iustice
                 to
                 crave
                 ,
                 and
                 Succour
                 from
                 your
                 Court.
              
               
                 And
                 then
                 ,
                 
                   Great
                   Prince
                
                 ,
                 you
                 not
                 for
                 ours
                 alone
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 for
                 the
                 VVorld's
                 Defender
                 shall
                 be
                 known
                 .
              
               
                 Fame
                 ,
                 swifter
                 than
                 your
                 
                   Winged
                   Navy
                
                 ,
                 flyes
              
               
                 Through
                 ev'ry
                 Land
                 that
                 near
                 the
                 Ocean
                 lyes
                 ;
              
               
                 Sounding
                 your
                 Name
                 ,
                 and
                 telling
                 dreadfull
                 News
              
               
                 To
                 all
                 that
                 Piracy
                 and
                 Rapine
                 use
                 .
              
               
               
                 With
                 such
                 a
                 King
                 the
                 meanest
                 Nation
                 blest
                 ,
              
               
                 Might
                 hope
                 to
                 lift
                 her
                 head
                 above
                 the
                 rest
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 may
                 be
                 thought
                 impossible
                 to
                 doe
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 us
                 embraced
                 by
                 the
                 Sea
                 and
                 You
                 ;
              
               
                 Lords
                 of
                 the
                 Worlds
                 vast
                 Ocean
                 ,
                 happy
                 We
                 ,
              
               
                 Whole
                 Forrests
                 send
                 to
                 reign
                 upon
                 the
                 Sea
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 ev'ry
                 Coast
                 may
                 trouble
                 or
                 relieve
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 none
                 can
                 visit
                 us
                 without
                 our
                 leave
                 .
              
               
                 Angels
                 and
                 we
                 have
                 this
                 Prerogative
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 none
                 can
                 at
                 our
                 happy
                 Seat
                 arrive
                 :
              
               
                 Whilst
                 We
                 descend
                 at
                 pleasure
                 to
                 invade
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Bad
                 with
                 Vengeance
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Good
                 with
                 Aid
                 .
              
               
                 Our
                 
                   Little
                   World
                
                 ,
                 the
                 Image
                 of
                 the
                 Great
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 that
                 about
                 the
                 Boundless
                 Ocean
                 set
                 :
              
               
                 Of
                 her
                 own
                 Growth
                 ,
                 has
                 all
                 that
                 Nature
                 craves
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 that
                 's
                 rare
                 ,
                 as
                 Tribute
                 from
                 her
                 Slav●s
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 Egypt
                 do's
                 not
                 on
                 her
                 Clouds
                 rely
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 to
                 her
                 Nile
                 owes
                 more
                 than
                 to
                 the
                 Sky
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 what
                 our
                 Earth
                 ,
                 and
                 what
                 our
                 Heav'n
                 denies
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 ever
                 constant
                 friend
                 the
                 Sea
                 supplies
                 .
              
               
                 "
                 The
                 tast
                 of
                 hot
                 Arabia
                 Spice
                 we
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 Free
                 from
                 the
                 scorching
                 Sun
                 that
                 makes
                 it
                 grow
                 .
              
               
               
                 "
                 Without
                 the
                 Worm
                 in
                 Persian
                 Silk
                 we
                 shine
                 ,
              
               
                 "
                 And
                 without
                 Planting
                 drink
                 of
                 ev'ry
                 Vine
                 .
              
               
                 "
                 To
                 dig
                 for
                 Wealth
                 ,
                 we
                 weary
                 not
                 our
                 limbs
                 ;
              
               
                 "
                 Gold
                 ,
                 though
                 the
                 heaviest
                 Metal
                 ,
                 hither
                 swims
                 :
              
               
                 "
                 Ours
                 is
                 the
                 heaviest
                 where
                 the
                 Indians
                 mow
                 ;
              
               
                 "
                 We
                 plough
                 the
                 deep
                 ,
                 and
                 reap
                 what
                 others
                 sow
                 .
              
               
                 Things
                 of
                 the
                 noblest
                 kind
                 our
                 own
                 Sail
                 breeds
                 ;
              
               
                 Stout
                 are
                 our
                 Men
                 ,
                 and
                 war-like
                 are
                 our
                 Steeds
                 .
              
               
                 Here
                 the
                 Third
                 Edward
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 
                   Black
                   Prince
                
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 France
                 conquering
                 ,
                 did
                 flourish
                 ,
                 &
                 now
                 you
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 conqu'ring
                 Arms
                 whole
                 Nations
                 might
                 subdue
                 ;
              
               
                 Whilst
                 by
                 your
                 Valour
                 ,
                 and
                 your
                 Courteous
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 Nations
                 ,
                 divided
                 by
                 the
                 Seas
                 ,
                 are
                 joyn'd
                 .
              
               
                 Holland
                 ,
                 to
                 gain
                 your
                 Friendship
                 ,
                 is
                 content
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 your
                 safe-guard
                 on
                 the
                 Continent
                 :
              
               
                 She
                 from
                 her
                 
                   Fellow
                   Provinces
                
                 will
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 Rather
                 than
                 hazard
                 to
                 have
                 You
                 her
                 Foe
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 our
                 
                   late
                   Fight
                
                 ,
                 when
                 Cannons
                 did
                 diffuse
              
               
                 Preventing
                 Posts
                 ,
                 the
                 terrour
                 and
                 the
                 news
                 ;
              
               
                 Our
                 Neighb'ring
                 Princes
                 trembled
                 at
                 the
                 roar
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 our
                 Conjunction
                 makes
                 them
                 tremble
                 more
                 .
              
               
                 Your
                 Army
                 's
                 Loyal
                 Swords
                 made
                 War
                 to
                 cease
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 you
                 heal
                 us
                 with
                 the
                 Acts
                 of
                 Peace
                 .
              
               
               
                 Less
                 pleasure
                 take
                 ,
                 brave
                 Minds
                 ,
                 in
                 Battles
                 won
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 in
                 restoring
                 such
                 as
                 are
                 undone
                 .
              
               
                 Tygers
                 have
                 courage
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 
                   Ragged
                   Bear
                
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 Man
                 alone
                 can
                 ,
                 whom
                 he
                 conquers
                 ,
                 spare
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 pardon
                 willing
                 ,
                 and
                 to
                 punish
                 loth
                 ;
              
               
                 You
                 strike
                 with
                 one
                 hand
                 ,
                 but
                 you
                 heal
                 with
                 both
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 the
                 vex't
                 World
                 ,
                 to
                 find
                 repose
                 at
                 last
                 ,
              
               
                 It self
                 into
                 Augustus
                 Arms
                 did
                 cast
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 England
                 now
                 doth
                 ,
                 with
                 like
                 toil
                 oppress'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 weary
                 Head
                 into
                 your
                 Bosom
                 rest
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 let
                 the
                 Muses
                 with
                 such
                 Notes
                 as
                 these
                 ,
              
               
                 Instruct
                 us
                 what
                 belongs
                 unto
                 our
                 Peace
                 .
              
               
                 Your
                 Battles
                 they
                 hereafter
                 shall
                 indite
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 draw
                 the
                 Image
                 of
                 our
                 Mars
                 in
                 fight
                 .
              
               
                 Illustrious
                 Acts
                 high
                 raptures
                 do
                 infuse
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ev'ry
                 Conquerour
                 creates
                 a
                 Muse.
              
               
                 Here
                 in
                 low
                 strains
                 thy
                 milder
                 deeds
                 we
                 sing
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 then
                 ,
                 Great
                 Prince
                 ,
                 we
                 'll
                 Bays
                 and
                 Olive
                 bring
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 Crown
                 your
                 Head
                 ,
                 while
                 you
                 Triumphant
                 ride
              
               
                 O'er
                 vanquish'd
                 Nations
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Sea
                 bestride
                 ;
              
               
                 While
                 all
                 the
                 Neighbouring
                 Princes
                 unto
                 you
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 Ioseph's
                 slaves
                 ,
                 pay
                 reverence
                 and
                 bow
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 Congratulatory
                 POEM
                 ON
                 HIS
                 SACRED
                 MAIESTY
                 IAMES
                 the
                 SECOND's
                 Succession
                 to
                 the
                 Crown
                 .
              
               
                 NO
                 sooner
                 doth
                 the
                 Aged
                 Phoenix
                 dye
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 kind
                 indulging
                 Nature
                 gives
                 supply
                 .
              
               
                 Sick
                 of
                 her
                 Solitude
                 ,
                 she
                 first
                 retires
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 on
                 her
                 Spicy
                 Death-bed
                 then
                 expires
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 God's
                 Vicegerent
                 unconcern'd
                 ,
                 declines
              
               
                 The
                 Crown
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 his
                 Dignities
                 resigns
                 :
              
               
                 Like
                 dying
                 Parents
                 ,
                 who
                 do
                 first
                 commend
              
               
                 Their
                 Issue
                 to
                 th'
                 tuition
                 of
                 a
                 Friend
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 then
                 ,
                 as
                 if
                 their
                 chiefest
                 care
                 was
                 past
                 ,
              
               
                 Pleas'd
                 with
                 the
                 Settlement
                 ,
                 they
                 breathe
                 their
                 last
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 he
                 perceiving
                 th'
                 nigh
                 approach
                 of
                 Death
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 with
                 a
                 Period
                 must
                 close
                 his
                 Breath
                 .
              
               
               
                 His
                 Soul
                 he
                 first
                 to
                 God
                 doth
                 recommend
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 parts
                 from
                 's
                 dearest
                 Brother
                 ,
                 and
                 best
                 Friend●
              
               
                 Contentedly
                 resigns
                 his
                 dying
                 claim
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 him
                 Successor
                 of
                 his
                 Crown
                 and
                 Fame
                 :
              
               
                 One
                 whose
                 wise
                 Conduct
                 knows
                 how
                 to
                 dispence
                 ,
              
               
                 Proper
                 rewards
                 to
                 Guilt
                 and
                 Innocence
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 Prince
                 ,
                 within
                 the
                 Circle
                 of
                 whose
                 Mind
              
               
                 All
                 the
                 Heroick
                 Vertues
                 are
                 confin'd
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 diff'rently
                 dispers'd
                 ,
                 have
                 made
                 Men
                 great
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Prince
                 so
                 just
                 ,
                 so
                 oft
                 preserv'd
                 by
                 Fate
                 .
              
               
                 On
                 then
                 ,
                 
                   Great
                   Potentate
                
                 ,
                 and
                 like
                 the
                 Sun
                 ,
              
               
                 Set
                 with
                 the
                 splendid
                 Glory
                 you
                 've
                 begun
                 .
              
               
                 Disperse
                 such
                 hov'ring
                 Clouds
                 as
                 wou'd
                 benight
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 interpose
                 themselves
                 'twixt
                 us
                 and
                 light
                 .
              
               
                 You
                 boldly
                 dare
                 Iehovah's
                 Trust
                 attest
                 ,
              
               
                 Without
                 a
                 base
                 perswading
                 interest
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 pleasing
                 ●lattery
                 puts
                 on
                 her
                 charms
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 take
                 with
                 gentle
                 Arts
                 and
                 so●t
                 Alarms
                 ;
              
               
                 Fix't
                 with
                 a
                 Gallant
                 resolution
                 ,
                 you
              
               
                 Uncase
                 the
                 Hypocrite
                 ,
                 who
                 bids
                 adieu
              
               
                 To
                 this
                 confus'd
                 and
                 ill-digested
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Plots
                 new
                 Plots
                 to
                 Counter-plot
                 create
                 :
              
               
               
                 Trusting
                 to
                 Reason's
                 Conduct
                 as
                 your
                 guide
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 leave
                 the
                 threatning
                 Gulphs
                 on
                 either
                 side●
              
               
                 And
                 then
                 erect
                 such
                 marks
                 as
                 may
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 caution
                 others
                 from
                 a
                 Shipwrack
                 there
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 since
                 your
                 Reign
                 the
                 Rebels
                 plainly
                 see
              
               
                 The
                 mean
                 effects
                 of
                 their
                 black
                 Treachery
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Puritans
                 may
                 now
                 expect
                 in
                 vain
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 Gull
                 with
                 
                   Pious
                   Frauds
                
                 the
                 Land
                 again
                 :
              
               
                 You
                 ,
                 like
                 a
                 Great
                 Columbus
                 ,
                 will
                 find
                 out
              
               
                 The
                 hidden
                 World
                 of
                 deep
                 intriegues
                 and
                 doubt●
              
               
                 England
                 no
                 more
                 of
                 Iealousies
                 shall
                 know●
              
               
                 But
                 
                   Halcyon
                   Peace
                
                 shall
                 build
                 ,
                 and
                 Plenty
                 flow
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 Proud
                 Thames
                 ,
                 swell'd
                 high
                 ,
                 no
                 more
                 complains
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 smilingly
                 looks
                 on
                 the
                 peaceful
                 Plains
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 Angry
                 Tempest
                 then
                 shall
                 curl
                 her
                 Brow.
              
               
                 Glad
                 to
                 behold
                 revived
                 Commerce
                 grow
                 ;
              
               
                 Whilst
                 We
                 to
                 IAMES
                 the
                 Second
                 make
                 Address●
              
               
                 Striving
                 who
                 most
                 shall
                 Loyalty
                 express
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 Faction
                 shall
                 us
                 from
                 our selves
                 divide
                 ,
              
               
                 More
                 than
                 the
                 Sea
                 from
                 all
                 the
                 World
                 beside
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 link'd
                 together
                 in
                 one
                 Chain
                 of
                 Love
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 one
                 Spring
                 Unanimous
                 we
                 'll
                 move
                 ;
              
               
               
                 That
                 to
                 our
                 Foes
                 regret
                 it
                 may
                 be
                 said
                 ,
              
               
                 VVe
                 are
                 again
                 one
                 Body
                 ,
                 and
                 one
                 Head
                 :
              
               
                 Which
                 God
                 preserve
                 ,
                 and
                 grant
                 that
                 long
                 you
                 may
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Righteousness
                 and
                 Peace
                 the
                 Scepter
                 sway
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 ON
                 THE
                 PRESENTATION
                 OF
                 A
                 BIRD
                 to
                 his
                 MISTRISS
                 .
              
               
                 WAlking
                 abroad
                 to
                 tast
                 the
                 welcom
                 Spring
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 hear
                 the
                 Birds
                 their
                 lays
                 mos●
                 sweetly
                 sing
                 ;
              
               
                 Plac'd
                 on
                 a
                 spreading
                 Elm
                 amongst
                 the
                 rest
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 Whose
                 rare
                 harmonious
                 warbling
                 pleas'd
                 me
                 best
                 )
              
               
                 Was
                 one
                 I
                 tempted
                 to
                 my
                 lure
                 ,
                 and
                 caught
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 now
                 (
                 fair
                 Saint
                 )
                 I
                 send
                 you
                 to
                 be
                 taught
                 :
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 young
                 ,
                 and
                 apt
                 to
                 learn
                 ;
                 and
                 sure
                 no
                 Voice
              
               
                 VVas
                 e'er
                 so
                 full
                 of
                 Art
                 ,
                 so
                 clear
                 and
                 choice
              
               
                 As
                 yours
                 ,
                 t'
                 instruct
                 it
                 ,
                 that
                 in
                 time
                 't
                 may
                 rise
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 the
                 sweet-tongu'd
                 Bird
                 of
                 Paradise
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 ADVICE
                 TO
                 SILLY
                 MAIDS●
              
               
                 By
                 an
                 Unknown
                 Authour
                 .
              
               
                 WIthin
                 a
                 
                   Virgins
                   Bosom
                
                 of
                 Fifteen
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 God
                 of
                 Love
                 doth
                 place
                 his
                 Magazeen
                 :
              
               
                 Hoards
                 up
                 his
                 treasure
                 ,
                 all
                 his
                 pow'rfull
                 Charms
                 ;
              
               
                 Her
                 Breasts
                 his
                 Quiver
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 Bow
                 her
                 Arms.
              
               
                 Beauty
                 sits
                 then
                 triumphant
                 on
                 her
                 brow
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 doth
                 command
                 the
                 World
                 ,
                 all
                 Mortals
                 bow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 worship
                 at
                 the
                 Altars
                 of
                 her
                 Eyes
                 ;
              
               
                 She
                 seems
                 a
                 Goddess
                 ,
                 and
                 Men
                 Idolize
                 .
              
               
                 At
                 these
                 years
                 Nature
                 hath
                 perform'd
                 her
                 part
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 leaves
                 the
                 rest
                 to
                 be
                 improv'd
                 by
                 Art
                 ;
              
               
                 Which
                 with
                 such
                 skill
                 is
                 manag'd
                 ●ive
                 years
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 day
                 fresh
                 Glories
                 add
                 to
                 th'
                 former
                 store
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 motion
                 of
                 the
                 Body
                 ,
                 rich
                 attire
                 ,
              
               
                 Obliging
                 look
                 ,
                 kind
                 language
                 ;
                 all
                 conspire
              
               
                 To
                 catch
                 poor
                 Man
                 ,
                 and
                 set
                 his
                 Heart
                 on
                 fire
                 .
              
               
               
                 During
                 this
                 harvest
                 ,
                 they
                 may
                 pick
                 and
                 choose
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 have
                 a
                 care
                 ,
                 fair
                 Virgins
                 ,
                 lest
                 you
                 lose
              
               
                 Th'
                 advantage
                 which
                 this
                 happy
                 season
                 yields
                 :
              
               
                 Cold
                 Winter-frosts
                 will
                 nip
                 your
                 blooming
                 Fields
                 ,
              
               
                 Wither
                 your
                 Roses
                 ,
                 make
                 your
                 Lillies
                 dye
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 quench
                 the
                 scorching
                 Flambeau
                 of
                 your
                 Eye
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 when
                 the
                 clock
                 of
                 Age
                 has
                 Thirty
                 told
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 never
                 Man
                 yet
                 touch'd
                 your
                 Copy-hold
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 sudden
                 alteration
                 then
                 you
                 'll
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 Both
                 in
                 your
                 state
                 of
                 Body
                 ,
                 and
                 of
                 Mind
                 :
              
               
                 You
                 then
                 shall
                 pine
                 ,
                 for
                 what
                 you
                 now
                 do
                 slight
                 ;
              
               
                 Fret
                 inwardly
                 all
                 day
                 ,
                 and
                 cry
                 all
                 night
                 ;
              
               
                 Devour
                 the
                 Sheets
                 with
                 folded
                 Arms
                 ,
                 complain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 wish
                 you
                 had
                 him
                 there
                 ,
                 but
                 wish
                 in
                 vain
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 in
                 your
                 Thoughts
                 insipid
                 pleasures
                 steal
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 on
                 lean
                 Fancy
                 make
                 a
                 hungry
                 meal
                 .
              
               
                 Your
                 Bodies
                 too
                 will
                 with
                 your
                 Minds
                 decay
                 ;
              
               
                 As
                 those
                 grow
                 crais'd
                 ,
                 so
                 these
                 will
                 wast
                 away
                 .
              
               
                 All
                 nauseous
                 food
                 your
                 Appetites
                 will
                 please
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 nourish
                 indigested
                 Crudities
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 once
                 your
                 Mind
                 's
                 disturb'd
                 ,
                 Nature
                 begins
              
               
                 To
                 furl
                 her
                 Trophies
                 up
                 in
                 wrinkled
                 Skins
                 .
              
               
                 Who
                 can
                 expect
                 the
                 Body
                 e'er
                 shou'd
                 thrive
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 lack
                 its
                 natural
                 preservative
                 ?
              
               
               
                 VVanting
                 due
                 seasoning
                 ,
                 all
                 flesh
                 will
                 taint
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 Man
                 preserves
                 Complexion
                 more
                 than
                 Paint
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 high
                 a
                 Cordial
                 he
                 doth
                 prepare
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 
                   Natures
                   Limbeck
                
                 ,
                 if
                 apply'd
                 with
                 care
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 will
                 perform
                 the
                 very
                 work
                 of
                 Fate
                 ;
              
               
                 Not
                 only
                 Life
                 preserve
                 ,
                 but
                 Life
                 create
                 .
              
               
                 Be
                 wise
                 in
                 time
                 ,
                 lest
                 you
                 too
                 late
                 repent
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 some
                 prudent
                 choice
                 those
                 ills
                 prevent
                 :
              
               
                 Get
                 a
                 brisk
                 Consort
                 to
                 supply
                 your
                 want
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 let
                 him
                 be
                 a
                 Husband
                 ,
                 no
                 Gallant
                 .
              
               
                 There
                 lies
                 much
                 virtue
                 in
                 a
                 Levite's
                 Spell
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 more
                 in
                 th'
                 active
                 part
                 ,
                 performing
                 well
                 ;
              
               
                 There
                 's
                 the
                 intrinsick
                 worth
                 ,
                 the
                 charming
                 bliss
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 do's
                 conveigh
                 your
                 Souls
                 to
                 Paradise
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 will
                 make
                 you
                 dye
                 with
                 a
                 delightfull
                 pain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 like
                 ecstasie
                 revive
                 again
                 .
              
               
                 Part
                 with
                 that
                 
                   Virgin
                   Toy
                
                 ,
                 while
                 in
                 the
                 prime
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Fruit
                 will
                 rot
                 o'
                 th'
                 Tree
                 ,
                 not
                 took
                 in
                 time
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 if
                 you
                 will
                 continue
                 proud
                 and
                 coy
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 slight
                 those
                 Men
                 who
                 court
                 you
                 to
                 enjoy
                 ;
              
               
                 Here
                 you
                 in
                 wretched
                 Ignorance
                 shall
                 dwell
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 may
                 deservedly
                 
                   lead
                   Apes
                   in
                   Hell.
                
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 Farther
                 ADVICE
                 TO
                 Young
                 Ladies
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 another
                 Hand
                 .
              
               
                 
                   BE
                   prudent
                   ,
                   Ladies
                   ;
                   Marry
                   while
                   you
                   may
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lest
                   ,
                   when
                   too
                   late
                   ,
                   you
                   do
                   repent
                   and
                   say
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   wish
                   you
                   had
                   ,
                   
                     whilst
                     Sun
                     had
                     shone
                     ,
                     made
                     Hay
                     .
                  
                
              
               
                 
                   If
                   in
                   th'
                   principium
                   of
                   your
                   youthfull
                   days
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Beauties
                   's
                   like
                   to
                   Sol's
                   bright
                   shining
                   Rays
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   are
                   you
                   Critical
                   ,
                   and
                   hard
                   to
                   please
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   When
                   as
                   you
                   do
                   begin
                   to
                   chuse
                   your
                   Mate
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   chuse
                   him
                   first
                   for
                   Name
                   and
                   great
                   Estate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   qualify'd
                   ,
                   as
                   I
                   shall
                   here
                   relate
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Good-natur'd
                   ,
                   handsome
                   ,
                   Eloquent
                   and
                   wise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Well
                   learn'd
                   ,
                   and
                   Skill'd
                   in
                   Arts
                   ,
                   of
                   equal
                   size
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   Lady's
                   Niceties
                   to
                   be
                   precise
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   when
                   to
                   Twenty-one
                   arriv'd
                   you
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   do
                   begin
                   to
                   chuse
                   reservedly
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   the
                   young
                   Squire
                   who
                   keeps
                   his
                   Coach
                   is
                   he
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   when
                   as
                   your
                   Meridian
                   is
                   past
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   posting
                   Time
                   doth
                   swiftly
                   passing
                   hast
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   will
                   your
                   
                     Crystal
                     Beauties
                  
                   fade
                   as
                   fast
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Vesper
                   succeeds
                   Aurora
                   in
                   small
                   space
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Time
                   will
                   soon
                   draw
                   wrinkles
                   in
                   that
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   was
                   of
                   late
                   ador'd
                   in
                   ev'ry
                   place
                   .
                
              
            
             
             
             
             
             
               
               
                 ADVICE
                 TO
                 A
                 Town-Miss
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 Mr.
                 Worsdell
                 .
              
               
                 
                   DEar
                   Mrs.
                   Anne
                   ,
                   I
                   'm
                   certain
                   you
                   'll
                   find
                   true
                
                 
                   The
                   late
                   Advice
                   ,
                   in
                   writing
                   sent
                   to
                   you
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   assure
                   you
                   now
                   with
                   Pen
                   in
                   hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Verse
                   or
                   Prose
                   I
                   'm
                   still
                   at
                   your
                   command
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   by
                   
                     Poetick
                     Art
                  
                   I
                   could
                   assay
                
                 
                   To
                   Stigmatize
                   the
                   blackness
                   of
                   your
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   'd
                   fright
                   you
                   from
                   that
                   brutish
                   ,
                   lustfull
                   Sin
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   you
                   so
                   much
                   delight
                   to
                   wallow
                   in
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Soar
                   with
                   your
                   thoughts
                   ,
                   and
                   penetrate
                   the
                   Sky
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   view
                   the
                   Wing'd
                   
                     Celestial
                     Hierarchy
                  
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Think
                   to
                   what
                   
                     Heav'nly
                     joys
                  
                   you
                   'r
                   free-born
                   Heir
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   you
                   'll
                   but
                   follow
                   vertuous
                   Actions
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   your
                   Ransom
                   cost
                   your
                   Saviour
                   dear
                   .
                
                 
                   Strive
                   still
                   for
                   Vertue
                   's
                   Paths
                   with
                   strong
                   desire
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   flames
                   of
                   Lust
                   will
                   end
                   in
                   flames
                   of
                   Fire
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   once
                   to
                   Drunkenness
                   inclin'd
                   you
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   've
                   sprung
                   a
                   Leak
                   to
                   all
                   debaucherie
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   drinking
                   Healths
                   ,
                   the
                   Body
                   heats
                   with
                   Liquor
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   makes
                   it
                   prostitute
                   to
                   Lust
                   the
                   quicker
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Shun
                   then
                   those
                   paths
                   ,
                   don't
                   foster
                   in
                   your
                   Breast
                
                 
                   Such
                   wicked
                   Sins
                   ,
                   they
                   'll
                   but
                   disturb
                   your
                   Rest.
                
                 
                   Torture
                   your
                   Mind
                   till
                   Atropos
                   divide
                
                 
                   The
                   fatal
                   twist
                   ,
                   and
                   send
                   you
                   to
                   reside
                
                 
                   In
                   horrors
                   darksome
                   shades
                   ,
                   without
                   a
                   guide
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   you
                   will
                   find
                   for
                   your
                   lascivious
                   tricks
                   ,
                
                 
                   Charon
                   must
                   wa●t
                   you
                   o'er
                   the
                   River
                   Styx
                   :
                
                 
                   Too
                   sure
                   you
                   'll
                   find
                   he
                   'll
                   not
                   his
                   way
                   mistake
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   row
                   you
                   safe
                   unto
                   Averna's
                   Lake
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   where
                   you
                   'll
                   surely
                   be
                   compell'd
                   to
                   land
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pluto
                   himself
                   will
                   let
                   you
                   understand
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Preference
                 of
                 a
                 
                   Single
                   Life
                
                 before
                 Marriage
                 .
                 Written
                 at
                 the
                 Request
                 of
                 a
                 Lady
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 the
                 same
                 .
              
               
                 SHE
                 that
                 intends
                 ever
                 in
                 rest
                 to
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Both
                 for
                 the
                 present
                 and
                 the
                 future
                 ,
                 free
              
               
                 From
                 cares
                 and
                 troubles
                 ,
                 intermix't
                 with
                 strife
                 ,
              
               
                 Must
                 flee
                 the
                 hazard
                 of
                 a
                 
                   Nuptial
                   Life
                
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 having
                 once
                 had
                 touch
                 of
                 Cupid's
                 Dart
                 ,
              
               
                 Once
                 overcome
                 by
                 th'
                 crafty
                 Courtier
                 's
                 Art
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 brought
                 at
                 last
                 unto
                 the
                 Bed●
              
               
                 Adieu
                 to
                 Ioy
                 and
                 Freedom
                 ,
                 for
                 they
                 're
                 ●led
                 .
              
               
                 She
                 's
                 then
                 involv'd
                 in
                 troubles
                 without
                 end
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 always
                 do's
                 a
                 
                   Married
                   Life
                
                 attend
                 :
              
               
                 When
                 as
                 before
                 she
                 might
                 have
                 liv'd
                 at
                 ease
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Prayers
                 ,
                 and
                 Hymns
                 and
                 Psalms
                 have
                 pass'd
                 her
                 days
                 ;
              
               
                 Been
                 chief
                 Commandress
                 of
                 her
                 Will
                 and
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 acted
                 any
                 thing
                 her
                 Will
                 design'd
                 ;
              
               
               
                 She
                 might
                 go
                 travel
                 where
                 and
                 when
                 she
                 please
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 pass
                 away
                 the
                 tedious
                 time
                 with
                 ease
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 once
                 subject
                 to
                 the
                 
                   Iugal
                   Band
                
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 Wills
                 confin'd
                 ,
                 she
                 's
                 under
                 a
                 Command
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 reside
                 at
                 home
                 must
                 be
                 her
                 lot
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 Atropos
                 unloose
                 the
                 
                   Nuptial
                   Knot
                
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 UPON
                 CLARINDA'S
                 Putting
                 on
                 Her
                 Vizard
                 Mask
                 .
              
               
                 SO
                 have
                 I
                 seen
                 the
                 Sun
                 in
                 his
                 full
                 pride
                 ,
              
               
                 O'er
                 cast
                 with
                 sullen
                 Clouds
                 ,
                 and
                 then
                 deny'd
              
               
                 To
                 shew
                 its
                 lustre
                 in
                 some
                 gloomy
                 night
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 brightest
                 Stars
                 extinguish'd
                 were
                 of
                 light
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 
                   Angels
                   Pictures
                
                 have
                 I
                 seen
                 vail'd
                 o'er
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 more
                 devoutly
                 Men
                 shou'd
                 them
                 adore
                 ;
              
               
               
                 So
                 with
                 a
                 Mask
                 saw
                 I
                 Clarinda
                 hide
              
               
                 Her
                 Face
                 ,
                 more
                 bright
                 than
                 was
                 the
                 Lemnian
                 Bride
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 I
                 an
                 off'ring
                 to
                 her
                 ruby
                 Lips
              
               
                 Wou'd
                 make
                 ,
                 but
                 cannot
                 pay
                 't
                 for
                 the
                 Eclipse
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 keeps
                 off
                 my
                 be-nighted
                 Eye
                 ;
                 I
                 mean
              
               
                 The
                 Curtain
                 that
                 divides
                 it
                 from
                 the
                 Scene
                 .
              
               
                 Say
                 ,
                 my
                 Clarinda
                 ,
                 for
                 what
                 Discontent
                 ,
              
               
                 Keep
                 thy
                 all
                 Rosie
                 Cheeks
                 so
                 strict
                 a
                 Lent
                 ?
              
               
                 Or
                 is
                 thy
                 Face
                 ,
                 which
                 thou
                 do'st
                 thus
                 disguise
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Mourning
                 for
                 the
                 Murthers
                 of
                 thine
                 Eyes
                 ?
              
               
                 If
                 so
                 ,
                 and
                 thou
                 d'st
                 resolve
                 not
                 to
                 be
                 seen
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Frown
                 to
                 me
                 had
                 more
                 than
                 Mid-night
                 been
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 THE
                 MIDDLE
                 SISTER
                 ,
                 Ascribed
                 to
                 CLARINDA
                 .
              
               
                 DAme
                 Nature
                 seems
                 to
                 make
                 your
                 Sisters
                 stand
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 Handmaids
                 that
                 attend
                 on
                 either
                 hand
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 right
                 or
                 left
                 I
                 turn
                 not
                 ,
                 Poets
                 say
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 middle
                 is
                 the
                 best
                 and
                 safest
                 way
                 .
              
               
                 Fortune
                 and
                 Nature
                 are
                 your
                 Friends
                 (
                 my
                 Fair
                 )
              
               
                 For
                 they
                 have
                 plac'd
                 you
                 here
                 in
                 Vertue
                 's
                 Chair
                 :
              
               
                 Doubtless
                 in
                 you
                 the
                 
                   Middle
                   Grace
                
                 I
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 On
                 this
                 side
                 Faith
                 ,
                 on
                 that
                 sweet
                 Charity
                 .
              
               
                 Your
                 Sisters
                 stand
                 like
                 Banks
                 on
                 either
                 side
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 you
                 the
                 
                   Crystal
                   stream
                
                 betwixt
                 them
                 glide
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 will
                 ,
                 they
                 walk
                 on
                 either
                 side
              
               
                 Like
                 Bride-Maids
                 ,
                 you
                 in
                 middle
                 like
                 a
                 Bride
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 shall
                 I
                 farther
                 add
                 ?
                 The
                 Trav'ller
                 sees
              
               
                 A
                 pleasant
                 Walk
                 between
                 two
                 rows
                 of
                 Trees
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 smooth
                 and
                 silent
                 Flood
                 in
                 th'
                 middle
                 flows
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 the
                 Shoars
                 murmur
                 from
                 the
                 Banks
                 rough
                 Brows
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 AN
                 ELOGY
                 ON
                 Mrs.
                 M.
                 H.
                 
              
               
                 By
                 a
                 Student
                 of
                 the
                 Inner-Temple
                 .
              
               
                 
                   SOme
                   do
                   compare
                   their
                   Mistress
                   in
                   dull
                   Rhimes
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Pearl
                   and
                   Diamonds
                   brought
                   from
                   Indian
                   Mines
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   Lips
                   to
                   Corral
                   ,
                   &
                   their
                   Neck
                   to
                   Snow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Robbing
                   both
                   Indies
                   to
                   adorn
                   them
                   so
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   these
                   ,
                   alas
                   ,
                   are
                   Metaphors
                   too
                   bare
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   perfection
                   half
                   it self
                   appear
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   prophane
                   you
                   so
                   ,
                   wou'd
                   be
                   a
                   Sin
                   ,
                
                 
                   Worse
                   to
                   be
                   pardon'd
                   ,
                   than
                   commenced
                   in
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Crime
                   ,
                   that
                   brings
                   my
                   Muse
                   into
                   suspence
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   were
                   blasphemy
                   to
                   setch
                   a
                   Simile
                   hence
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   In
                   You
                   each
                   Member
                   shows
                   the
                   whole
                   to
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   bare
                   perfection
                   ,
                   but
                   a
                   Prodigie
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Nature
                   turn'd
                   spend-thrift
                   ,
                   now
                   designs
                   no
                   mo●e
                
                 
                   T'
                   amuse
                   poor
                   Mortals
                   with
                   such
                   monst'rous
                   s●ore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   you
                   have
                   made
                   her
                   Bankrupt
                   quite
                   ,
                   and
                   poor
                   .
                
                 
                   Your
                   Eyes
                   (
                   like
                   Heav'ns
                   Illustrious
                   Lamps
                   )
                   dispen●e
                
                 
                   By
                   Beams
                   more
                   bright
                   a
                   secret
                   in●luence
                
                 
                   On
                   all
                   Admirers
                   ;
                   and
                   ,
                   like
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   do
                   give
                
                 
                   A
                   Pow'r
                   whereby
                   poor
                   Mortals
                   be
                   and
                   live
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   is
                   this
                   all
                   ,
                   the
                   Charms
                   that
                   constellate
                
                 
                   In
                   your
                   fair
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   they
                   do
                   not
                   terminate
                   .
                
                 
                   An
                   equal
                   share
                   of
                   those
                   Celestial
                   Rays
                   ,
                
                 
                   Crowns
                   ev'ry
                   Member
                   with
                   an
                   equal
                   praise
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   're
                   not
                   confin'd
                   to
                   Lip
                   ,
                   or
                   Chin
                   ,
                   or
                   Hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   universal
                   are
                   ,
                   as
                   Sea
                   and
                   Land.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Who
                   views
                   your
                   Body
                   with
                   a
                   curious
                   Eye
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   through
                   that
                   milky
                   hew
                   a
                   Soul
                   descry
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Soul
                   !
                   that
                   breaths
                   nought
                   but
                   
                     Seraphick
                     Love
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   sweet
                   Monopoly
                   of
                   that
                   above
                   :
                
                 
                   Modest
                   as
                   Virgins
                   are
                   ,
                   yet
                   not
                   unkind
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fair
                   ,
                   but
                   not
                   proud
                   ;
                   your
                   Goodness
                   unconfin'd
                
                 
                   To
                   Time
                   or
                   Person
                   ,
                   and
                   your
                   Iudgment
                   great
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   not
                   possessed
                   with
                   a
                   self-conceit
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Perfection
                   so
                   divine
                   ,
                   so
                   pure
                   and
                   bright
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Pen
                   nor
                   Tongue
                   can
                   e'er
                   express
                   it
                   right
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   loftiest
                   Epithite
                   my
                   Muse
                   e'er
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Admits
                   a
                   Greater
                   ,
                   when
                   apply'd
                   to
                   You
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   can
                   resist
                   such
                   Charms
                   ,
                   at
                   whose
                   Access
                
                 
                   Sol
                   sneaks
                   away
                   to
                   the
                   Antipodes
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   in
                   the
                   Umbrage
                   of
                   some
                   Cloud
                   do's
                   hide
                
                 
                   His
                   Face
                   ,
                   as
                   if
                   he
                   fear'd
                   to
                   be
                   out-vy'd
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Fabrick
                   so
                   Polite
                   ,
                   and
                   so
                   compleat
                   ,
                
                 
                   Heav'n
                   may
                   behold
                   with
                   Envy
                   and
                   regret
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   in
                   one
                   poor
                   Mortal
                   thus
                   Ingrost
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   the
                   perfections
                   that
                   she
                   e'er
                   cou'd
                   boast
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   were
                   you
                   but
                   immortal
                   too
                   (
                   like
                   it
                   )
                
                 
                   Angels
                   wou'd
                   pay
                   that
                   duty
                   we
                   omit
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   if
                   you
                   were
                   a
                   Deity
                   confin'd
                
                 
                   To
                   humane
                   Flesh
                   ,
                   not
                   wretched
                   ,
                   but
                   refin'd
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 Love-Poem
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 an
                 Oxford
                 Gentleman
                 .
              
               
                 TO
                 what
                 kind
                 GOD
                 am
                 I
                 in
                 debt
                 for
                 this
              
               
                 Obliging
                 Minute
                 that
                 bestows
                 such
                 bliss
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 now
                 to
                 represent
                 unto
                 my
                 sight
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 which
                 to
                 Me
                 alone
                 can
                 cause
                 delight
                 !
              
               
                 How
                 long
                 in
                 mournful
                 Silence
                 has
                 my
                 Sighs
              
               
                 Bemoan'd
                 thy
                 Absence
                 ?
                 witness
                 ,
                 O
                 ye
                 Skies
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 now
                 I
                 have
                 obtain'd
                 my
                 wish'd
                 success
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 have
                 in
                 view
                 my
                 chiefest
                 happiness
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 must
                 with
                 hast
                 my
                 prison'd
                 thoughts
                 reveal
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 has
                 been
                 long
                 a
                 torment
                 to
                 conceal
                 .
              
               
                 Phyllis
                 ,
                 ah
                 lovely
                 Phyllis
                 ,
                 thou
                 art
                 she
              
               
                 Who
                 showest
                 Heav'n
                 in
                 Epitome
                 .
              
               
                 Angels
                 with
                 pleasure
                 view
                 thy
                 Matchless
                 Grace
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 both
                 admire
                 and
                 love
                 thy
                 beauteous
                 Face
                 .
              
               
               
                 Cou'd
                 Heav'n
                 some
                 greater
                 Master-piece
                 devise
                 ,
              
               
                 Set
                 out
                 with
                 all
                 the
                 Glories
                 of
                 the
                 Skies
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 Beauty
                 yet
                 in
                 vain
                 he
                 shou'd
                 decree
                 ,
              
               
                 Nothing
                 like
                 you
                 can
                 be
                 belov'd
                 by
                 Me.
              
               
                 VVhat
                 Ornament
                 and
                 Symmetry
                 I
                 view
                 ,
              
               
                 VVhere
                 each
                 part
                 seems
                 as
                 Beautiful
                 as
                 New.
              
               
                 I
                 long
                 t'
                 enjoy
                 those
                 Hands
                 ,
                 those
                 Lips
                 ,
                 those
                 Eyes●
              
               
                 VVhich
                 I
                 ,
                 who
                 love
                 you
                 most
                 ,
                 know
                 how
                 to
                 prize
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 my
                 Arms
                 imbrace
                 thy
                 Virgin-Love
                 ,
              
               
                 Angels
                 shall
                 sing
                 our
                 
                   Bridal
                   Hymn
                
                 above
                 .
              
               
                 Nature
                 then
                 pleas'd
                 ,
                 shall
                 give
                 her
                 glad
                 consent
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 gild
                 with
                 brighter
                 Beams
                 the
                 Firmament
                 .
              
               
                 Roses
                 unbud
                 ,
                 and
                 ev'ry
                 
                   fragrant
                   Flower
                
              
               
                 Shall
                 strip
                 their
                 Stalks
                 to
                 strow
                 the
                 Nuptial
                 Bowe●
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 firr'd
                 and
                 feather'd
                 kind
                 the
                 triumph
                 shall
                 pursue
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Fishes
                 leap
                 above
                 the
                 Water
                 to
                 see
                 you
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 wheresoe'er
                 thy
                 happy
                 foot-steps●read
                 ●read
                 ,
              
               
                 Nature
                 in
                 triumph
                 after
                 thee
                 is
                 led
                 .
              
               
                 My
                 Eyes
                 shall
                 then
                 look
                 languishing
                 on
                 thine
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 wreathing
                 Arms
                 our
                 soft
                 Embraces
                 joyn
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 a
                 pleasing
                 trembling
                 seiz'd
                 all
                 o'er
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 feel
                 delights
                 unknown
                 to
                 us
                 before
                 .
              
               
               
                 VVhat
                 follows
                 will
                 our
                 pleasures
                 most
                 inhance
                 ,
              
               
                 VVhen
                 we
                 shall
                 swim
                 in
                 Ecstasie
                 and
                 Trance
                 ,
              
               
                 ●nd
                 speechless
                 Ioys
                 ;
                 in
                 which
                 sweet
                 transport
                 toss'd
                 ,
              
               
                 VVe
                 both
                 shall
                 in
                 a
                 pleasant
                 Death
                 be
                 lost
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 know
                 not
                 where
                 to
                 end
                 this
                 happy
                 Theam
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 is
                 it
                 real
                 ?
                 or
                 some
                 airy
                 Dream
                 ?
              
               
                 A
                 sudden
                 fear
                 do's
                 all
                 my
                 thoughts
                 surprize
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 dare
                 not
                 trust
                 the
                 witn●ss
                 of
                 my
                 Eyes
                 .
              
               
                 How
                 fixt
                 I
                 stand
                 ,
                 and
                 indispos'd
                 to
                 move
              
               
                 These
                 pleasant
                 Charms
                 ,
                 unwilling
                 to
                 disprove
                 :
              
               
                 Like
                 him
                 ,
                 who
                 Heav'n
                 in
                 a
                 soft
                 Dream
                 enjoys
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 stir
                 and
                 wake
                 ,
                 his
                 Paradise
                 destroys
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 ANOTHER
                 Love-Poem
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 the
                 same
                 Authour
                 .
              
               
                 PRide
                 of
                 the
                 World
                 in
                 Beauty
                 ,
                 Pow'r
                 ,
                 and
                 Love
                 ;
              
               
                 Best
                 of
                 thy
                 Sex
                 !
                 Equal
                 to
                 Gods
                 above
                 :
              
               
                 Unparalell'd
                 Vertue
                 ;
                 they
                 that
                 search
                 about
              
               
                 The
                 World
                 ,
                 to
                 find
                 thy
                 Vertues
                 equal
                 out
                 ,
              
               
                 Must
                 take
                 a
                 Iourney
                 longer
                 than
                 the
                 Sun
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Pilgrims
                 dye
                 e'er
                 half
                 their
                 race
                 is
                 run
                 .
              
               
                 Your
                 charming
                 Beauty
                 can't
                 but
                 please
                 the
                 sight
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 all
                 that
                 is
                 in
                 Nature
                 exquisite
                 .
              
               
                 About
                 those
                 Lips
                 Ambrosial
                 odours
                 flow
                 ,
              
               
                 Nectar
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 the
                 Sweets
                 of
                 Hybla
                 grow
                 .
              
               
                 Those
                 sparkling
                 Eyes
                 resistless
                 Magick
                 bear
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 see
                 young
                 wanton
                 Cupids
                 dancing
                 there
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 melting
                 Charms
                 there
                 waves
                 about
                 thy
                 Breast
                 !
              
               
                 On
                 whose
                 transporting
                 Billows
                 Iove
                 might
                 rest●
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 immortal
                 Sweets
                 be
                 ever
                 blest
                 .
              
               
                 Shall
                 I
                 but
                 name
                 the
                 other
                 charming
                 Bliss
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 wou'd
                 conveigh
                 our
                 Souls
                 to
                 Paradise
                 ?
              
               
               
                 Gods
                 !
                 how
                 she
                 charms
                 !
                 none
                 sure
                 was
                 e'er
                 like
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 very
                 sight
                 do's
                 cause
                 an
                 Ecstasie
                 :
              
               
                 Thou
                 art
                 so
                 soft
                 ,
                 so
                 sweet
                 ,
                 and
                 silent
                 all
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 
                   Births
                   of
                   Roses
                
                 ,
                 or
                 as
                 Blossoms
                 fall
                 .
              
               
                 Hide
                 then
                 those
                 Eyes
                 ;
                 take
                 this
                 soft
                 Magick
                 hence
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Happiness
                 so
                 much
                 transports
                 my
                 Sence
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 such
                 another
                 look
                 ,
                 will
                 make
                 me
                 grow
              
               
                 Too
                 firmly
                 fix't
                 ,
                 ever
                 to
                 let
                 you
                 go
                 .
              
               
                 Soul
                 ,
                 summon
                 all
                 thy
                 force
                 thy
                 joy
                 to
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 on
                 this
                 Hand
                 eternal
                 Love
                 I
                 swear
                 .
              
               
                 Sweetest
                 of
                 Creatures
                 !
                 if
                 there
                 Angels
                 be
                 !
              
               
                 What
                 Angel
                 is
                 not
                 wishing
                 to
                 be
                 Thee
                 ?
              
               
                 Can
                 any
                 happiness
                 compare
                 with
                 mine
                 ?
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 wretched
                 sure
                 to
                 be
                 a
                 
                   Pow'r
                   Divine
                
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 not
                 the
                 Ioys
                 of
                 
                   happy
                   Lovers
                
                 know
                 :
              
               
                 Wou'dst
                 thou
                 ,
                 my
                 Dearest
                 ,
                 be
                 an
                 Angel
                 now
                 ?
              
               
                 O
                 how
                 the
                 Moments
                 sweetly
                 glide
                 away
                 !
              
               
                 Nothing
                 of
                 Night
                 appears
                 ,
                 but
                 all
                 is
                 Day
                 .
              
               
                 Inflam'd
                 with
                 Love
                 ,
                 these
                 Minutes
                 I
                 'll
                 improve
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sum
                 an
                 
                   Ages
                   Bliss
                
                 in
                 one
                 
                   Hours
                   Love.
                
              
               
                 But
                 shou'd
                 I
                 long
                 such
                 vehement
                 raptures
                 feel
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 fear
                 the
                 transports
                 of
                 delight
                 wou'd
                 kill
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 THE
                 Lover's
                 Will.
                 
              
               
                 
                   LET
                   me
                   not
                   sigh
                   my
                   last
                   ,
                   before
                   I
                   breathe
                
                 
                   (
                   Great
                   Love
                   )
                   some
                   Legacies
                   ;
                   I
                   here
                   bequeathe
                
                 
                   Mine
                   Eyes
                   to
                   Argus
                   ,
                   if
                   mine
                   Eyes
                   can
                   see
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   they
                   be
                   blind
                   ,
                   then
                   Love
                   I
                   give
                   them
                   thee
                   ;
                
                 
                   My
                   Tongue
                   to
                   Fame
                   ,
                   t'
                   Embassadors
                   mine
                   Ears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   unto
                   Women
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   Sea
                   ,
                   my
                   Tears
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   My
                   Constancy
                   I
                   to
                   the
                   Planets
                   give
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Truth
                   to
                   them
                   who
                   at
                   the
                   Court
                   do
                   live
                   ;
                
                 
                   My
                   Silence
                   t'
                   any
                   who
                   abroad
                   have
                   been
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Money
                   to
                   a
                   Capuchin
                   ;
                
                 
                   My
                   Modesty
                   I
                   give
                   to
                   Souldiers
                   bare
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   my
                   Patience
                   let
                   the
                   Gamesters
                   share
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   give
                   my
                   Reputation
                   unto
                   those
                
                 
                   Which
                   were
                   my
                   Friends
                   ;
                   my
                   Industry
                   to
                   Fo●s
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   To
                   School-men
                   I
                   bequeath
                   my
                   Doubtfulness
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Sickness
                   to
                   Physicians
                   or
                   Excess
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   Nature
                   all
                   that
                   I
                   in
                   Rhime
                   have
                   writ
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   my
                   Company
                   I
                   leave
                   my
                   Wit.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   him
                   for
                   whom
                   the
                   Passing-bell
                   next
                   tolls
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   g●ve
                   my
                   Physick-Books
                   ;
                   my
                   
                     Written
                     Rolls
                  
                
                 
                   Of
                   Moral
                   Counsels
                   I
                   to
                   Bedlam
                   give
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   
                     Brazen
                     Medals
                  
                   unto
                   them
                   which
                   live
                
                 
                   In
                   want
                   of
                   Bread
                   ;
                   To
                   them
                   which
                   pass
                   among
                
                 
                   All
                   Foreigners
                   ,
                   I
                   leave
                   my
                   
                     English
                     Tongue
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thou
                   Love
                   taught'st
                   me
                   ,
                   by
                   making
                   me
                   adore
                
                 
                   That
                   charming
                   Maid
                   ,
                   whose
                   Twenty
                   Servants
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   give
                   to
                   those
                   who
                   had
                   too
                   much
                   before
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   else
                   by
                   loving
                   where
                   no
                   Love
                   receiv'd
                   cou'd
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   give
                   to
                   such
                   as
                   have
                   an
                   incapacitie
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 LOVE-LETTER
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 
                   W.
                   S.
                   M.
                   D.
                
                 
              
               
                 Sweet
                 Lady
                 ,
              
               
                 YOur
                 conqu'ring
                 Eyes
                 have
                 by
                 their
                 
                   Magick
                   Art
                
                 ,
              
               
                 Convey'd
                 such
                 Flames
                 into
                 my
                 
                   Captiv'd
                   Heart
                
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 cannot
                 rest
                 ;
                 Ah
                 therefore
                 ,
                 do
                 not
                 prove
              
               
                 Cruel
                 to
                 him
                 whom
                 your
                 Eyes
                 taught
                 to
                 Love
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 blame
                 this
                 rude
                 attempt
                 ,
                 since
                 what
                 I
                 do
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 ardent
                 Passion
                 do's
                 compell
                 me
                 to
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 wou'd
                 be
                 silent
                 ,
                 fearing
                 to
                 offend
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 then
                 my
                 Torments
                 ne'er
                 wou'd
                 have
                 an
                 end
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 though
                 in
                 this
                 I
                 may
                 appear
                 too
                 bold
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Love
                 is
                 pure
                 ,
                 and
                 therefore
                 may
                 be
                 told
                 :
              
               
                 Besides
                 ,
                 you
                 are
                 so
                 fair
                 ,
                 your
                 Vertues
                 such
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 shou'd
                 I
                 strive
                 ,
                 I
                 cannot
                 say
                 too
                 much
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 well
                 accomplish'd
                 you
                 're
                 in
                 th'
                 
                   Art
                   of
                   Love
                
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 've
                 Charms
                 enough
                 t'
                 inflame
                 another
                 Iove
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 not
                 your
                 coyness
                 therefore
                 blind
                 the
                 light
              
               
                 Of
                 your
                 fair
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 which
                 now
                 do
                 shine
                 so
                 bright
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 she
                 that
                 gives
                 occasion
                 to
                 despair
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 all
                 that
                 's
                 good
                 is
                 neither
                 kind
                 nor
                 fair
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Though
                 outward
                 Beauty
                 soon
                 may
                 charm
                 the
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 make
                 the
                 most
                 
                   obdurate
                   Heart
                
                 prove
                 kind
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 nothing
                 charms
                 an
                 
                   Am'rous
                   Heart
                
                 so
                 strong
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 the
                 sweet
                 Notes
                 of
                 a
                 fair
                 
                   Female
                   Tongue
                
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 charms
                 the
                 Soul
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 the
                 Senses
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 adds
                 new
                 Sweets
                 to
                 the
                 delights
                 of
                 Love.
              
               
                 Love
                 is
                 the
                 noblest
                 Passion
                 of
                 the
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 she
                 that
                 unto
                 it
                 can
                 prove
                 unkind
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 either
                 simple
                 ,
                 destitute
                 of
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 else
                 her
                 Pride
                 will
                 not
                 acknowledge
                 it
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 that
                 's
                 too
                 black
                 to
                 dwell
                 in
                 your
                 fair
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 Nothing
                 but
                 things
                 divine
                 can
                 there
                 have
                 rest
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 therefore
                 wilfull
                 Pride
                 don't
                 taint
                 your
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 as
                 your
                 Face
                 is
                 fair
                 ,
                 your
                 Heart
                 is
                 kind
                 .
              
               
                 My
                 Pen
                 shall
                 then
                 maintain
                 your
                 worth
                 and
                 praise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 all
                 others
                 I
                 'll
                 possess
                 the
                 Bays
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 if
                 by
                 frowns
                 against
                 me
                 you
                 take
                 Arms
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 Beauty
                 has
                 no
                 Snares
                 ,
                 your
                 Eyes
                 no
                 Charms
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 though
                 a
                 Stranger
                 yet
                 to
                 you
                 I
                 am
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 you
                 prove
                 kind
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 not
                 conceal
                 my
                 Name
                 ;
              
               
                 Till
                 then
                 I
                 rest
                 to
                 see
                 these
                 lines
                 success
                 ,
              
               
                 On
                 which
                 depends
                 my
                 future
                 happiness
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 Speech
                 to
                 his
                 Mistress
                 in
                 a
                 Garden
                 .
              
               
                 THE
                 Glory
                 which
                 we
                 see
                 invest
                 these
                 Flow'rs
              
               
                 Is
                 lent
                 ,
                 &
                 they
                 must
                 live
                 but
                 some
                 few
                 hours
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 Time
                 ,
                 what
                 we
                 forbear
                 to
                 use●
                 devours
                 .
              
               
                 From
                 fading
                 Leaves
                 ,
                 you
                 see
                 how
                 Time
                 resumes
              
               
                 Their
                 fragrant
                 scent
                 ,
                 and
                 sweet
                 perfumes
                 .
              
               
                 Look
                 but
                 within
                 the
                 most
                 retired
                 places
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 utmost
                 Skill
                 is
                 us'd
                 to
                 keep
                 good
                 Faces
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 in
                 some
                 distant
                 time
                 they
                 will
                 be
                 seen
              
               
                 The
                 spoil
                 of
                 Age
                 :
                 witness
                 th'
                 
                   Egyptian
                   Queen
                
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 the
                 fair
                 charming
                 Hellen
                 ,
                 who
                 by
                 Time
              
               
                 Had
                 nothing
                 left
                 —
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 at
                 last
                 express'd
                 were
                 by
                 her
                 Shrine
                 .
              
               
                 Or
                 thus
                 ;
                 Shou'd
                 some
                 Malignant
                 Planet
                 bring
              
               
                 Upon
                 the
                 Autumn
                 ,
                 or
                 the
                 
                   blooming
                   Spring
                
              
               
                 A
                 barren
                 drought
                 ,
                 or
                 rain
                 a
                 ceaseless
                 show'r
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 't
                 wou'd
                 not
                 Winters
                 coming
                 stop
                 one
                 hour
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 cou'd
                 you
                 be
                 preserv'd
                 by
                 Loves
                 neglect
              
               
                 From
                 coming
                 
                   Years
                   decay
                
                 ,
                 then
                 more
                 respect
              
               
                 Were
                 justly
                 due
                 to
                 so
                 divine
                 a
                 Fashion
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 wou'd
                 I
                 give
                 indulgence
                 to
                 my
                 passion
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 AN
                 ADDRESS
                 TO
                 A
                 Gentlewoman
                 Walking
                 in
                 a
                 Garden
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 an
                 Oxford
                 Gentleman
                 .
              
               
                 MAdam
                 ,
                 I
                 hope
                 ,
                 though
                 I
                 a
                 Stranger
                 am
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 candid
                 Goodness
                 will
                 not
                 let
                 you
                 blame
              
               
                 This
                 bold
                 intrusion
                 ,
                 that
                 do's
                 now
                 bereave
              
               
                 You
                 of
                 these
                 privacies
                 without
                 your
                 leave
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 as
                 you
                 're
                 fair
                 ,
                 I
                 hope
                 you
                 're
                 no
                 less
                 kind
                 ,
              
               
                 Craving
                 your
                 pardon
                 then
                 ,
                 I
                 'll
                 speak
                 my
                 mind
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 oh
                 !
                 I
                 fear
                 my
                 troubled
                 Heart
                 bodes
                 ill
                 ,
              
               
                 One
                 word
                 from
                 you
                 my
                 life
                 do's
                 save
                 or
                 kill
                 ;
              
               
                 First
                 for
                 your
                 pity
                 then
                 I
                 must
                 beseech
                 ,
              
               
                 Lodg'd
                 at
                 your
                 feet
                 ,
                 you
                 would
                 behold
                 this
                 wretch
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 that
                 the
                 Gods
                 above
                 wou'd
                 bring
                 to
                 pass
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 might
                 my
                 suit
                 ,
                 without
                 my
                 speaking
                 guess
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 that
                 won't
                 be
                 ,
                 relating
                 then
                 ,
                 fair
                 Saint
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 firm-fix't
                 Love
                 in
                 murmuring
                 complaint
                 .
              
               
               
                 Not
                 long
                 since
                 ,
                 walking
                 through
                 the
                 
                   shady
                   Grove
                
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 see
                 those
                 tender
                 budding
                 Plants
                 improve
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 coming
                 downwards
                 from
                 the
                 Rivers
                 head
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 hear
                 the
                 noise
                 the
                 purling
                 Waters
                 made
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 see
                 her
                 various
                 and
                 delightfull
                 pride
                 ,
              
               
                 Streaming
                 in
                 Circles
                 as
                 the
                 Waters
                 glide
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 't
                 was
                 I
                 heard
                 a
                 shrill
                 melodions
                 sound
                 ,
              
               
                 Pleasanter
                 far
                 than
                 what
                 I
                 there
                 had
                 found
                 .
              
               
                 One
                 while
                 I
                 thought
                 it
                 was
                 some
                 Angel's
                 tune
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 pleasing
                 Echo
                 still
                 wou'd
                 re-assume
              
               
                 Its
                 first
                 high
                 quav'ring
                 strein
                 ,
                 and
                 then
                 fall
                 low'r
                 ;
              
               
                 In
                 short
                 ,
                 too
                 charming
                 for
                 the
                 strongest
                 pow'r
                 .
              
               
                 My
                 curiosity
                 then
                 brought
                 me
                 to
              
               
                 A
                 lonesome
                 Grotto
                 ,
                 where
                 as
                 prying
                 through
              
               
                 Its
                 verdant
                 spreading
                 branches
                 ,
                 I
                 did
                 see
              
               
                 That
                 beauteous
                 Form
                 which
                 thus
                 has
                 wounded
                 me●
              
               
                 And
                 ever
                 since
                 my
                 Passion
                 is
                 the
                 same
                 ,
              
               
                 Resist
                 not
                 then
                 so
                 true
                 and
                 pure
                 a
                 Flame
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 with
                 kind
                 pity
                 send
                 me
                 some
                 relief
                 ,
              
               
                 Since
                 my
                 Heart
                 's
                 stole
                 by
                 you
                 ,
                 the
                 pretty
                 Thief
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 whose
                 bright
                 Eyes
                 such
                 conqu'ring
                 Charms
                 do
                 dart
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 might
                 enslave
                 and
                 captivate
                 each
                 Heart
                 :
              
               
               
                 The
                 greatest
                 Praise
                 is
                 to
                 your
                 Beauty
                 due
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 must
                 their
                 Homage
                 pay
                 when
                 seen
                 by
                 you
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Fruit-tree
                 nodding
                 with
                 each
                 blast
                 that
                 blows
                 ,
              
               
                 Through
                 the
                 great
                 pressure
                 of
                 her
                 loaden
                 Boughs
                 ,
              
               
                 Seems
                 to
                 design
                 none
                 but
                 your
                 hand
                 to
                 crop
              
               
                 Her
                 
                   pendent
                   Clusters
                
                 ,
                 from
                 her
                 Branches
                 top
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 purple
                 Vi'let
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 blushing
                 Rose
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 sweet
                 Carnations
                 ,
                 wait
                 till
                 you
                 dispose
              
               
                 Their
                 fragrant
                 scent
                 to
                 your
                 sagacious
                 Nose
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 you
                 're
                 displeas'd
                 the
                 fairest
                 downwards
                 drop
              
               
                 Its
                 fading
                 pensive
                 head
                 ,
                 and
                 wither'd
                 top
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 if
                 you
                 're
                 angry
                 ,
                 possibly
                 the
                 Sun
              
               
                 Might
                 stop
                 his
                 course
                 ,
                 and
                 not
                 his
                 journey
                 run
                 ;
              
               
                 At
                 which
                 th'
                 amazed
                 and
                 affrighted
                 World
              
               
                 Might
                 to
                 its
                 first
                 rude
                 Chaos
                 soon
                 be
                 hurl'd
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 since
                 my
                 Fate
                 's
                 wrapt
                 up
                 in
                 what
                 you
                 doom
                 ,
              
               
                 Do
                 not
                 my
                 Passion
                 with
                 your
                 scorn
                 o'er-come
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 with
                 the
                 Sweets
                 of
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 then
                 we
                 'll
                 be
              
               
                 Lock't
                 in
                 Embraces
                 to
                 Eternity
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 UPON
                 A
                 Gentlewomans
                 Refusal
                 of
                 a
                 LETTER
                 from
                 one
                 she
                 was
                 ingaged
                 to
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 Sir
                 
                   C.
                   S.
                
                 
              
               
                 NOT
                 hear
                 my
                 Message
                 ,
                 but
                 the
                 Bearer
                 shun
                 !
              
               
                 What
                 hellish
                 Fiend
                 inrag'd
                 cou'd
                 more
                 have
                 done
                 ?
              
               
                 Surely
                 the
                 Gods
                 design
                 to
                 make
                 my
                 Fate
              
               
                 Of
                 all
                 most
                 wretched
                 ,
                 and
                 unfortunate
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 but
                 a
                 Letter
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Words
                 were
                 few
                 ,
              
               
                 Fill'd
                 with
                 
                   kind
                   wishes
                
                 ,
                 but
                 my
                 Fate
                 's
                 too
                 true
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 'm
                 lost
                 for
                 ever
                 ,
                 banish'd
                 from
                 her
                 sight
                 ,
              
               
                 Although
                 by
                 Oaths
                 and
                 Vows
                 she
                 's
                 mine
                 by
                 right
                 .
              
               
                 Ye
                 Gods
                 !
                 look
                 down
                 ,
                 and
                 hear
                 my
                 Sorrows
                 moan
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 the
                 faint
                 Echoes
                 of
                 a
                 dying
                 groan
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 how
                 is
                 't
                 possible
                 so
                 fair
                 a
                 Face
              
               
                 Shou'd
                 have
                 a
                 Soul
                 so
                 treacherous
                 and
                 base
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 promise
                 constancy
                 ,
                 and
                 then
                 to
                 prove
              
               
                 False
                 and
                 unkind
                 to
                 him
                 she
                 vow'd
                 to
                 love
                 ?
              
               
               
                 Oh
                 ,
                 Barb'rous
                 Sex
                 !
                 whose
                 Nature
                 is
                 to
                 rook
              
               
                 ●nd
                 cheat
                 Mankind
                 with
                 a
                 
                   betraying
                   look
                
                 .
              
               
                 Hence
                 I
                 'll
                 keep
                 guard
                 within
                 from
                 all
                 your
                 Charms
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ever
                 more
                 resist
                 all
                 fresh
                 Alarms
                 ;
              
               
                 ●'ll
                 trace
                 your
                 windings
                 through
                 the
                 darkest
                 Cell
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 find
                 your
                 Stratagems
                 ,
                 though
                 lodg'd
                 in
                 Hell.
              
               
                 Your
                 gilded
                 Paintings
                 ,
                 and
                 each
                 treacherous
                 Wile
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 which
                 so
                 eas'ly
                 you
                 Mankind
                 beguile
                 ;
              
               
                 Winds
                 are
                 more
                 constant
                 than
                 a
                 Womans
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 holds
                 to
                 none
                 but
                 to
                 the
                 present
                 kind
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 when
                 by
                 absence
                 th'
                 Object
                 is
                 remov'd
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 time
                 is
                 gone
                 and
                 spent
                 wherein
                 she
                 lov'd
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 is
                 it
                 not
                 the
                 very
                 same
                 with
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 slight
                 my
                 Love
                 ,
                 when
                 I
                 must
                 absent
                 be
                 ?
              
               
                 Perhaps
                 sh'
                 has
                 seen
                 a
                 more
                 atracting
                 Face
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 a
                 new
                 Paramour
                 has
                 taken
                 place
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 shall
                 my
                 injur'd
                 Soul
                 stand
                 Mute
                 ,
                 and
                 live
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 that
                 another
                 reaps
                 what
                 she
                 can
                 give
                 ?
              
               
                 Glutted
                 with
                 pleasures
                 ,
                 and
                 again
                 renew
              
               
                 Their
                 past
                 delights
                 ,
                 although
                 my
                 claim
                 and
                 due●
              
               
                 Oh
                 ,
                 no
                 ,
                 my
                 Soul
                 's
                 inrag'd
                 ,
                 revenge
                 calls
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 tear
                 her
                 piece-meal
                 e'er
                 my
                 fury
                 's
                 gone
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Stretch
                 out
                 my
                 Arm
                 all
                 o'er
                 th'
                 inconstant
                 stain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 then
                 cleave
                 down
                 her
                 treach'rous
                 limbs
                 in
                 twai●●
              
               
                 The
                 greatest
                 plagues
                 Invention
                 e'er
                 cou'd
                 ●ind
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 not
                 sufficient
                 for
                 th'
                 
                   inconstant
                   Mind
                
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 think
                 I
                 have
                 o'er-come
                 my
                 Passion
                 quite
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 cou'd
                 not
                 love
                 ,
                 although
                 't
                 were
                 in
                 despight
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 for
                 the
                 Man
                 who
                 must
                 enjoy
                 my
                 room
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 'll
                 soon
                 be
                 partner
                 in
                 my
                 wretched
                 doom
                 ;
              
               
                 He
                 by
                 her
                 Faith
                 ,
                 alas
                 ,
                 no
                 more
                 will
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 when
                 she
                 swore
                 to
                 me
                 to
                 prove
                 most
                 kind
                 .
              
               
                 Therefore
                 I
                 'll
                 leave
                 her
                 ,
                 and
                 esteem
                 her
                 less
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 my self
                 both
                 joy
                 and
                 acquiesce
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 oh
                 ,
                 my
                 Heart
                 ,
                 there
                 's
                 something
                 moves
                 there
                 still
                 ,
              
               
                 Sure
                 't
                 is
                 the
                 vigour
                 of
                 
                   unbounded
                   Will.
                
              
               
                 Too
                 much
                 ,
                 I
                 fear
                 ,
                 my
                 Fetters
                 are
                 not
                 gone
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 I
                 at
                 least
                 again
                 must
                 put
                 them
                 on
                 .
              
               
                 Methinks
                 I
                 feel
                 my
                 Heart
                 is
                 not
                 got
                 free
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 all
                 my
                 Passions
                 set
                 at
                 liberty
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 the
                 bright
                 glances
                 of
                 her
                 am'rous
                 Eye
                 .
              
               
                 Down
                 Rebel-love
                 ,
                 and
                 hide
                 thy
                 boyish
                 Head
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'm
                 too
                 much
                 Man
                 to
                 hear
                 thy
                 follies
                 plead
                 :
              
               
                 Go
                 seek
                 some
                 other
                 Breast
                 of
                 lower
                 note
                 ;
              
               
                 Go
                 make
                 some
                 Old
                 decrepit
                 Cuckold
                 dote
                 :
              
               
               
                 ●egone
                 ,
                 I
                 say
                 ,
                 or
                 strait
                 thy
                 Quiver
                 ,
                 Bow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thou
                 thy self
                 fall
                 to
                 destruction
                 too
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 oh
                 ,
                 I
                 'm
                 gone
                 ,
                 my
                 Foes
                 have
                 all
                 got
                 ground
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Brains
                 grow
                 giddy
                 ,
                 and
                 my
                 Head
                 turns
                 round
                 .
              
               
                 My
                 Heart
                 's
                 intangled
                 with
                 the
                 Nets
                 of
                 Love
                 ;
              
               
                 My
                 Passions
                 rave
                 ,
                 and
                 now
                 ye
                 Gods
                 above
              
               
                 Help
                 on
                 my
                 doom
                 ,
                 and
                 heave
                 me
                 to
                 your
                 Skies
                 ;
              
               
                 Look
                 ,
                 look
                 ,
                 Mervinda's
                 just
                 before
                 my
                 Eyes
                 :
              
               
                 Help
                 me
                 to
                 catch
                 her
                 e'er
                 her
                 Shadow
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 I
                 fall
                 downward
                 from
                 this
                 rowling
                 Sky
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 In
                 Praise
                 of
                 a
                 Deformed
                 ,
                 but
                 Virtuous
                 ,
                 LADY
                 ;
                 OR
                 ,
                 A
                 SATYR
                 on
                 BEAUTY
                 .
              
               
                 
                   FIne
                   Shape
                   ,
                   good
                   Features
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   handsom
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   do
                   the
                   glory
                   of
                   the
                   Mind
                   deface
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   Vertue
                   is
                   the
                   best
                   and
                   only
                   grace
                   .
                
                 
                   Venus
                   Man's
                   Mind
                   inflames
                   with
                   lustfull
                   fires
                   ,
                
                 
                   Consumes
                   his
                   Reason
                   ,
                   burns
                   his
                   best
                   desires
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Wer
                   't
                   thou
                   ,
                   my
                   Soul
                   ,
                   but
                   from
                   my
                   Body
                   free
                   ;
                
                 
                   Had
                   Flesh
                   and
                   Blood
                   no
                   influence
                   on
                   thee
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   woud'st
                   thou
                   love
                   a
                   Woman
                   ,
                   &
                   woud'st
                   chu●●●
                
                 
                   The
                   Soul-fair-she
                   to
                   be
                   thy
                   blessed
                   Spouse
                   .
                
                 
                   Beauty's
                   corrupt
                   ,
                   and
                   like
                   a
                   Flower
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   be
                   collected
                   by
                   impurest
                   hands
                   ;
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   hard
                   ,
                   nay
                   't
                   is
                   scarce
                   possible
                   to
                   find
                
                 
                   Vertue
                   and
                   Venus
                   both
                   together
                   joyn●d
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   the
                   fair
                   She
                   ,
                   who
                   knows
                   the
                   force
                   and
                   strength
                
                 
                   Of
                   Beauty's
                   charms
                   ,
                   grows
                   proud
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   at
                   length
                
                 
                   Lust
                   and
                   Ambition
                   will
                   possess
                   her
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   always
                   will
                   disturb
                   Man's
                   peacefull
                   rest
                   .
                
                 
                   Beware
                   my
                   Soul
                   ,
                   lest
                   she
                   ensnare
                   thy
                   sence
                   ;
                
                 
                   Against
                   her
                   Wiles
                   ,
                   let
                   Vertue
                   be
                   thy
                   fence
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   please
                   their
                   fancies
                   with
                   a
                   Picture
                   well
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   for
                   meer
                   toys
                   ,
                   do
                   real
                   pleasures
                   sell
                   :
                
                 
                   No
                   bliss
                   ,
                   fond
                   Cupid
                   thinks
                   like
                   what
                   is
                   in
                
                 
                   The
                   smoothing
                   of
                   his
                   Ladies
                   tender
                   Skin
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   snowy
                   Breasts
                   ,
                   kind
                   Looks
                   ,
                   and
                   sparkling
                   Eye
                   ,
                
                 
                   Strait
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   with
                   blushing
                   Cheeks
                   and
                   Forehead
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   these
                   his
                   best
                   and
                   chiefest
                   pleasures
                   lye
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   other
                   parts
                   she
                   can
                   for
                   pleasure
                   show
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   can
                   produce
                   as
                   well
                   as
                   she
                   ,
                   I
                   know
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   When
                   Age
                   with
                   furrows
                   shall
                   have
                   plow'd
                   her
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   her
                   Body
                   o'er
                   thick
                   wrinkles
                   place
                   ;
                
                 
                   Her
                   Breasts
                   turn
                   black
                   ,
                   her
                   sparkling
                   Eyes
                   sink
                   in
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fearfull
                   to
                   see
                   the
                   bristles
                   on
                   her
                   Chin
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   painted
                   Face
                   grown
                   swarthy
                   ,
                   wan
                   ,
                   and
                   thin
                   ;
                
                 
                   Her
                   Hands
                   all
                   shrivel'd
                   o'er
                   ,
                   her
                   Nails
                   of
                   length
                
                 
                   Enough
                   to
                   dig
                   her
                   Grave
                   ,
                   had
                   she
                   but
                   strength
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   is
                   the
                   Mistress
                   ,
                   that
                   blind
                   Poets
                   praise
                   ;
                
                 
                   Such
                   foolish
                   Theams
                   ,
                   their
                   grov'ling
                   fancies
                   raise
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Mistress
                   is
                   more
                   lovely
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   fair
                   ;
                
                 
                   Graces
                   divine
                   in
                   her
                   ,
                   more
                   brighter
                   are
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   is
                   the
                   source
                   of
                   Bliss
                   ,
                   whilst
                   Vertue
                   reigns
                
                 
                   In
                   her
                   ,
                   all
                   things
                   impure
                   her
                   Soul
                   disdains
                   .
                
                 
                   Those
                   fools
                   ne'er
                   knew
                   pure
                   Love's
                   most
                   sacred
                   Arts
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   e'er
                   were
                   conquer'd
                   by
                   blind
                   Cupid's
                   Darts
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   stand
                   as
                   slaves
                   to
                   their
                   own
                   carnal
                   hearts
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Madam
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   IS
                   the
                   preheminence
                   that'●
                   seen
                   in
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   do's
                   with
                   sacred
                   Love
                   my
                   heart
                   subdue
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   all
                   must
                   own
                   who
                   've
                   read
                   in
                   Nature's
                   Books
                   ,
                
                 
                   Modesty
                   and
                   Good-nature's
                   in
                   your
                   Looks
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Your
                   Conversation's
                   mild
                   ,
                   these
                   sacred
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Protection
                   are
                   'gainst
                   Lusts
                   impurer
                   harms
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   and
                   your
                   other
                   Vertues
                   do
                   excell
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   matchless
                   seem
                   to
                   want
                   a
                   parallel
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   your
                   most
                   sacred
                   Presence
                   none
                   can
                   think
                
                 
                   Of
                   Lust
                   ,
                   or
                   once
                   its
                   horrid
                   Venom
                   drink
                   ;
                
                 
                   You
                   are
                   an
                   object
                   that
                   will
                   soon
                   dispell
                
                 
                   Lusts
                   most
                   delightfull
                   poisons
                   sent
                   from
                   Hell
                   ;
                
                 
                   Your Self's
                   the
                   substance
                   of
                   the
                   Saints
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   move
                   my
                   Soul
                   with
                   chast
                   and
                   holy
                   Love
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   you
                   alone
                   large
                   Off'rings
                   I
                   design
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   continual
                   prayers
                   I
                   wish
                   you
                   mine
                   .
                
                 
                   Oh
                   that
                   Omnipotence
                   wou'd
                   Bounty
                   shew
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   me
                   happy
                   in
                   contracting
                   you
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 LOVE-LETTER●
              
               
                 By
                 
                   W.
                   S.
                
                 Gent.
                 
              
               
                 Madam
                 ,
              
               
                 '
                 TWou'd
                 prove
                 a
                 needless
                 thing
                 ,
                 shou'd
                 I
              
               
                 Strive
                 to
                 set
                 forth
                 what
                 's
                 obvious
                 to
                 each
                 Eye
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 speak
                 your
                 Worth
                 and
                 Beauty
                 ,
                 wou'd
                 but
                 be
              
               
                 To
                 show
                 the
                 Sun
                 at
                 noon
                 ,
                 which
                 all
                 Men
                 see
                 .
              
               
                 Beauty
                 it self
                 ,
                 Youth
                 smiles
                 ,
                 and
                 ev'ry
                 grace
                 ,
              
               
                 Do
                 all
                 pay
                 tribute
                 to
                 your
                 Heav'nly
                 Face
                 .
              
               
                 One
                 smile
                 from
                 you
                 might
                 make
                 the
                 Dead
                 to
                 live
                 ,
              
               
                 Yielding
                 more
                 Wealth
                 than
                 lavish
                 Worlds
                 can
                 give●
              
               
                 Your
                 sparkling
                 Eyes
                 out-dart
                 the
                 pale-fac'd
                 Moon
                 ;
              
               
                 You
                 are
                 far
                 brighter
                 than
                 the
                 Eye
                 of
                 Noon
                 .
              
               
                 Phoebus
                 his
                 
                   Golden
                   Fleece
                
                 looks
                 not
                 so
                 fair
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 the
                 fine
                 silver
                 threads
                 of
                 your
                 soft
                 Hair.
              
               
                 Aurora
                 mantled
                 in
                 her
                 spreading
                 Beams
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 rouse
                 up
                 Mortals
                 from
                 their
                 slumb'ring
                 Dreams
                 ;
              
               
                 When
                 summoning
                 the
                 Morning
                 ,
                 can't
                 compleat
              
               
                 That
                 modest
                 blush
                 which
                 in
                 your
                 Cheeks
                 take●
                 seat●
              
               
               
                 Whiter
                 than
                 untrod
                 Snow
                 on
                 Mountains
                 seen
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 which
                 I
                 must
                 confess
                 beyond
                 esteem
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 those
                 white
                 
                   Iv'ry
                   Teeth
                
                 ,
                 whose
                 even
                 row
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 harmony
                 of
                 Love
                 in
                 Union
                 show
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 various
                 wantonness
                 ,
                 each
                 branching
                 Vein
              
               
                 Do's
                 your
                 white
                 Breasts
                 with
                 blue
                 Meanders
                 stain
                 ;
              
               
                 From
                 which
                 clear
                 Fountains
                 flow
                 with
                 greatest
                 measure
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 most
                 delightfull
                 Magazine
                 of
                 treasure
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Muses
                 and
                 the
                 Syrens
                 cease
                 their
                 Song
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 the
                 soft
                 Musick
                 of
                 your
                 charming
                 Tongue
                 :
              
               
                 Angel
                 or
                 Saint
                 ,
                 I
                 know
                 not
                 which
                 by
                 feature
                 ,
              
               
                 Sure
                 both
                 are
                 joyn'd
                 to
                 make
                 so
                 sweet
                 a
                 Creature
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 lovely
                 chance-work
                 ,
                 Master-piece
                 of
                 Nature
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 the
                 Gods
                 mistaking
                 Mould
                 ,
                 that
                 time
              
               
                 Had
                 cast
                 your
                 Species
                 more
                 than
                 half
                 divine
                 ;
              
               
                 Who
                 can
                 his
                 Passion
                 from
                 such
                 Beauty
                 tame
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 've
                 Charms
                 enough
                 to
                 set
                 the
                 World
                 on
                 flame
                 :
              
               
                 Mix't
                 with
                 more
                 tempting
                 and
                 atractive
                 graces
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 can
                 extracted
                 be
                 from
                 humane
                 Faces
                 !
              
               
                 Oh
                 let
                 me
                 at
                 those
                 balmy
                 Lips
                 take
                 ●ire
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 pursuit
                 of
                 Kisses
                 ev'n
                 tire
                 ;
              
               
                 Which
                 do
                 display
                 such
                 a
                 Vermilion
                 red
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 with
                 pleasure
                 fill'd
                 ,
                 then
                 hold
                 thy
                 head
              
               
               
                 Fast
                 to
                 my
                 kindled
                 and
                 inflamed
                 Heart
                 ,
              
               
                 Pierc'd
                 by
                 your
                 Eyes
                 bright
                 glancing
                 beams
                 ,
                 which
                 dart
              
               
                 Through
                 my
                 Souls
                 secret
                 and
                 most
                 inward
                 part
                 ;
              
               
                 Which
                 done
                 ,
                 let
                 mine
                 in
                 your
                 fair
                 Bosom
                 lye
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 in
                 excess
                 of
                 joy
                 and
                 ecstasie
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 there
                 shall
                 languish
                 out
                 my
                 Soul
                 and
                 dye
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 afterwards
                 with
                 like
                 transport
                 of
                 Mind●
              
               
                 Revive
                 again
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 my
                 Senses
                 find
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 In
                 Praise
                 of
                 LETTERS
                 .
              
               
                 LEtters
                 are
                 wing'd
                 Postillions
                 ,
                 and
                 do
                 move
              
               
                 From
                 East
                 to
                 West
                 on
                 Embassies
                 of
                 Love.
              
               
                 The
                 bashfull
                 Lover
                 ,
                 when
                 his
                 stamm'ring
                 Lips
              
               
                 Falter
                 with
                 fear
                 from
                 unadvised
                 slips
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 boldly
                 Court
                 his
                 Mistress
                 with
                 the
                 Quill
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 his
                 hot
                 Passions
                 to
                 her
                 Breast
                 instill
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Pen
                 can
                 furrow
                 a
                 fond
                 Females
                 He●rt
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 pierce
                 it
                 more
                 than
                 Cupid's
                 feigned
                 Dart.
              
               
                 Letters
                 a
                 kind
                 of
                 Magick
                 Vertue
                 have
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 like
                 strong
                 Philtres
                 humane
                 Souls
                 inslave
                 ;
              
               
               
                 They
                 can
                 the
                 Poles
                 ,
                 and
                 Emperour
                 inform
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 Towns
                 in
                 Hungary
                 are
                 won
                 by
                 storm
              
               
                 From
                 the
                 great
                 
                   Turk
                   :
                   Mounsieur
                
                 of
                 them
                 may
                 know
              
               
                 How
                 Foreign
                 States
                 on
                 French
                 Intriegues
                 do
                 blow
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 lucky
                 Goose
                 sav'd
                 Iove's
                 beleagu'rd
                 Hill
                 ,
              
               
                 Once
                 by
                 her
                 Noise
                 ,
                 but
                 oftner
                 by
                 her
                 Quill
                 .
              
               
                 It
                 twice
                 prevented
                 Rome
                 was
                 not
                 o'er-run
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 the
                 tough
                 Vandal
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 rough-hewn
                 Hun.
              
               
                 Letters
                 can
                 Plots
                 ,
                 though
                 moulded
                 under-ground
                 ,
              
               
                 Disclose
                 ,
                 and
                 their
                 fell
                 complices
                 confound
                 .
              
               
                 Witness
                 that
                 fiery
                 Pile
                 ,
                 which
                 wou'd
                 have
                 blown
              
               
                 Up
                 to
                 the
                 Clouds
                 ,
                 Prince
                 ,
                 People
                 ,
                 Peers
                 ,
                 and
                 Town
                 ,
              
               
                 Tribunals
                 ,
                 Church
                 ,
                 and
                 Chappel
                 ,
                 and
                 had
                 dry'd
              
               
                 The
                 Thames
                 ,
                 though
                 swelling
                 in
                 her
                 highest
                 pride
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 parboyl'd
                 the
                 poor
                 Fish
                 ,
                 which
                 from
                 her
                 Sands
              
               
                 Had
                 been
                 toss'd
                 up
                 to
                 the
                 adjoyning
                 Lands
                 .
              
               
                 Lawyers
                 as
                 Vultures
                 ,
                 had
                 soar'd
                 up
                 and
                 down
                 ,
              
               
                 Prelates
                 like
                 Mag●yes
                 in
                 the
                 Air
                 had
                 flown
                 ,
              
               
                 Had
                 not
                 the
                 Eagle's
                 Letter
                 brought
                 to
                 light
              
               
                 That
                 Subterranean
                 horrid
                 work
                 of
                 Night
                 .
              
               
                 Letters
                 may
                 more
                 than
                 History
                 inclose
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 choicest
                 learning
                 both
                 in
                 Verse
                 and
                 Prose
                 :
              
               
               
                 Witness
                 
                   Mich.
                   Drayton
                
                 ,
                 whose
                 sweet-charming
                 Pen
              
               
                 Produc'd
                 those
                 Letters
                 so
                 admir'd
                 by
                 Men.
              
               
                 Words
                 vanish
                 soon
                 ,
                 and
                 vapour
                 into
                 Air
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 Letters
                 on
                 record
                 stand
                 fresh
                 and
                 fair
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 like
                 to
                 Gordian
                 Knots
                 do
                 Nature
                 tye
                 ,
              
               
                 Else
                 all
                 Commerce
                 and
                 Love
                 'twixt
                 Men
                 wou'd
                 dye
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 IDEA
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 
                   Charles
                   Cotton
                
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                   
                
                 .
              
               
                 
                   ART
                   thou
                   then
                   absent
                   ,
                   O
                   thou
                   dear
                
                 
                   And
                   only
                   Subject
                   of
                   my
                   Flame
                   ?
                
                 
                   Are
                   these
                   fair
                   Objects
                   that
                   appear
                
                 
                   But
                   shadows
                   of
                   that
                   noble
                   frame
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   which
                   I
                   do
                   all
                   other
                   form
                   disclaim
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   Am
                   I
                   deluded
                   ?
                   do
                   I
                   only
                   rave
                   ?
                
                 
                   Was
                   it
                   a
                   Phantasme
                   only
                   that
                   I
                   saw
                   ?
                
                 
                   Have
                   Dreams
                   such
                   power
                   to
                   deceive
                   ?
                
                 
                 
                   Oh
                   ,
                   lovely
                   Shade
                   ,
                   thou
                   did'st
                   too
                   soon
                   withdraw
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   fleecy
                   Snow
                   ,
                   that
                   as
                   it
                   falls
                   ,
                   doth
                   thaw
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Glorious
                   Illusion
                   !
                   Lovely
                   shade
                   !
                
                 
                   Once
                   more
                   deceive
                   me
                   with
                   thy
                   light
                   ;
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   pleasure
                   so
                   to
                   be
                   betray'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   for
                   ever
                   shall
                   delight
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   be
                   pursu'd
                   by
                   such
                   a
                   charming
                   Sprite
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 LOVE's
                 SYMPATHY
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   SOul
                   of
                   my
                   Soul
                   !
                   it
                   cannot
                   be
                
                 
                   That
                   you
                   shou'd
                   weep
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                   from
                   tears
                   be
                   free
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   the
                   vast
                   room
                   between
                   both
                   Poles
                   ,
                
                 
                   Can
                   never
                   dull
                   the
                   sence
                   of
                   Souls
                   ,
                
                 
                   Knit
                   in
                   so
                   fast
                   a
                   knot
                   :
                
                 
                   Oh
                   can
                   you
                   grieve
                   ,
                   and
                   think
                   that
                   I
                
                 
                   Can
                   feel
                   no
                   smart
                   ,
                   because
                   not
                   nigh
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   that
                   I
                   know
                   it
                   not
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   Th'
                   are
                   heretick
                   thoughts
                   ,
                   Two
                   Lutes
                   when
                   strung
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   a
                   Table
                   tun'd
                   alike
                   for
                   Song
                   ;
                
                 
                   Strike
                   one
                   ,
                   and
                   that
                   which
                   none
                   did
                   touch
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   sympathizing
                   sound
                   as
                   much
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   that
                   which
                   touch'd
                   you
                   see
                   :
                
                 
                   Think
                   then
                   this
                   World
                   (
                   which
                   Heav'n
                   inrolls
                   )
                
                 
                   Is
                   but
                   a
                   Table
                   round
                   ,
                   and
                   Souls
                
                 
                   More
                   apprehensive
                   be
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   Know
                   they
                   that
                   in
                   their
                   grossest
                   parts
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mix
                   by
                   their
                   hallow'd
                   Loves
                   intwined
                   Hearts
                   ;
                
                 
                   This
                   priviledge
                   boast
                   ,
                   that
                   no
                   remove
                
                 
                   Can
                   e'er
                   infringe
                   their
                   sense
                   of
                   Love
                   :
                
                 
                   Iudge
                   hence
                   then
                   our
                   Estate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   when
                   we
                   lov'd
                   ,
                   there
                   was
                   not
                   put
                
                 
                   Two
                   Earthen
                   hearts
                   in
                   one
                   breast
                   ,
                   but
                
                 
                   Two
                   
                     Souls
                     Co-animate
                  
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 PINDARIQUE
                 ODE
                 ON
                 Mr.
                 COWLEY
                 .
              
               
                 TO
                 tune
                 thy
                 praise
                 ,
                 what
                 Muse
                 shall
                 I
                 invoke
                 ,
                 what
                 Quire
                 ?
              
               
                 None
                 but
                 thy
                 Davideis
                 ,
                 or
                 thy
                 David's
                 Lyre
                 :
              
               
                 True
                 Poet
                 ,
                 and
                 true
                 Man
                 ,
              
               
                 Say
                 more
                 than
                 this
                 who
                 can
                 ;
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 not
                 an
                 Angel's
                 mighty
                 Eloquence
                 .
              
               
                 These
                 two
                 ,
              
               
                 These
                 only
                 doe
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 all
                 perfections
                 make
                 a
                 Quintessence
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 ,
                 my
                 dear
                 Cowley
                 ,
                 dye
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 why
                 shou'd
                 foolish
                 I
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 foolish
                 Sympathy
                 ,
              
               
                 Wish
                 thee
                 to
                 live
                 ?
                 since
                 't
                 is
                 no
                 more
                 to
                 live
                 ,
                 no
                 more
                 to
                 dye
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 to
                 be
                 here
                 on
                 Earth
                 ,
                 and
                 to
                 be
                 there
                 about
                 the
                 Sky
                 ,
              
               
                 Both
                 to
                 you
                 shared
                 equally
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 An
                 ODE
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   R.
                   D.
                
                 of
                 Cambridge
                 .
              
               
                 
                   O
                   Ye
                   blest
                   Pow'rs
                   ,
                   propitious
                   be
                
                 
                   Unto
                   my
                   growing
                   Love
                   !
                
                 
                   None
                   can
                   create
                   my
                   Misery
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   Cloe
                   but
                   constant
                   prove
                   .
                
                 
                   Tell
                   her
                   if
                   that
                   she
                   pity
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   her
                   you
                   'll
                   ne'er
                   remove
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Each
                   Brize
                   of
                   Air
                   ,
                   my
                   groans
                   shall
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unto
                   her
                   gentle
                   Breast
                   ;
                
                 
                   Silently
                   whisp'ring
                   in
                   her
                   Ear
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   never
                   can
                   be
                   blest
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   she
                   refuse
                   to
                   be
                   my
                   Dear
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   never
                   can
                   have
                   rest
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Ye
                   Groves
                   ,
                   that
                   hear
                   each
                   day
                   my
                   grief
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bear
                   witness
                   of
                   my
                   pain
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Tell
                   her
                   I
                   dye
                   ,
                   if
                   no
                   relief
                
                 
                   I
                   from
                   her
                   Pow'r
                   can
                   gain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Tell
                   her
                   ,
                   ah
                   ,
                   tell
                   that
                   pretty
                   Thief
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   dye
                   through
                   her
                   disdain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Likely
                   she
                   may
                   with
                   piteous
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   dead
                   ,
                   my
                   Hearse
                   survey
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   my
                   Soul
                   'mongst
                   Deities
                
                 
                   Doth
                   melt
                   in
                   Sweets
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   may
                   she
                   curse
                   those
                   Victories
                
                 
                   That
                   did
                   my
                   Heart
                   betray
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 AN
                 ODE
                 of
                 ANACREON
                 Paraphras'd
                 .
                 Beauties
                 Force
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   I
                   Wonder
                   why
                   Dame
                   Nature
                   thus
                
                 
                   Her
                   various
                   gifts
                   dispences
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   ev'ry
                   Creature
                   else
                   but
                   us
                
                 
                   With
                   Arms
                   or
                   Armour
                   fences
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Bull
                   with
                   bended
                   horns
                   she
                   arms
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   hoofs
                   she
                   guards
                   the
                   Horse
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Hare
                   can
                   nimbly
                   run
                   from
                   harms
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   know
                   the
                   Lyon's
                   force
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   The
                   Bird
                   can
                   danger
                   fly
                   on
                   's
                   Wing
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   Fish
                   with
                   Fins
                   adorns
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Cuckold
                   too
                   ,
                   that
                   harmless
                   thing
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   patience
                   guards
                   ,
                   and
                   's
                   horns
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Men
                   she
                   Valiant
                   makes
                   ,
                   and
                   wise
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   shun
                   or
                   baffle
                   harms
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   to
                   poor
                   Women
                   she
                   denies
                
                 
                   Armour
                   to
                   give
                   ,
                   or
                   Arms.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   Instead
                   of
                   all
                   ,
                   she
                   this
                   do's
                   do
                   ;
                
                 
                   Our
                   Beauty
                   she
                   bestows
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   serves
                   for
                   Arms
                   ,
                   and
                   Armour
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   'Gainst
                   all
                   our
                   pow'rfull
                   Foes
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   't
                   is
                   no
                   matter
                   ,
                   so
                   she
                   doth
                
                 
                   Still
                   beauteous
                   Faces
                   yield
                   ;
                
                 
                   We
                   'll
                   conquer
                   Sword
                   and
                   Fire
                   ,
                   for
                   both
                
                 
                   To
                   Beauty
                   leave
                   the
                   Field
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 PINDARIQUE
                 ODE
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Iohn
                   Whitehall
                
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   MAdam
                   ,
                   at
                   first
                   I
                   thought
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Passions
                   might
                   to
                   my
                   Commands
                   be
                   brought
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   ,
                   Love
                   me
                   not
                   ,
                   you
                   cry'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   said
                   in
                   vain
                   I
                   did
                   pursue
                
                 
                   The
                   hopes
                   of
                   ever
                   winning
                   you
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   I
                   to
                   slight
                   it
                   try'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   't
                   wou'd
                   not
                   doe
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   in
                   the
                   conflict
                   I
                   was
                   almost
                   crucify'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   At
                   first
                   did
                   rise
                
                 
                   Beauty
                   ,
                   which
                   fought
                   me
                   with
                   your
                   pow'rfull
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   I
                   had
                   in
                   vain
                
                 
                   Driv'n
                   th'
                   Usurper
                   from
                   my
                   heart
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   drew
                   her
                   Bow
                   ,
                   and
                   shot
                   a
                   Dart
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   vanquish'd
                   me
                   again
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   strength
                   of
                   Man
                   ,
                   what
                   Art
                
                 
                   Cou'd
                   with
                   this
                   Amazon
                   a
                   Combat
                   long
                   maintain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   Next
                   after
                   her
                   ,
                
                 
                   Vertue
                   well
                   arm'd
                   for
                   Battle
                   did
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Attending
                   on
                   her
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   Charity
                   ,
                   Mercy
                   ,
                   Eloquence
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wit
                   and
                   a
                   
                     Virgin
                     Innocence
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   war-like
                   state
                   did
                   ride
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   find
                   since
                
                 
                   I
                   cou'd
                   not
                   with
                   all
                   these
                   contend
                   ,
                   but
                   must
                   have
                   dy'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   IV.
                   
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   still
                   you
                
                 
                   Do
                   cry
                   ,
                   forbear
                   this
                   Conquest
                   to
                   pursue
                   ;
                
                 
                   You
                   must
                   debauch
                   your
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Turn
                   all
                   your
                   Vertues
                   into
                   Vice
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   an
                   Hell
                   of
                   Paradise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Be
                   false
                   ,
                   deform'd
                   ,
                   unkind
                   :
                
                 
                   By
                   this
                   device
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   by
                   no
                   other
                   ,
                   I
                   from
                   Love
                   may
                   be
                   declin'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   V.
                   
                
                 
                   But
                   why
                   ?
                   but
                   why
                
                 
                   Name
                   I
                   this
                   great
                   impossibility
                   ?
                
                 
                   I
                   scarce
                   cou'd
                   so
                   remove
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   great
                   affection
                   which
                   I
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Were
                   you
                   as
                   bad
                   ,
                   as
                   good
                   you
                   are
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   difficult
                   't
                   will
                   prove
                
                 
                   To
                   you
                   ,
                   I
                   swear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Eternal
                   is
                   your
                   Goodness
                   ,
                   and
                   Eternal
                   is
                   my
                   Love.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 From
                 Ovid's
                 Amorum
                 ,
                 lib.
                 2.
                 
                 El.
                 4.
                 and
                 Lucretius
                 ,
                 lib.
                 4.
                 
                 That
                 he
                 loves
                 Women
                 of
                 all
                 sorts
                 and
                 sizes
                 .
              
               
                 PRess'd
                 with
                 my
                 thoughts
                 ,
                 I
                 to
                 consession
                 fall
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 anxious
                 fears
                 ,
                 till
                 I
                 lay
                 open
                 all
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 sin
                 and
                 I
                 repent
                 ,
                 clear
                 of
                 the
                 score
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 afterward
                 relapse
                 in
                 Sin
                 the
                 more
                 .
              
               
                 My self
                 I
                 guide
                 ,
                 like
                 some
                 swist
                 Pinnace
                 toss'd
              
               
                 In
                 Storms
                 ;
                 the
                 Rudder
                 gone
                 ,
                 and
                 Compass
                 lost
                 ;
              
               
                 No
                 certain
                 shape
                 or
                 features
                 stint
                 my
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 still
                 ●or
                 Love
                 a
                 thousand
                 Reasons
                 find
                 ;
              
               
                 Melodiously
                 one
                 sings
                 ,
                 then
                 straight
                 I
                 long
              
               
                 To
                 quaver
                 on
                 her
                 Lips
                 ,
                 ev'n
                 in
                 her
                 Song
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 she
                 be
                 vers'd
                 in
                 Arts
                 ,
                 and
                 deeply
                 read
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'm
                 taken
                 with
                 her
                 learned
                 Maiden-head
                 :
              
               
               
                 Or
                 if
                 untaught
                 ,
                 and
                 ignorant
                 she
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 takes
                 me
                 then
                 with
                 her
                 simplicitie
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 like
                 whom
                 rigid
                 Education
                 fools
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 wou'd
                 not
                 try
                 to
                 put
                 her
                 past
                 her
                 rules
                 ;
              
               
                 Though
                 look
                 demure
                 ,
                 her
                 Inclinations-swerve
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 once
                 let
                 loose
                 ,
                 she
                 jigs
                 without
                 reserve
                 .
              
               
                 Sanguine
                 her
                 looks
                 ,
                 her
                 colour
                 high
                 and
                 good
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 all
                 the
                 rest
                 I
                 trust
                 her
                 flesh
                 and
                 blood
                 .
              
               
                 Here
                 living
                 Snow
                 my
                 passion
                 strangely
                 warms
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 streight
                 I
                 wish
                 her
                 melting
                 in
                 my
                 Arms
                 ;
              
               
                 
                   White
                   ,
                   Red
                
                 ,
                 or
                 
                   Guinny
                   black
                
                 ,
                 or
                 Gypsey
                 brown
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 dearly-well-beloved
                 ev'ry
                 one
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 she
                 is
                 tall
                 ,
                 my
                 courage
                 mounts
                 as
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 stamp
                 some
                 new
                 heroick
                 Progeny
                 :
              
               
                 If
                 little
                 ,
                 oh
                 how
                 quick
                 the
                 Spirit
                 moves
                 !
              
               
                 If
                 large
                 ,
                 who
                 wou'd
                 not
                 rowl
                 in
                 what
                 he
                 loves
                 ?
              
               
                 The
                 lean
                 provokes
                 me
                 with
                 her
                 naughty
                 rubs
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 if
                 she
                 's
                 plump
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 then
                 my
                 
                   pretty
                   Fubs
                
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 doubtless
                 one
                 might
                 truck
                 convenient
                 sport
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 either
                 fat
                 ,
                 or
                 lean
                 ,
                 or
                 long
                 ,
                 or
                 short
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 yellow
                 Curls
                 Aurora
                 pleas'd
                 her
                 Fop
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Leda
                 (
                 Iove
                 well
                 saw
                 )
                 was
                 black-a-top
                 .
              
               
               
                 The
                 black
                 or
                 yellow
                 are
                 alike
                 to
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Love
                 will
                 suit
                 with
                 ev'ry
                 History
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 Caelia
                 sing
                 ,
                 she
                 ,
                 like
                 a
                 Syrene
                 ,
                 draws
                 ;
              
               
                 If
                 she
                 sing
                 not
                 ,
                 we
                 kiss
                 without
                 a
                 pause
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 love
                 to
                 rifle
                 amongst
                 Gems
                 and
                 Dress
                 ;
              
               
                 Yet
                 lumber
                 they
                 to
                 God-like
                 nakedness
                 .
              
               
                 Buzzards
                 and
                 Owls
                 on
                 special
                 quarry
                 fall
                 ,
              
               
                 Mine
                 is
                 a
                 gen'rous
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 flies
                 at
                 all
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 like
                 the
                 Rich
                 ,
                 'cause
                 she
                 is
                 pamper'd
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 merry
                 Beggar
                 love
                 for
                 Charity
                 ;
              
               
                 Widow
                 or
                 Wife
                 ,
                 I
                 'm
                 for
                 a
                 Pad
                 that
                 's
                 made
                 ;
              
               
                 If
                 Virgin
                 troth
                 ,
                 who
                 wou'd
                 not
                 love
                 a
                 Maid
                 ?
              
               
                 If
                 she
                 be
                 young
                 ,
                 I
                 take
                 her
                 in
                 the
                 nick
                 ;
              
               
                 If
                 she
                 has
                 Age
                 ,
                 she
                 helps
                 it
                 with
                 a
                 trick
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 nothing
                 charms
                 me
                 in
                 her
                 Wit
                 or
                 Face
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 has
                 her
                 Fiddle
                 in
                 some
                 other
                 place
                 .
              
               
                 Come
                 ev'ry
                 sort
                 and
                 size
                 ,
                 the
                 great
                 or
                 small
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Love
                 will
                 find
                 a
                 Tally
                 for
                 'em
                 all
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 foregoing
                 Elegy
                 having
                 been
                 Publish'd
                 imperfect
                 ,
                 is
                 here
                 Printed
                 from
                 the
                 best
                 Copy
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 THE
                 PARALLEL
                 .
              
               
                 AS
                 when
                 proud
                 Lucifer
                 aim'd
                 at
                 the
                 Throne
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 have
                 Usurp't
                 it
                 ,
                 and
                 made
                 Heav'n
                 his
                 own●
              
               
                 (
                 Blasphemous
                 ,
                 damn'd
                 design
                 )
                 but
                 soon
                 he
                 fell
                 ,
              
               
                 Guarded
                 with
                 dreadfull
                 lightning
                 down
                 to
                 Hell
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 as
                 when
                 Nimrod
                 lofty
                 Babel
                 built
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 A
                 Structure
                 as
                 Eternal
                 as
                 his
                 guilt
                 ;
                 )
              
               
                 Let
                 us
                 ,
                 said
                 he
                 ,
                 raise
                 the
                 proud
                 Tow'r
                 so
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 may
                 amaze
                 the
                 Gods
                 ,
                 and
                 kiss
                 their
                 Sky
                 ;
              
               
                 He
                 spoke
                 —
                 but
                 the
                 success
                 was
                 diff'rent
                 found
                 ;
              
               
                 Heav'ns
                 angry
                 Thunder
                 crush't
                 him
                 to
                 the
                 ground
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 Lucifer
                 ,
                 and
                 so
                 proud
                 Babel
                 fell
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 't
                 is
                 a
                 cursed
                 fall
                 from
                 Heav'n
                 to
                 Hell.
              
               
                 So
                 falls
                 our
                 Courtier
                 now
                 to
                 Pride
                 a
                 prey
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 falls
                 too
                 with
                 as
                 much
                 reproach
                 as
                 They●
              
               
                 And
                 justly
                 —
              
               
                 That
                 with
                 his
                 nauseous
                 Courtship
                 durst
                 defile
              
               
                 The
                 sweetest
                 ,
                 choicest
                 Beauty
                 of
                 our
                 Isle
                 :
              
               
               
                 That
                 he
                 was
                 proud
                 ,
                 we
                 knew
                 ;
                 but
                 now
                 we
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 Ianus
                 ,
                 looking
                 on
                 Eternity
                 ,
              
               
                 Both
                 what
                 he
                 was
                 ,
                 and
                 what
                 he
                 meant
                 to
                 be
                 .
              
               
                 Stern
                 was
                 his
                 Look
                 ,
                 and
                 sturdy
                 was
                 his
                 Gate
                 ;
              
               
                 He
                 walk't
                 ,
                 and
                 talk't
                 ,
                 and
                 wou'd
                 have
                 kiss'd
                 in
                 state
                 .
              
               
                 Disdain
                 and
                 Scorn
                 sate
                 perching
                 on
                 his
                 Brow
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 Presto
                 !
                 where
                 is
                 all
                 that
                 Grandeur
                 now
                 ?
              
               
                 Why
                 vanish't
                 ,
                 fled
                 ,
                 dissolv'd
                 to
                 empty
                 Air
                 ,
              
               
                 Fine
                 Ornaments
                 indeed
                 to
                 cheat
                 the
                 Fair
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 which
                 is
                 yet
                 the
                 strangest
                 thing
                 of
                 all
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 has
                 not
                 got
                 one
                 Friend
                 to
                 mourn
                 his
                 fall
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 't
                 is
                 but
                 just
                 that
                 he
                 who
                 has
                 maintain'd
              
               
                 Such
                 ill
                 designs
                 ,
                 shou'd
                 be
                 by
                 all
                 disdain'd
                 .
              
               
                 Had
                 not
                 the
                 lazy
                 Drone
                 been
                 quite
                 as
                 blind
                 ,
              
               
                 Equally
                 dim
                 both
                 in
                 his
                 Eyes
                 and
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 might
                 have
                 plainly
                 seen
                 —
              
               
                 For
                 the
                 Example
                 's
                 visible
                 to
                 all
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 strangely
                 low
                 ingratefull
                 Pride
                 may
                 fall
                 .
              
               
                 Presumptuous
                 Wretch
                 !
                 but
                 that
                 's
                 too
                 kind
                 a
                 Name
              
               
                 For
                 one
                 so
                 careless
                 of
                 a
                 Virgins
                 Fame
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 as
                 the
                 Serpent
                 did
                 by
                 fraud
                 deceive
              
               
                 Th'
                 unwary
                 Soul
                 of
                 the
                 first
                 
                   Virgin
                   Eve
                
                 ;
              
               
               
                 So
                 he
                 as
                 impudently
                 strove
                 t'
                 inspire
              
               
                 The
                 lovely
                 Maid
                 with
                 his
                 delusive
                 fire
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 Heav'n
                 be
                 prais'd
                 ,
                 now
                 with
                 the
                 same
                 success
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 though
                 his
                 pride
                 's
                 as
                 great
                 ,
                 his
                 cunning's
                 less
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 SONG
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   MUsing
                   on
                   Cares
                   of
                   humane
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   a
                   sad
                   
                     Cypress
                     Grove
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   strange
                   dispute
                   I
                   heard
                   of
                   late
                   ,
                
                 
                   'Twixt
                   
                     Vertue
                     ,
                     Fame
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Love.
                
                 
                   A
                   Pensive
                   Shepherd
                   ask'd
                   advice
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   their
                   Opinions
                   crav'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   he
                   might
                   hope
                   to
                   be
                   so
                   wise
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   get
                   a
                   place
                   beyond
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   how
                   he
                   might
                   be
                   sav'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   Nice
                   Vertue
                   preach'd
                   Religions
                   Laws
                   ,
                
                 
                   Paths
                   to
                   Eternal
                   Rest
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   fight
                   his
                   Kings
                   and
                   Countries
                   Cause
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fame
                   Counsell'd
                   him
                   was
                   best
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   Love
                   oppos'd
                   their
                   noisy
                   Tongues
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   their
                   Votes
                   out-brav'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Get
                   ,
                   get
                   a
                   Mistress
                   ,
                   fair
                   and
                   young
                   ,
                
                 
                   Love
                   fiercely
                   ,
                   constantly
                   and
                   long
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   thou
                   shalt
                   be
                   sav'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   Swift
                   as
                   a
                   thought
                   the
                   Am'rous
                   Swain
                
                 
                   To
                   Sylvia's
                   Cottage
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   soft
                   Expressions
                   told
                   her
                   plain
                
                 
                   The
                   way
                   to
                   Heav'nly
                   Ioys
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   who
                   with
                   Piety
                   was
                   stor'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Delays
                   no
                   longer
                   crav'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Charm'd
                   by
                   the
                   God
                   whom
                   they
                   ador'd
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   smil'd
                   and
                   took
                   him
                   at
                   his
                   Word
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   they
                   both
                   were
                   sav'd
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 SONG
                 .
                 The
                 YOUNG
                 LOVER
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 Mr.
                 Wright
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   TUsh
                   ,
                   never
                   tell
                   me
                   I
                   'm
                   too
                   Young
                
                 
                   For
                   loving
                   ,
                   or
                   too
                   green
                   ;
                
                 
                   She
                   stays
                   at
                   least
                   
                     sev'n
                     years
                  
                   too
                   long
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   's
                   wedded
                   at
                   fourteen
                   .
                
                 
                   Lambs
                   bring
                   forth
                   Lambs
                   ,
                   and
                   Doves
                   bring
                   Doves
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   soon
                   as
                   they
                   're
                   begotten
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   why
                   shou'd
                   Ladies
                   linger
                   Loves
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   if
                   not
                   ripe
                   till
                   rotten
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   
                     Gray
                     hairs
                  
                   are
                   fitter
                   for
                   the
                   Grave
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   for
                   the
                   
                     Bridal
                     Bed
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   pleasure
                   can
                   a
                   Lover
                   have
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   a
                   
                     wither'd
                     Maiden-head
                  
                   ?
                
                 
                   Nature's
                   exalted
                   in
                   our
                   time
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   our
                   Grandams
                   then
                
                 
                   At
                   
                     four
                     and
                     twenty
                  
                   scarce
                   cou'd
                   climb
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   can
                   arrive
                   at
                   Ten.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 SONG
                 .
                 The
                 Prodigal's
                 Resolution
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   I
                   Am
                   a
                   lusty
                   lively
                   Lad
                   ,
                
                 
                   Arriv'd
                   at
                   One-and-Twenty
                   ;
                
                 
                   My
                   Father
                   left
                   me
                   all
                   he
                   had
                   ,
                
                 
                   Both
                   Gold
                   and
                   Silver
                   plenty
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   He
                   's
                   in
                   Grave
                   ,
                   I
                   will
                   be
                   brave
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Ladies
                   shall
                   adore
                   me
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   'll
                   Court
                   and
                   Kiss
                   ,
                   what
                   hurt
                   's
                   in
                   this
                   ?
                
                 
                   My
                   Dad
                   did
                   so
                   before
                   me
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   My
                   Father
                   ,
                   to
                   get
                   my
                   Estate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Though
                   selfish
                   ,
                   yet
                   was
                   slavish
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   'll
                   spend
                   it
                   at
                   another
                   rate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   be
                   as
                   leudly
                   lavish
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   
                     Mad-men
                     ,
                     Fools
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Knaves
                   he
                   did
                   ,
                
                 
                   Litigiously
                   receive
                   it
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   so
                   he
                   did
                   ,
                   Iustice
                   forbid
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   I
                   to
                   such
                   shou'd
                   leave
                   it
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   Then
                   I
                   'll
                   to
                   Court
                   ,
                   where
                   Venus
                   sport
                   ,
                
                 
                   Doth
                   Revel
                   it
                   in
                   plenty
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   deal
                   with
                   all
                   ,
                   both
                   great
                   and
                   small
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   twelve
                   to
                   five
                   and
                   twenty
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   Play-houses
                   I
                   'll
                   spend
                   my
                   Days
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   there
                   are
                   store
                   of
                   Misses
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ladies
                   ,
                   make
                   room
                   ,
                   behold
                   I
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   purchase
                   many
                   Kisses
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 SONG
                 .
                 The
                 
                   Doubtfull
                   Lover
                
                 Resolv'd
                 .
              
               
                 
                   FAin
                   wou'd
                   I
                   Love
                   ,
                   but
                   that
                   I
                   fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   quickly
                   shou'd
                   the
                   Willow
                   wear
                   :
                
                 
                   Fain
                   wou'd
                   I
                   Marry
                   ,
                   but
                   Men
                   say
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Love
                   is
                   try'd
                   ,
                   he
                   will
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   tell
                   me
                   ,
                   Love
                   ,
                   what
                   I
                   shall
                   doe
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   cure
                   these
                   Fears
                   when
                   e'er
                   I
                   Wooe
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Fair
                   one
                   ,
                   she
                   's
                   a
                   mark
                   to
                   all
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Brown
                   one
                   each
                   doth
                   lovely
                   call
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Black
                   a
                   Pearl
                   in
                   fair
                   Mens
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   will
                   stoop
                   to
                   any
                   prize
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   tell
                   me
                   ,
                   Love
                   ,
                   what
                   I
                   shall
                   doe
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   cure
                   these
                   Fears
                   when
                   e'er
                   I
                   Woe
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Reply
                   .
                
                 
                   Go
                   ,
                   Lover
                   ,
                   know
                   ,
                   it
                   is
                   not
                   I
                
                 
                   That
                   wound
                   with
                   fear
                   or
                   jealousie
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   do
                   Men
                   feel
                   those
                   smarts
                   ,
                
                 
                   Untill
                   they
                   have
                   confin'd
                   their
                   Hearts
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   if
                   you
                   'll
                   cure
                   your
                   Fears
                   ,
                   you
                   shall
                
                 
                   Love
                   neither
                   Fair
                   ,
                   Black
                   ,
                   Brown
                   ,
                   but
                   all
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 SONG
                 .
                 The
                 CAVALIER's
                 CATCH
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   DID
                   you
                   see
                   this
                   
                     Cup
                     of
                     Liquor
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   invitingly
                   it
                   looks
                   ;
                
                 
                   'T
                   will
                   make
                   a
                   Lawyer
                   prattle
                   quicker
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   a
                   Scholar
                   burn
                   his
                   Books
                   :
                
                 
                   'T
                   will
                   make
                   a
                   Cripple
                   for
                   to
                   Caper
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   a
                   
                     Dumb
                     Man
                  
                   clearly
                   Sing
                   ;
                
                 
                   'T
                   will
                   make
                   a
                   Coward
                   draw
                   his
                   Rapier
                   ,
                
                 
                   Here
                   's
                   a
                   Health
                   to
                   Iames
                   our
                   King.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   If
                   that
                   here
                   be
                   any
                   Round-head
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   refuse
                   this
                   Health
                   to
                   pledge●
                
                 
                   I
                   wish
                   he
                   then
                   may
                   be
                   confounded
                   ,
                
                 
                   Underneath
                   some
                   rotten
                   Hedge
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   the
                   
                     French
                     Disease
                  
                   o'er-take
                   him
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   upon
                   h●s
                   Face
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   his
                   Wife
                   a
                   Cuckold
                   make
                   him
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   some
                   
                     Iovial
                     Cavalier
                  
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 SONG
                 .
                 On
                 Sight
                 of
                 a
                 LADY's
                 Face
                 in
                 the
                 Water
                 .
              
               
                 
                   STand
                   still
                   ,
                   ye
                   Floods
                   ,
                   do
                   not
                   deface
                
                 
                   That
                   Image
                   which
                   you
                   bear
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   Votaries
                   from
                   ev'ry
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   you
                   shall
                   Altars
                   rear
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   No
                   Winds
                   ,
                   but
                   Lovers
                   sighs
                   blow
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   trouble
                   these
                   glad
                   streams
                   ;
                
                 
                   On
                   which
                   no
                   Star
                   from
                   any
                   Sphere
                   ,
                
                 
                   Did
                   ever
                   dart
                   such
                   Beams
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   Crystal
                   then
                   in
                   hast
                   congeal
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lest
                   you
                   shou'd
                   lose
                   your
                   bliss
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   my
                   cruel
                   Fair
                   reveal
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   cold
                   ,
                   how
                   hard
                   she
                   is
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   if
                   the
                   envious
                   Nymphs
                   shall
                   fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Beauties
                   will
                   be
                   scorn'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   hire
                   the
                   ruder
                   Winds
                   to
                   tear
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Face
                   which
                   you
                   adorn'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Then
                   rage
                   and
                   foam
                   amain
                   ,
                   that
                   we
                
                 
                   Their
                   Malice
                   may
                   despise
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   your
                   froths
                   we
                   soon
                   shall
                   see
                
                 
                   A
                   second
                   Venus
                   rise
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 SONG
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   IF
                   mighty
                   Wealth
                   ,
                   that
                   gives
                   the
                   Rules
                
                 
                   To
                   Vitious
                   Men
                   ,
                   and
                   cheated
                   Fools
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cou'd
                   but
                   preserve
                   me
                   in
                   the
                   prime
                
                 
                   Of
                   blooming
                   Youth
                   ,
                   and
                   purchase
                   Time
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   I
                   wou'd
                   covet
                   Riches
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   scrape
                   and
                   cheat
                   as
                   others
                   doe
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   But
                   since
                   that
                   Life
                   must
                   slide
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Wealth
                   can't
                   purchase
                   one
                   poor
                   day
                   ;
                
                 
                   Why
                   shou'd
                   my
                   cares
                   encrease
                   my
                   pain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wast
                   my
                   time
                   with
                   sighs
                   in
                   vain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Since
                   Riches
                   cannot
                   Life
                   supply
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   is
                   a
                   useless
                   Poverty
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   Swift
                   time
                   ,
                   that
                   can't
                   be
                   bought
                   to
                   stay
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   'll
                   try
                   to
                   guide
                   the
                   gentlest
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   chearfull
                   Friends
                   brisk
                   Wine
                   shall
                   pass
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   drown
                   a
                   care
                   in
                   ev'ry
                   Glass
                   .
                
                 
                   Sometimes
                   diverted
                   with
                   Loves
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   'll
                   pleasure
                   take
                   in
                   Celia's
                   Arms.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 On
                 the
                 Serpentine
                 Combustion
                 by
                 Squibs
                 on
                 my
                 Mayor's
                 Day
                 .
                 An
                 
                   HEROICK
                   POEM
                
                 .
                 Written
                 
                   Octob.
                   29.
                   1686.
                
                 
              
               
                 OF
                 Hoods
                 demolish'd
                 ,
                 Towers
                 laid
                 full
                 low
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 crackling
                 Crape
                 ,
                 and
                 Manto's
                 brought
                 to
                 woe
                 ;
              
               
                 Of
                 Scarf
                 consum'd
                 ,
                 and
                 Periwig
                 on
                 fire
                 ,
              
               
                 Flaming
                 Cravat
                 ,
                 and
                 ruinated
                 Squire
                 ;
              
               
                 Of
                 lighted
                 Petticoat
                 ,
                 and
                 Neck-cloth
                 blazing
                 ,
              
               
                 Whisk
                 turn'd
                 to
                 Ashes
                 ,
                 and
                 fond
                 Fops
                 a
                 gazing
                 ;
              
               
                 Cuffs
                 chark'd
                 to
                 Coal
                 ,
                 and
                 Point
                 turn'd
                 all
                 to
                 Cinder
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Gause
                 soon
                 Me●amorphos'd
                 into
                 Tinder
                 :
              
               
               
                 Of
                 shining
                 Gorget
                 ,
                 sparkling
                 Iump
                 of
                 Fustian
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Apron
                 deeply
                 lac'd
                 in
                 dire
                 Combustion
                 ;
              
               
                 Scorch'd
                 Quoif
                 aloft
                 ,
                 and
                 sindged
                 Smock
                 alow
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 thought
                 to
                 sing
                 in
                 ample
                 wise
                 ,
                 I
                 trow
                 ,
              
               
                 Unto
                 the
                 tune
                 of
                 ,
                 
                   Fortune
                   is
                   my
                   Foe
                
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 found
                 the
                 task
                 too
                 great
                 for
                 my
                 weak
                 Quill
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 who
                 is
                 he
                 that
                 artfully
                 can
                 tell
                 ?
              
               
                 How
                 skipp'd
                 the
                 Squire
                 ,
                 how
                 the
                 frighted
                 Maid
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 like
                 to
                 Rocket
                 ,
                 danc'd
                 the
                 Serenade
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 shun
                 the
                 track
                 of
                 Serpent
                 ,
                 looking
                 out
              
               
                 For
                 neat-made
                 Manto
                 ,
                 and
                 well-fashion'd
                 Suit.
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 when
                 he
                 had
                 cast
                 his
                 Paper-skin
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 those
                 he
                 did
                 intend
                 to
                 cloath
                 again
                 :
              
               
                 Or
                 that
                 to
                 humane
                 covering
                 in
                 spite
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 'd
                 have
                 each
                 Mortal
                 to
                 turn
                 Adamite
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 fire
                 all
                 ,
                 although
                 but
                 thinly
                 clad
                 ,
              
               
                 Esteeming
                 Cloaths
                 as
                 Goods
                 prohibited
                 .
              
               
                 Fierce
                 in
                 a
                 quick
                 pursuit
                 ,
                 he
                 scouts
                 around
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Linnen
                 ,
                 or
                 where
                 Woollen's
                 to
                 be
                 found
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 his
                 greedy
                 rage
                 ,
                 and
                 hungry
                 wroth
                 ,
              
               
                 Devours
                 Garments
                 faster
                 than
                 the
                 Moth.
              
               
                 Within
                 his
                 
                   blazing
                   Circuit
                
                 ,
                 as
                 he
                 wheels
                 ,
              
               
                 Still
                 making
                 faster
                 at
                 the
                 Head
                 than
                 Heels
                 .
              
               
               
                 Mounting
                 aloft
                 on
                 ground
                 ,
                 he
                 makes
                 small
                 stay
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 into
                 arched
                 Windows
                 leads
                 his
                 way
                 ;
              
               
                 Where
                 Myriads
                 following
                 ,
                 make
                 each
                 Balcone
                 ,
              
               
                 Involv'd
                 in
                 Flames
                 ,
                 look
                 like
                 the
                 torrid
                 Zone
                 .
              
               
                 Swiftly
                 they
                 move
                 about
                 ,
                 with
                 dismal
                 quest
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 to
                 be
                 charm'd
                 by
                 an
                 
                   Egyptian
                   Priest
                
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 still
                 must
                 cruise
                 about
                 where
                 good
                 Attire
                 is
                 ,
              
               
                 Spight
                 both
                 of
                 Isis
                 and
                 her
                 Friend
                 Osiris
                 ;
              
               
                 Scorning
                 each
                 Talisman
                 ,
                 or
                 Magick
                 Spell
                 ,
              
               
                 Dreadfull
                 as
                 Dragons
                 ,
                 and
                 as
                 Python
                 fell
                 ;
              
               
                 Scarce
                 e'er
                 to
                 be
                 destroy'd
                 ,
                 for
                 Sages
                 write
                 ,
              
               
                 These
                 Monsters
                 still
                 will
                 annually
                 affright
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Hoods
                 and
                 Perukes
                 ,
                 with
                 hot
                 jaws
                 will
                 swallow
                 ,
              
               
                 Untill
                 the
                 
                   City
                   Praetor
                
                 turn
                 Apollo
                 .
              
               
                 Lest
                 there
                 shou'd
                 some
                 misconstruction
                 be
                 made
                 of
                 this
                 last
                 Verse
                 ,
                 let
                 the
                 Reader
                 know
                 that
                 it
                 alludes
                 to
                 that
                 Fiction
                 of
                 Apollo's
                 killing
                 the
                 
                   Serpent
                   Python
                
                 ;
                 And
                 so
                 Allegorically
                 intimates
                 ,
                 that
                 those
                 fiery
                 Serpents
                 which
                 usually
                 fly
                 about
                 on
                 my
                 
                   Lord
                   Mayor's
                   day
                
                 ,
                 will
                 annually
                 continue
                 so
                 to
                 do
                 ,
                 unless
                 destroy'd
                 by
                 him
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 TO
                 MY
                 Much-esteemed
                 Friend
                 Mr.
                 
                   I.
                   N.
                
                 ON
                 HIS
                 Reading
                 the
                 first
                 line
                 of
                 PINDAR
                 
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
               
                 
                   HOld
                   ,
                   there
                   's
                   enough
                   ,
                   nay
                   't
                   is
                   o'er
                   mickle
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   worse
                   than
                   Cant
                   in
                   Conventicle
                   .
                
                 
                   Is
                   this
                   the
                   much-fam'd
                   Friend
                   to
                   th'
                   Muses
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   thus
                   their
                   Helicon
                   abuses
                   ?
                
                 
                   Whose
                   praise
                   on
                   Water
                   thus
                   is
                   wasted
                   ,
                
                 
                   Claret
                   the
                   Puppy
                   never
                   tasted
                   :
                
                 
                   What
                   the
                   Devil
                   was
                   his
                   humour
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   raise
                   so
                   scandalous
                   a
                   rumour
                   ?
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   well
                   't
                   is
                   Greek
                   ,
                   that
                   few
                   may
                   know
                   it
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   't
                   were
                   enough
                   t'
                   infect
                   a
                   Poet
                   :
                
                 
                   It
                   is
                   High
                   Treason
                   (
                   I
                   'll
                   aver
                   it
                   )
                
                 
                   Against
                   the
                   Majesty
                   of
                   Claret
                   .
                
                 
                   Sternhold
                   and
                   Hopkins
                   heard
                   it
                   said
                   so
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Not
                   that
                   I
                   believe
                   they
                   read
                   so
                   )
                
                 
                   Therefore
                   they
                   gorg'd
                   their
                   Muse
                   with
                   Water
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   spew'd
                   up
                   eke
                   ,
                   and
                   also
                   after
                   .
                
                 
                   
                   
                     To
                     bouze
                     Old
                     Wine
                     ,
                     mad
                     Pindar
                     wonted
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Till
                     by
                     a
                     Vintner
                     being
                     affronted
                     ,
                  
                   
                     The
                     peevish
                     Cur
                     (
                     what
                     could
                     be
                     ruder
                     ?
                     )
                  
                   
                     Forc'd
                     on
                     us
                     
                       〈◊〉
                       〈◊〉
                       〈◊〉
                       〈◊〉
                       〈◊〉
                    
                     .
                  
                   
                     He
                     Water
                     's
                     damn'd
                     Encomium
                     made
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Maliciously
                     to
                     spoil
                     his
                     Trade
                     .
                  
                   
                     But
                     that
                     shan't
                     pass
                     on
                     me
                     ,
                     by
                     th'
                     Mass●
                  
                   
                     If
                     I
                     drink
                     Water
                     ,
                     I
                     'm
                     an
                     Ass.
                  
                   
                     To
                     two
                     great
                     Kings
                     I
                     will
                     be
                     Loyal
                     ,
                  
                   
                     My
                     Monarch
                     Iames
                     ,
                     and
                     Claret-Royal
                     :
                  
                   
                     Nor
                     shall
                     I
                     love
                     that
                     Greek
                     of
                     thine
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Scarce
                     any
                     Greek
                     ,
                     except
                     Greek
                     Wine
                     .
                  
                
                 
                   who
                   'd
                   be
                   of
                   Old
                   mad
                   Timon's
                   mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Because
                   he
                   did
                   )
                   to
                   hate
                   Mankind
                   ?
                
                 
                   No
                   ,
                   Soveraign
                   Claret
                   ,
                   I
                   'll
                   adore
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Submissively
                   fall
                   down
                   before
                   thee
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   will
                   by
                   Whores
                   be
                   burnt
                   to
                   Tinder
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   I
                   adore
                   that
                   Rebel
                   Pindar
                   .
                
              
               
                 Yours
                 ,
                 I.
                 Whitehall
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 DIALOGUE
                 Between
                 IACK
                 and
                 DICK
                 ,
                 Concerning
                 the
                 PROHIBITION
                 OF
                 French
                 Wines
                 .
              
               
                 
                   DICK
                   .
                
                 
                   AH
                   Iack
                   ,
                   had'st
                   thou
                   bin
                   t'other
                   day
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   the
                   Teeming
                   Vine
                   display
                
                 
                   The
                   swelling
                   Glories
                   of
                   her
                   Womb
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   hopefull
                   Progeny
                   to
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Which
                   Mirth
                   and
                   Iollity
                   create
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sweeten
                   up
                   the
                   Frowns
                   of
                   Fate
                   )
                
                 
                   Thou
                   would'st
                   with
                   me
                   have
                   sigh'd
                   and
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   Why
                   has
                   Obliging
                   Nature
                   made
                
                 
                 
                   Such
                   Iuice
                   to
                   be
                   Prohibited
                   ?
                
                 
                   A
                   Iuice
                   ,
                   which
                   duly
                   understood
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   kindly
                   heats
                   ferments
                   the
                   Blood
                   ;
                
                 
                   Not
                   makes
                   it
                   posting
                   to
                   miscarry
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   do's
                   the
                   Hot-spur
                   ,
                   styl'd
                   Canary
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nearly
                   related
                   ●tis
                   unto
                   't
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   colour'd
                   o'er
                   with
                   the
                   same
                   Coat
                   .
                
                 
                   Half
                   Blood
                   already
                   ,
                   in
                   one
                   round
                
                 
                   It
                   is
                   assimulated
                   found
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   gentle
                   
                     Tides
                     ,
                     Poetick
                     Vein
                  
                
                 
                   It
                   swells
                   into
                   a
                   comely
                   strain
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   binding
                   all
                   its
                   Numbers
                   tight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Breeds
                   nothing
                   dissolute
                   ,
                   nor
                   light
                   .
                
                 
                   Whereas
                   Canary
                   ,
                   with
                   Combustion
                   ,
                
                 
                   Makes
                   still
                   the
                   Writer
                   speak
                   in
                   Fustian
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   e'ry
                   stroak
                   by
                   this
                   devis'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   in
                   Red●letters
                   signaliz'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   IACK
                   .
                
                 
                   Dear
                   Dick
                   ,
                   it
                   is
                   not
                   thou
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   thus
                   in
                   wofull
                   plaint
                   makes
                   moan
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   main
                   of
                   the
                   whole
                   Kingdom
                   joyns
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   weeps
                   the
                   loss
                   of
                   
                     Claret
                     Wines
                  
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   As
                   t'other
                   day
                   I
                   musing
                   went
                
                 
                   With
                   unknown
                   Griefs
                   my
                   Breast
                   was
                   pent
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   cause
                   I
                   knew
                   not
                   ,
                   but
                   did
                   fear
                
                 
                   Some
                   dreadfull
                   danger
                   to
                   be
                   near
                   .
                
                 
                   Turning
                   my
                   Eyes
                   aside
                   ,
                   I
                   found
                
                 
                   A
                   num'rous
                   Croud
                   ,
                   in
                   wofull
                   sound
                   ,
                
                 
                   Banning
                   a
                   Wight
                   ,
                   with
                   Accent
                   ●ierce
                   ,
                
                 
                   About
                   to
                   Stave
                   a
                   well-teem'd
                   Tierce
                   .
                
                 
                   Oh
                   ,
                   't
                   was
                   a
                   dismal
                   sight
                   to
                   view
                   !
                
                 
                   With
                   Sleeves
                   tuck
                   't
                   up
                   ,
                   and
                   Apron
                   blue
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   cruel
                   and
                   remorsless
                   wretch
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   blow
                   was
                   ready
                   ●or
                   to
                   fetch
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   streight
                   a
                   Philoclareteer
                
                 
                   Made
                   up
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   this
                   wise
                   drew
                   near
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   "
                   Hold
                   ,
                   hold
                   ,
                   I
                   say
                   ,
                   that
                   horrid
                   Hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Enough
                   our
                   Mournfull
                   Streets
                   are
                   ●lain'd
                
                 
                   "
                   With
                   Scarlet
                   dye
                   ,
                   of
                   dire
                   contusion
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   By
                   braining
                   Pipe
                   in
                   Execution
                   .
                
                 
                   "
                   What
                   is
                   the
                   crime
                   has
                   bin
                   committed
                
                 
                   "
                   By
                   this
                   poor
                   Liquor
                   ,
                   how
                   endited
                   ?
                
                 
                   To
                   which
                   he
                   grimly
                   gives
                   Response
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   As
                   if
                   he
                   'd
                   stave
                   my
                   Monsieur
                   's
                   Sconse
                   .
                   )
                
                 
                 
                   Sir
                   ,
                   mind
                   your
                   business
                   ,
                   you
                   are
                   ruder
                
                 
                   Than
                   e'er
                   I
                   yet
                   found
                   bold
                   Intruder
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   short
                   ,
                   Sir
                   ,
                   
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   all
                   the
                   answer
                   he
                   could
                   get
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   put
                   my
                   Youngster
                   in
                   a
                   pet
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   forc'd
                   him
                   to
                   this
                   language
                   keen
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Oh
                   thou
                   more
                   fierce
                   than
                   e'er
                   has
                   been
                   :
                
                 
                   "
                   The
                   wildest
                   
                     Tigers
                     Bacchus
                  
                   drew
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Or
                   hottest
                   Rage
                   yet
                   ever
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Of
                   harmless
                   Claret
                   thus
                   to
                   spill
                
                 
                   "
                   The
                   Blood
                   ,
                   and
                   Urban
                   gutters
                   fill
                   ;
                
                 
                   "
                   As
                   't
                   were
                   no
                   more
                   to
                   be
                   lookt
                   after
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Than
                   Urine
                   stale
                   ,
                   or
                   Kennel
                   Water
                   .
                
                 
                   "
                   How
                   many
                   of
                   the
                   thirsty
                   train
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Open
                   their
                   Mouths
                   ,
                   as
                   Earth
                   for
                   Rain
                   ;
                
                 
                   "
                   For
                   one
                   poor
                   drop
                   of
                   the
                   rich
                   Iuice
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   This
                   swelling
                   Vessel
                   do's
                   produce
                   .
                
                 
                   "
                   The
                   better
                   half
                   of
                   all
                   the
                   crude
                
                 
                   "
                   And
                   undigested
                   multitude
                   ;
                
                 
                   "
                   Now
                   demi-Rogues
                   ,
                   and
                   near
                   Disloyal
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Two
                   spoonfulls
                   makes
                   them
                   all
                   turn
                   Royal.
                
                 
                   "
                   When
                   did
                   you
                   know
                   the
                   Lad
                   did
                   love
                
                 
                   "
                   True
                   Claret
                   ,
                   and
                   rebellious
                   prove
                   ?
                
                 
                 
                   "
                   Besides
                   ,
                   it
                   Rubies
                   do's
                   create
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Of
                   richer
                   dye
                   ,
                   and
                   greater
                   state
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Than
                   e'er
                   was
                   planted
                   as
                   a
                   Trophy
                
                 
                   "
                   On
                   Mogull's
                   Crown
                   ,
                   or
                   
                     Persian
                     Sophy
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   "
                   Rascal
                   ,
                   look
                   to
                   't
                   ,
                   you
                   'll
                   rue
                   it
                   one
                   day
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   For
                   spoiling
                   of
                   this
                   brisk
                   Burgundy
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Oh
                   ,
                   had
                   you
                   seen
                   the
                   People
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Each
                   one
                   with
                   Handkerchief
                   in
                   hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   watry
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   surveying
                   o'er
                
                 
                   The
                   coming
                   Floods
                   of
                   
                     Purple
                     gore
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   ,
                   you
                   your self
                   had
                   shed
                   one
                   Tear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Among
                   the
                   Thousands
                   let
                   fall
                   there
                   !
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   a
                   hopefull
                   Vessel
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   
                     Gales
                     of
                     Sighs
                  
                   't
                   was
                   usher'd
                   from
                
                 
                   The
                   peacefull
                   Harbour
                   where
                   it
                   lay
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   shamefull
                   wise
                   ,
                   to
                   view
                   the
                   day
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   Mansions
                   of
                   dark
                   
                     Sable
                     Night
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   shady
                   Grots
                   ,
                   stor'd
                   with
                   delight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   luscious
                   tast
                   ,
                   and
                   racy
                   smell
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rosie
                   blush
                   of
                   Carbuncle
                   ;
                
                 
                   VVith
                   Hoops
                   disjoynted
                   ,
                   Tackle
                   broke
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVould
                   force
                   a
                   Groan
                   from
                   Heart
                   of
                   Oak
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Half
                   ruptur'd
                   ,
                   bruis'd
                   ,
                   in
                   dismal
                   shew
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   thrust
                   up
                   ev'ry
                   avenue
                   ;
                
                 
                   Till
                   to
                   the
                   open
                   Street
                   he
                   comes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bestrid
                   by
                   many
                   ill-bred
                   Bums
                   ,
                
                 
                   Over
                   his
                   bulky
                   Body
                   striding
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   never
                   saw
                   so
                   ill
                   a
                   riding
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   the
                   fierce
                   Wight
                   no
                   more
                   regret
                   had
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   Greek
                   or
                   Tartar
                   ready
                   booted
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   seize
                   with
                   their
                   light
                   Horse
                   ,
                   the
                   prey
                
                 
                   Of
                   Youth
                   ,
                   or
                   Damsel
                   gone
                   astray
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Vagabond
                   ,
                   and
                   Truant
                   Tub
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVhich
                   held
                   so
                   many
                   Quarts
                   of
                   Bub
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forc'd
                   by
                   
                     Ill
                     luck
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   Wind
                   ,
                   to
                   fall
                
                 
                   (
                   By
                   missing
                   Port
                   )
                   on
                   Canniball
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   savage
                   Shoars
                   ,
                   he
                   basely
                   binding
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   his
                   Teeth
                   together
                   grinding
                   .
                
                 
                   VVith
                   Words
                   insulting
                   thus
                   accosts
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   France
                   ,
                   boast
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                   that
                   by
                   thy
                   Vine
                
                 
                   Thou
                   canst
                   an
                   English
                   Soul
                   confine
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   soop
                   up
                   nought
                   but
                   what
                   is
                   gotten
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   sowre
                   
                     Burgundian
                     Grape
                  
                   grown
                   rotten
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Old
                   British
                   Drinks
                   (
                   which
                   
                     Bard
                     of
                     Yore
                  
                
                 
                   Tasted
                   ,
                   and
                   liv'd
                   till
                   near
                   
                     Five
                     score
                  
                   )
                
                 
                   We'ave
                   got
                   the
                   Art
                   now
                   for
                   to
                   heighten
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   our
                   endarkned
                   Souls
                   enlighten
                   ,
                
                 
                   Above
                   what
                   pitch
                   you
                   e'er
                   can
                   mannage
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   all
                   your
                   bo●sting
                   
                     French
                     Appannage
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Apple
                   o'er
                   the
                   Grape
                   shall
                   reign
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Hereford's
                   above
                   Campaign
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Vine
                   no
                   more
                   shall
                   rule
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   to
                   
                     Pomona
                     ,
                     Bacchus
                  
                   yield
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   said
                   ,
                   he
                   gives
                   the
                   fatal
                   blow
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   the
                   Streets
                   o'er-whelm'd
                   do
                   flow
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   ruddy
                   Iuice
                   of
                   Crimson
                   gore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   in
                   loud
                   Cataracts
                   do
                   pour
                
                 
                   Through
                   ev'ry
                   Channel
                   ;
                   and
                   the
                   Tide
                
                 
                   Mounts
                   up
                   alo●t
                   on
                   ev'ry
                   side
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   hard
                   to
                   guess
                   which
                   flow'd
                   more
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   in
                   the
                   Streets
                   ,
                   or
                   in
                   the
                   Eye
                   .
                
                 
                   Each
                   Tunicle●ull
                   ●ull
                   deep
                   was
                   sunk
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   'd
                   thought
                   all
                   to
                   be
                   Maudlin
                   drunk
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Yet
                   ,
                   amongst
                   all
                   this
                   noise
                   and
                   weeping
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   (
                   though
                   their
                   Sorrows
                   were
                   full
                   deep
                   in
                   )
                
                 
                 
                   Made
                   shift
                   to
                   muster
                   Bowl
                   or
                   twain
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   to
                   attend
                   the
                   Fun'ral
                   train
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   they
                   had
                   got
                   from
                   gorg'd
                   Canal
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lest
                   some
                   to
                   fainting
                   Fits
                   should
                   fall
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   why
                   should
                   Gutter
                   swallow
                   all
                   up
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   many
                   a
                   dry
                   Soul
                   wish'd
                   a
                   gullup
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   Dams
                   being
                   made
                   ,
                   the
                   Good
                   wife
                   brings
                   out
                
                 
                   Her
                   Churn
                   and
                   
                     Kettle
                     ;
                     Damsel
                  
                   springs
                   out
                
                 
                   With
                   
                     Pipkin
                     ,
                     Chamber-pot
                  
                   and
                   Ladle
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   Sucking-Bottle
                   (
                   fetch'd
                   from
                   Cradle
                   .
                   )
                
                 
                   Treys
                   brought
                   by
                   
                     Butcher
                     ,
                     Trough
                  
                   by
                   Mason
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   forth
                   the
                   Barber
                   brings
                   his
                   Bason
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Tinker
                   (
                   wisely
                   as
                   I
                   judge
                   it
                   )
                
                 
                   Makes
                   Leathern-Bottle
                   of
                   his
                   Budget
                   .
                
                 
                   O'
                   th'
                   
                     broken
                     Ribs
                  
                   ,
                   full
                   many
                   a
                   piece
                
                 
                   They
                   got
                   ,
                   and
                   suck'd
                   like
                   Liquorish
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   their
                   Children
                   Splinters
                   good
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   the
                   ruby-tinctur'd
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Instead
                   of
                   Coral
                   ,
                   they
                   bestow
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   rub
                   their
                   Gums
                   ,
                   aloft
                   and
                   low
                   ;
                
                 
                   VVhilst
                   others
                   o'er
                   the
                   Dams
                   lye
                   lolling
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   As
                   ready
                   the
                   
                     Red
                     Sea
                  
                   to
                   fall
                   in
                   )
                
                 
                 
                   VVith
                   frequent
                   Laps
                   ,
                   their
                   Thirst
                   allaying
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pronouncing
                   many
                   a
                   ruefull
                   saying
                   ,
                
                 
                   Concerning
                   loss
                   of
                   
                     Champaign
                     ,
                     Burdeaux
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   a
                   grinning
                   ugly
                   Cur
                   't
                   was
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   dash'd
                   out
                   brain
                   of
                   Hogshead
                   awfull
                   ,
                
                 
                   E'er
                   
                     Thirsty
                     Mortal
                  
                   had
                   his
                   Maw
                   full
                   :
                
                 
                   Giving
                   out
                   many
                   words
                   (
                   half
                   raving
                   )
                
                 
                   'Gainst
                   Hammers
                   ,
                   Knocks
                   ,
                   and
                   Blows
                   ,
                   and
                   Staving
                   .
                
                 
                   Continuing
                   such
                   a
                   dismal
                   pother
                   ,
                
                 
                   They'd
                   like
                   at
                   last
                   t
                   o'ave
                   stav'd
                   each
                   other
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   going
                   handy-dandy
                   to
                   't
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   Constable
                   do's
                   drive
                   the
                   Rout
                
                 
                   To
                   their
                   own
                   home
                   ,
                   from
                   
                     Claret
                     Bank
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   to
                   weep
                   out
                   the
                   VVine
                   they
                   'ave
                   drank
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   DICK
                   .
                
                 
                   Troth
                   ,
                   Iack
                   ,
                   thy
                   News
                   in
                   manner
                   wofull
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Heart
                   has
                   seiz'd
                   ,
                   and
                   fill'd
                   up
                   so
                   full
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   through
                   mine
                   Eyes
                   must
                   take
                   some
                   vent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   I
                   shall
                   miserably
                   faint
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   never
                   was
                   more
                   dismal
                   Tale
                
                 
                   Repeated
                   o'er
                   Spic'd
                   Cup
                   of
                   Ale
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   deep
                   Cabal
                   ,
                   and
                   nodding
                   Quire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Matrons
                   old
                   ,
                   near
                   VVinter's
                   fire
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   VVeep
                   ,
                   Mortals
                   ,
                   weep
                   ,
                   untill
                   your
                   Eyes
                
                 
                   Be
                   red
                   as
                   th'
                   Wine
                   they
                   sacrifice
                   .
                
                 
                   How
                   will
                   you
                   now
                   your
                   Passions
                   vent
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   her
                   you
                   long
                   your
                   Heart
                   have
                   lent
                   ?
                
                 
                   Phillis
                   without
                   regard
                   may
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   lovely
                   Amarillis
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   often
                   see
                   her
                   charming
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   Without
                   Attendant
                   Anagram
                   .
                
                 
                   Gone
                   is
                   the
                   Wine
                   that
                   did
                   inspire
                
                 
                   The
                   Poet
                   with
                   his
                   
                     Amorous
                     fire
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   did
                   assist
                   him
                   to
                   invoke
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   gave
                   his
                   Pen
                   the
                   happy
                   stroak
                   .
                
                 
                   Fools
                   may
                   go
                   on
                   ,
                   and
                   Scribling
                   write
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   fear
                   no
                   Satyr
                   that
                   shall
                   bite
                   ;
                
                 
                   Its
                   sting
                   is
                   dull'd
                   by
                   ev'ry
                   blow
                
                 
                   The
                   wronged
                   Vessels
                   undergo
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   all
                   the
                   Salt
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   Flame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whence
                   Wounds
                   ,
                   and
                   Plagues
                   ,
                   and
                   Vengeance
                   came
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   melted
                   ,
                   quench'd
                   ,
                   sunk
                   ,
                   lost
                   ,
                   and
                   drown'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   never
                   ,
                   never
                   to
                   be
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   Without
                   the
                   leave
                   of
                   pulling
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Dams
                   of
                   Prohibition
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   drawing
                   up
                   the
                   Sluces
                   all
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   
                     ruby
                     Floods
                  
                   again
                   may
                   fall
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   freely
                   fill
                   the
                   
                     Mass●e
                     Bowl
                  
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   thou
                   and
                   I
                   ,
                   and
                   ev'ry
                   Soul
                
                 
                   That
                   has
                   a
                   Muse
                   or
                   Mistress
                   there
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   in
                   one
                   hand
                   a
                   Goblet
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   the
                   other
                   charm
                   the
                   Ear.
                
                 
                   Shall
                   briskly
                   each
                   his
                   brimmer
                   drink
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   live
                   and
                   love
                   ,
                   and
                   laugh
                   and
                   think
                
                 
                   Of
                   something
                   fit
                   to
                   entertain
                
                 
                   The
                   peacefull
                   hours
                   once
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   Till
                   then
                   adieu
                   ;
                   with
                   
                     Lips
                     a-dry
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   once
                   we
                   'll
                   part
                   ;
                   and
                   so
                   Good-buy
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   who
                   with
                   baser
                   Iuice
                   would
                   ●ully
                
                 
                   His
                   servile
                   Lips
                   ,
                   is
                   much
                   a
                   Cully
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   though
                   full
                   thirsty
                   ,
                   fit
                   no
                   more
                
                 
                   To
                   have
                   his
                   Body
                   varnish'd
                   o'er
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   ever
                   to
                   be
                   ting'd
                   again
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   its
                   Rosie-colour'd
                   grain
                   .
                
                 
                   Once
                   more
                   farewell
                   ,
                   till
                   kindly
                   Seas
                
                 
                   Rowl
                   
                     Claret
                     Casks
                  
                   upon
                   our
                   Keys
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   (
                   Haec
                   )
                   we
                   'll
                   say
                   ,
                   and
                   laugh
                   and
                   kiss
                   ye
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Iuvabit
                     olim
                     meminisse
                  
                   .
                
              
            
          
           
             
             
               These
               Ten
               following
               POEMS
               done
               by
               a
               Conceal'd
               Author
               for
               his
               private
               Recreation
               .
            
             
               
                 To
                 CLARINDA
                 on
                 her
                 Incomparable
                 Painting
                 and
                 Wax-work
                 .
                 Written
                 
                   Septemb.
                   1686.
                
                 
              
               
                 SOar
                 now
                 ,
                 my
                 Muse
                 ,
                 to
                 an
                 unusual
                 flight
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 fair
                 Clarinda's
                 Skill
                 my
                 Pen
                 excite
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Wonders
                 of
                 her
                 Pencil
                 to
                 endite
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 modest
                 Poet
                 can't
                 be
                 silent
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 so
                 much
                 Art
                 and
                 Excellence
                 appear
                 .
              
               
                 Your
                 active
                 Pencil
                 scorns
                 a
                 constant
                 dress
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 's
                 seen
                 each
                 day
                 in
                 Novelties
                 afresh
                 ;
              
               
                 Sometimes
                 you
                 curious
                 Landskips
                 represent
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 arch
                 'em
                 o'er
                 with
                 gilded
                 Firmament
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 in
                 IAPAN
                 some
                 
                   Rural
                   Cottage
                
                 Paint
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 can
                 with
                 equal
                 Skill
                 draw
                 Fiend
                 and
                 Saint
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 genuine
                 sweetness
                 through
                 your
                 Pencil
                 flows
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 charming
                 Pictures
                 to
                 the
                 Life
                 it
                 shows
                 .
              
               
               
                 Next
                 Cupid's
                 by
                 your
                 Art
                 made
                 fair
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sparkling
                 Stars
                 seem
                 hov'ring
                 in
                 the
                 Air
                 ,
              
               
                 Supported
                 only
                 by
                 a
                 single
                 Hair.
              
               
                 But
                 your
                 enflaming
                 Eyes
                 shew
                 Stars
                 more
                 bright
                 ;
              
               
                 Stars
                 ,
                 which
                 may
                 serve
                 those
                 lesser
                 ones
                 to
                 light
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 pretty
                 Cupids
                 dancing
                 there
                 ,
                 do
                 dart
              
               
                 More
                 piercing
                 Beams
                 ,
                 than
                 those
                 you
                 've
                 made
                 by
                 Art.
              
               
                 A
                 Female
                 Pencil
                 now
                 such
                 Art
                 hath
                 shown
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 neither
                 Sex
                 before
                 could
                 ever
                 own
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 none
                 could
                 yet
                 your
                 matchless
                 Paintings
                 view
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 the
                 same
                 Passions
                 mov'd
                 'em
                 ,
                 which
                 you
                 drew
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 your
                 Self
                 you
                 copy
                 ev'ry
                 Grace
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 you
                 have
                 all
                 that
                 can
                 adorn
                 each
                 Face
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 like
                 your
                 Pieces
                 to
                 
                   live
                   Objects
                
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 if
                 together
                 we
                 should
                 them
                 compare
                 ,
              
               
                 Nature
                 her self
                 amaz'd
                 wou'd
                 doubting
                 stand
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 know
                 her
                 own
                 from
                 the
                 Skill'd
                 Painter's
                 hand
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 she
                 the
                 like
                 with
                 less
                 success
                 attempts
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 her
                 own
                 Work
                 in
                 Twins
                 she
                 represents
                 .
              
               
                 Well
                 then
                 may
                 Birds
                 ,
                 for
                 real
                 Grapes
                 ,
                 mistake
              
               
                 Those
                 pendent
                 Clusters
                 which
                 thy
                 Pencil
                 make
                 .
              
               
               
                 Perhaps
                 thy
                 living
                 (a)
                 Plants
                 too
                 they
                 'll
                 neglect
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fly
                 to
                 these
                 thy
                 Pencil
                 doth
                 project
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 though
                 disrob'd
                 is
                 (b)
                 Nature
                 of
                 her
                 Pride
                 ,
              
               
                 Fresh
                 as
                 the
                 Spring
                 thy
                 Painting
                 doth
                 abide
                 :
              
               
                 Thus
                 your
                 Victorious
                 Painting
                 ,
                 and
                 your
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Make
                 Birds
                 ,
                 Beasts
                 ,
                 Fishes
                 ,
                 also
                 Men
                 your
                 prize
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 
                   Young
                   Man
                
                 to
                 an
                 
                   Old
                   Woman
                
                 ,
                 Courting
                 him
                 .
                 In
                 Imitation
                 of
                 a
                 Modern
                 Author
                 .
              
               
                 
                   PEace
                   ,
                   doating
                   Wretch
                   ,
                   for
                   ever
                   cease
                   thy
                   suit
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tempt
                   me
                   no
                   more
                   henceforth
                   with
                   musty
                   fruit
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   rotten
                   Medlers
                   please
                   not
                   ,
                   whilst
                   there
                   be
                
                 
                   Orchards
                   and
                   Gardens
                   in
                   Virginity
                   .
                
                 
                   Thy
                   crabbed
                   Stock
                   is
                   too
                   much
                   out
                   of
                   date
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   young
                   and
                   tender
                   Plants
                   t'
                   inoculate
                   .
                
                 
                   Can
                   Wedlock
                   e'er
                   endure
                   so
                   great
                   a
                   Curse
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   putting
                   Husbands
                   out
                   to
                   th'
                   Wife
                   to
                   Nurse
                   ?
                
                 
                 
                   How
                   pleasantly
                   
                     Poor
                     Robin
                  
                   then
                   wou'd
                   crack
                   ,
                
                 
                   T'
                   insert
                   our
                   Names
                   within
                   his
                   Almanack
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   think
                   that
                   time
                   had
                   wheel'd
                   about
                   this
                   Year
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   soon
                   December
                   meeting
                   Ianiveer
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   the
                   
                     AEgyptian
                     Serpent
                  
                   figures
                   Time
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   being
                   strip't
                   ,
                   returns
                   unto
                   its
                   prime
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   my
                   affection
                   thou
                   design'st
                   to
                   win
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   cast
                   of●
                   first
                   thy
                   Hieroglyphick
                   Skin
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   tender
                   years
                   will
                   not
                   endure
                   (
                   alack
                   )
                
                 
                   The
                   fulsome
                   breathings
                   which
                   attend
                   thy
                   smack
                   ,
                
                 
                   Proceeding
                   ●●om
                   some
                   former
                   loathsome
                   Clap.
                
                 
                   Could
                   you
                   a
                   
                     Virgins
                     Beauty
                  
                   but
                   regain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   change
                   your
                   state
                   from
                   Age
                   to
                   Youth
                   again
                   :
                
                 
                   Your
                   o'er-blown
                   Face
                   more
                   charming
                   might
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   delight
                   we
                   might
                   embrace
                   each
                   Year
                   .
                
                 
                   Perhaps
                   no
                   strife
                   or
                   discord
                   then
                   might
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   my
                   pretty
                   Skeleton
                   and
                   Me
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   Metamorphoses
                   are
                   seldom
                   known
                
                 
                   In
                   this
                   our
                   Age
                   ,
                   since
                   Miracles
                   are
                   gone
                   .
                
                 
                   Cease
                   then
                   your
                   Suit
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   the
                   future
                   try
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   heal
                   your
                   Tenant's
                   Leg
                   ,
                   or
                   his
                   sore
                   Eye
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   may
                   you
                   purchase
                   credit
                   ,
                   fame
                   and
                   thank
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beyond
                   the
                   foppish
                   Name
                   of
                   Mountebank
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Or
                   chew
                   thy
                   Cud
                   on
                   some
                   forlorn
                   delight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   thou
                   revivest
                   in
                   thy
                   Eighty-eight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   be
                   but
                   Bed-rid
                   once
                   ,
                   and
                   surely
                   then
                
                 
                   Thou
                   'lt
                   dream
                   once
                   more
                   thy
                   youthfull
                   Sins
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   that
                   still
                   you
                   needs
                   will
                   be
                   my
                   Spouse
                   ,
                
                 
                   First
                   hearken
                   ,
                   and
                   attend
                   upon
                   my
                   Vows
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   "
                   When
                   th'
                   Needle
                   his
                   dear
                   North
                   shall
                   quite
                   forsake
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   And
                   Stones
                   a
                   journey
                   to
                   the
                   Sky
                   shall
                   make
                   .
                
                 
                   "
                   When
                   AEtna's
                   fires
                   shall
                   mildly
                   undergo
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   The
                   wond'rous
                   penance
                   of
                   the
                   Alps
                   in
                   Snow
                   .
                
                 
                   "
                   When
                   Sol
                   shall
                   by
                   a
                   single
                   blast
                   of
                   's
                   Horn
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   From
                   Crab
                   be
                   posted
                   unto
                   Capricorn
                   .
                
                 
                   "
                   When
                   th'
                   Heav'ns
                   confus'dly
                   shuffle
                   all
                   in
                   one
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   And
                   joyn
                   the
                   Torrid
                   with
                   the
                   
                     Frozen
                     Zone
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   "
                   Be
                   sure
                   ,
                   when
                   all
                   these
                   Contradictions
                   meet
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Then
                   (
                   Sibyl
                   )
                   thou
                   and
                   I
                   will
                   kindly
                   greet
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   all
                   these
                   Similies
                   are
                   understood
                   ,
                
                 
                   'Twixt
                   
                     youthfull
                     Heat
                  
                   ,
                   and
                   thy
                   dull
                   
                     frigid
                     Blood.
                  
                
                 
                   So
                   ,
                   Madam
                   ,
                   Time
                   continue
                   ever
                   Bald
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   I
                   will
                   not
                   thy
                   Perriwig
                   be
                   call'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   be
                   a
                   Crutch
                   to
                   prop
                   thy
                   tot'ring
                   frame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lest
                   th'
                   Fabrick
                   fall'n
                   ,
                   from
                   th'
                   Ruins
                   spring
                   my
                   shame
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 TO
                 CLARINDA
                 .
                 A
                 SONG
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   TEmpt
                   me
                   not
                   with
                   your
                   Face
                   that
                   's
                   fair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Lips
                   and
                   Cheeks
                   ,
                   though
                   red
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   neither
                   prize
                   them
                   ,
                   nor
                   your
                   Hair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   in
                   its
                   Curls
                   is
                   laid
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   value
                   I
                   your
                   Pencils
                   fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Nature
                   it
                   exceeds
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Lillies
                   do
                   your
                   Beauties
                   stain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Roses
                   your
                   Lips
                   and
                   Cheeks
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   Nor
                   prize
                   I
                   your
                   
                     Seraphick
                     Voice
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   like
                   an
                   Angel
                   sings
                   ;
                
                 
                   Though
                   if
                   I
                   were
                   to
                   take
                   my
                   choice
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   would
                   have
                   all
                   these
                   things
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   that
                   you
                   wou'd
                   have
                   me
                   love
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   must
                   be
                   true
                   as
                   Steel
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   else
                   in
                   vain
                   my
                   Heart
                   you
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Charms
                   I
                   cannot
                   feel
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   But
                   since
                   ,
                   fair
                   Nymph
                   ,
                   you
                   're
                   fickle
                   grown
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   'll
                   change
                   too
                   with
                   the
                   Wind
                   ;
                
                 
                   Sometimes
                   in
                   Storms
                   of
                   Love
                   I
                   'll
                   frown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sometimes
                   be
                   calm
                   and
                   kind
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Proteus
                   Love
                   shall
                   frown
                   and
                   play
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   subtle
                   Foxes
                   doe
                   ;
                
                 
                   Till
                   they
                   have
                   seiz'd
                   th'
                   unwary
                   Prey
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   then
                   shall
                   kill
                   like
                   you
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   IV.
                   
                
                 
                   A
                   Courtier
                   's
                   Tongue
                   for
                   Flattery
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Poet's
                   Brain
                   for
                   Wit
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   
                     Womans
                     Breast
                  
                   for
                   Treachery
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   my
                   designs
                   I
                   'll
                   get
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   through
                   the
                   silly
                   
                     Female
                     flock
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   cunningly
                   will
                   rove
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   thus
                   for
                   once
                   I
                   'll
                   try
                   my
                   luck
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   get
                   their
                   Hate
                   or
                   Love.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 ON
                 HIS
                 SECRET
                 PASSION
                 FOR
                 COSMELIA
                 .
              
               
                 
                   BY
                   no
                   Discov'ry
                   have
                   I
                   e'er
                   reveal'd
                
                 
                   My
                   
                     secret
                     Love
                  
                   ,
                   so
                   closely
                   yet
                   conceal'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   rather
                   ,
                   oft
                   with
                   Hypocritick
                   Art
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   a
                   dissembled
                   look
                   bely'd
                   my
                   Heart
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   cou'd
                   Discov'ry
                   gratifie
                   my
                   Wish
                   ,
                
                 
                   Concealment
                   shou'd
                   not
                   long
                   defer
                   the
                   bliss
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   straight
                   my
                   Passion
                   then
                   I
                   wou'd
                   reveal
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   whisper
                   in
                   her
                   Ear
                   the
                   
                     Am'rous
                     Tale.
                  
                
                 
                   But
                   no
                   Relation
                   can
                   my
                   wants
                   relieve
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Limits
                   to
                   my
                   boundless
                   Wishes
                   give
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Shou'd
                   my
                   Belov'd
                   ,
                   whose
                   Art
                   hath
                   giv'n
                   new
                   breath
                
                 
                   To
                   dying
                   Heroes
                   ,
                   at
                   the
                   point
                   of
                   Death
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   who
                   no
                   Cure
                   scarce
                   ever
                   undertook
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   disease
                   her
                   Patient
                   soon
                   forsook
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   She
                   who
                   each
                   Simple's
                   Sov'reign
                   Vertue
                   knows
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   their
                   proper
                   use
                   can
                   them
                   dispose
                   :
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   She
                   her
                   utmost
                   Skill
                   in
                   Physick
                   try
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   ,
                   All
                   wou'd
                   fail
                   to
                   ease
                   my
                   misery
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   her
                   Prescriptions
                   ,
                   without
                   Love
                   ,
                   are
                   vain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Love
                   only
                   suits
                   the
                   Nature
                   of
                   my
                   pain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thrice
                   hath
                   the
                   Sun
                   his
                   Annual
                   progress
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   first
                   my
                   Heart
                   was
                   by
                   my
                   Eyes
                   betray'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   various
                   Scenes
                   of
                   suitable
                   delight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cosmelia's
                   Beauty
                   entertain'd
                   my
                   sight
                   .
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Idea
                   of
                   which
                   doth
                   still
                   salute
                   my
                   Eye
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   can
                   her
                   Absence
                   this
                   delight
                   deny
                   .
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   Wit
                   and
                   Learning
                   also
                   charm'd
                   each
                   sence
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Poetry
                   had
                   no
                   less
                   influence
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   flights
                   of
                   fancy
                   in
                   her
                   lines
                   abound
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   Wine
                   in
                   Conduits
                   ,
                   when
                   a
                   King
                   is
                   Crown'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   Art
                   ,
                   Wit
                   ,
                   Beauty
                   ,
                   Learning
                   ,
                   all
                   conspire
                
                 
                   T'
                   insnare
                   my
                   Heart
                   ,
                   and
                   set
                   my
                   Soul
                   on
                   fire
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   Words
                   ,
                   her
                   Looks
                   my
                   waking
                   thoughts
                   employ
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   I
                   sleep
                   ,
                   I
                   see
                   her
                   with
                   more
                   joy
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   ah
                   !
                   too
                   soon
                   the
                   silent
                   Shades
                   of
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Do
                   leave
                   their
                   Empire
                   to
                   the
                   rising
                   Light.
                
                 
                 
                   When
                   ,
                   lo
                   ,
                   I
                   find
                   my
                   Pleasures
                   but
                   a
                   Dream
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   chiefest
                   Ioys
                   glide
                   with
                   the
                   swiftest
                   stream
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   sleep
                   or
                   wake
                   ,
                   still
                   Love
                   creeps
                   through
                   my
                   Veins
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   my
                   Mind
                   the
                   fierce
                   infection
                   reigns
                   .
                
                 
                   Sometimes
                   with
                   Books
                   I
                   wou'd
                   divert
                   my
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   that
                   increases
                   but
                   the
                   pain
                   ,
                   I
                   find
                   :
                
                 
                   Sometimes
                   I
                   court
                   enjoyment
                   ●rom
                   my
                   Muse
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   by
                   distraction
                   I
                   my
                   fancy
                   lose
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   wretched
                   Men
                   ,
                   that
                   sundry
                   Med'cines
                   try
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   oft
                   increase
                   ,
                   as
                   cure
                   the
                   Malady
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   I
                   strive
                   these
                   fantoms
                   to
                   remove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   shun
                   those
                   Aerial
                   Images
                   of
                   Love
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   bright
                   Idea
                   makes
                   Affections
                   yield
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   Ears
                   of
                   Corn
                   ,
                   when
                   Wind
                   salutes
                   the
                   Field
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Each
                   rising
                   Sun
                   views
                   her
                   more
                   bright
                   and
                   fair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Vertues
                   more
                   conspicuous
                   appear
                   .
                
                 
                   Gentle
                   's
                   her
                   Nature
                   ,
                   Modest
                   is
                   her
                   Meen
                   ;
                
                 
                   Her
                   Conversation's
                   Mild
                   ,
                   Her
                   Looks
                   Screen
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   Tyrant
                   Passion
                   rages
                   in
                   her
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   meek
                   Dove
                   builds
                   there
                   her
                   Hal●yon
                   Nest.
                
                 
                   More
                   Native
                   Wealth
                   doth
                   that
                   fair
                   Breast
                   contain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   all
                   the
                   Treasures
                   of
                   the
                   boundless
                   Main
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Not
                   so
                   delightfull
                   was
                   the
                   
                     Sacred
                     Tree
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   God-like
                   knowledge
                   cou'd
                   more
                   tempting
                   be
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   the
                   
                     fair
                     Tree
                  
                   cou'd
                   not
                   such
                   Fruit
                   impart
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   this
                   fair
                   Virgin
                   ,
                   wou'd
                   she
                   yield
                   her
                   Heart
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Happy
                   ,
                   false
                   Strephon
                   then
                   ,
                   whose
                   pow'rfull
                   Charms
                
                 
                   Alone
                   might
                   win
                   this
                   Lady
                   to
                   his
                   Arms
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   gracefull
                   Meen
                   ,
                   resistless
                   Charms
                   impart
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   glide
                   (
                   unfelt
                   )
                   into
                   her
                   tender
                   Heart
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   on
                   his
                   Lips
                   such
                   smooth
                   discourse
                   is
                   hung
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Person
                   's
                   less
                   attractive
                   than
                   his
                   Tongue
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   Storms
                   in
                   Love
                   need
                   Strephon
                   then
                   maintain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Without
                   a
                   Siege
                   he
                   may
                   the
                   Conquest
                   gain
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   where
                   the
                   Fort
                   by
                   Love's
                   betray'd
                   within
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   needs
                   must
                   yield
                   to
                   let
                   the
                   Hero
                   in
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   for
                   th'
                   Squire
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   young
                   hopefull
                   Cit
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   the
                   
                     Gay
                     Spark
                  
                   ,
                   that
                   wou'd
                   be
                   thought
                   a
                   Wit
                   ;
                
                 
                   Their
                   hopes
                   are
                   blasted
                   ,
                   and
                   each
                   strives
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   
                     Nuptial
                     Tyes
                  
                   the
                   lovely
                   prize
                   to
                   gain
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Squire
                   she
                   slights
                   ,
                   lest
                   he
                   unkind
                   shou'd
                   prove
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   his
                   Horse
                   or
                   Dogs
                   prefer
                   her
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Covetous
                   and
                   unbred
                   she
                   styles
                   the
                   Citt
                   ,
                
                 
                   Debauch'd
                   the
                   vain
                   pretender
                   to
                   lewd
                   Wit.
                
                 
                 
                   Thus
                   bravely
                   she
                   doth
                   these
                   kind
                   Heroes
                   slight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thinking
                   they
                   all
                   intrude
                   on
                   Strephon's
                   right
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   unconcern'd
                   Triumphant
                   Strephon
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   some
                   dull
                   Image
                   carv'd
                   of
                   Stone
                   or
                   Wood
                   ;
                
                 
                   Insensible
                   of
                   all
                   Love
                   's
                   pow'rfull
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   mov'd
                   by
                   Wit
                   's
                   or
                   Beauty's
                   loud
                   Alarms
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   oh
                   ,
                   my
                   Soul
                   !
                   unlike
                   Effects
                   I
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Virgin
                   charms
                   produceth
                   in
                   thy
                   mind
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   As
                   nought
                   that
                   's
                   dead
                   and
                   barren
                   can
                   excite
                
                 
                   
                     Vital
                     affections
                  
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   sence
                   delight
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   nought
                   inanimate
                   cou'd
                   e'er
                   improve
                
                 
                   My
                   Gen'rous
                   thoughts
                   to
                   any
                   fruits
                   of
                   Love
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   as
                   Clarinda's
                   painted
                   Shadows
                   fed
                
                 
                   Only
                   my
                   fancy
                   with
                   their
                   White
                   and
                   Red.
                
                 
                   So
                   bright
                   Cosmelia's
                   Pen
                   it
                   do's
                   impart
                   ,
                
                 
                   Vigour
                   and
                   Motion
                   to
                   my
                   Love-sick
                   Heart
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   sacred
                   Presence
                   all
                   my
                   Parts
                   do
                   render
                
                 
                   Vocal
                   ,
                   except
                   my
                   Tongue
                   ,
                   that
                   stupid
                   Member
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   Wit
                   my
                   Soul
                   inspires
                   with
                   thoughts
                   too
                   great
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   words
                   to
                   comprehend
                   ,
                   shou'd
                   silence
                   break
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   in
                   kind
                   glances
                   ,
                   by
                   a
                   swift
                   surprize
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   do
                   behold
                   the
                   Aspect
                   of
                   her
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   
                     Alternate
                     Paroxysms
                  
                   of
                   Cold
                   and
                   Heat
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   
                     Vital
                     Spirits
                  
                   strangely
                   do
                   defeat
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   various
                   Passions
                   in
                   my
                   Breast
                   do
                   rove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   all
                   do
                   meet
                   and
                   terminate
                   in
                   Love.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Oh
                   wou'd
                   kind
                   Heav'n
                   but
                   be
                   so
                   much
                   my
                   friend
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   my
                   Fate
                   upon
                   my
                   choice
                   depend
                   :
                
                 
                   All
                   my
                   Ambition
                   here
                   I
                   wou'd
                   confine
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   only
                   this
                   fair
                   Virgin
                   shou'd
                   be
                   mine
                   ;
                
                 
                   Lock'd
                   in
                   her
                   Arms
                   in
                   Love
                   and
                   Peace
                   I
                   'd
                   lye
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   whilst
                   I
                   breathe
                   ,
                   my
                   Flames
                   shou'd
                   never
                   dye
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   shou'd
                   that
                   Beauty
                   which
                   she
                   do's
                   possess
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fade
                   into
                   Autumn
                   ,
                   I
                   cou'd
                   love
                   no
                   less
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 TO
                 CLARINDA
                 ,
                 ON
                 HIS
                 Deserting
                 her
                 ,
                 and
                 loving
                 Cosmelia
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 IS
                 true
                 ,
                 Clarinda
                 ,
                 once
                 I
                 did
                 resign
              
               
                 To
                 your
                 frail
                 Beauty
                 this
                 kind
                 Heart
                 of
                 mine●
              
               
                 Yet
                 the
                 Resignment
                 but
                 in
                 thought
                 was
                 sign'd
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 words
                 ne'er
                 seal'd
                 the
                 impress
                 of
                 my
                 Mind
                 .
              
               
                 Too
                 well
                 my
                 Heart
                 was
                 sensible
                 you
                 gain'd
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 treach'rous
                 Wiles
                 ,
                 the
                 Conquest
                 you
                 obtain'd
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 that
                 by
                 Art
                 y'
                 assum'd
                 deluding
                 Looks
                 ;
              
               
                 Looks
                 unrecorded
                 in
                 kind
                 Nature's
                 Books
                 :
              
               
                 Therefore
                 I
                 've
                 justly
                 banish'd
                 you
                 my
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 more
                 your
                 Beauty
                 shall
                 invade
                 my
                 rest
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 've
                 entertain'd
                 a
                 more
                 deserving
                 Guest
                 :
              
               
                 Not
                 One
                 whose
                 Heart
                 's
                 inconstant
                 as
                 the
                 Wind
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 One
                 ,
                 whose
                 Love
                 to
                 One
                 can
                 be
                 confin'd
                 :
              
               
                 One
                 ,
                 whose
                 true
                 Love
                 with
                 Friendship
                 ever
                 flows
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 whom
                 kind
                 Fate
                 has
                 for
                 my
                 Lover
                 chose
                 ;
              
               
               
                 To
                 her
                 m'
                 inamour'd
                 Heart
                 doth
                 panting
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 fervent
                 Efforts
                 of
                 Ecstatick
                 Love
                 :
              
               
                 With
                 modest
                 Blushes
                 I
                 inform
                 her
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 
                   vertuous
                   Love
                
                 has
                 made
                 my
                 Heart
                 her
                 prize
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 whilst
                 my
                 Blushes
                 doe
                 confess
                 I
                 burn
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 Sighs
                 and
                 Looks
                 she
                 makes
                 as
                 kind
                 return
                 .
              
               
                 Know
                 then
                 ,
                 kind
                 Nymph
                 ,
                 my
                 Love
                 to
                 you's
                 expir'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fled
                 to
                 her
                 ,
                 who
                 thus
                 my
                 Breast
                 has
                 fir'd
                 .
              
               
                 Without
                 her
                 (a)
                 Art
                 ,
                 your
                 Beauty
                 will
                 decay
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 fit
                 of
                 Sickness
                 makes
                 it
                 fade
                 away
                 :
              
               
                 Whilst
                 in
                 her
                 sight
                 no
                 bold
                 Disease
                 durst
                 stand
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 trembling
                 ,
                 vanishes
                 at
                 her
                 command
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 though
                 your
                 Pencil
                 Nature
                 oft
                 supplies
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Charms
                 as
                 piercing
                 as
                 your
                 
                   Azure
                   Eyes
                
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 know
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 noble
                 Verse
                 sets
                 off
                 your
                 Paint
                 ;
              
               
                 Her
                 Poetry
                 alone
                 can
                 dub
                 a
                 Saint
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 TO
                 COSMELIA
                 ,
                 ON
                 HER
                 Departure
                 into
                 the
                 COUNTREY
                 .
              
               
                 FArewell
                 ,
                 fair
                 Mistress
                 of
                 my
                 chief
                 d●sires
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 charming
                 Beauties
                 kindleth
                 pleasing
                 fires
                 ;
              
               
                 Whilst
                 I
                 (
                 sad
                 Fate
                 !
                 )
                 must
                 here
                 forlorn
                 remain
                 ,
              
               
                 Since
                 you
                 ,
                 
                   fair
                   Conqu'ress
                
                 ,
                 do
                 my
                 Heart
                 retain
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 you
                 ,
                 the
                 Center
                 of
                 my
                 Love
                 ,
                 it
                 flies
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ne'er
                 can
                 rest
                 till
                 it
                 enjoys
                 or
                 dyes
                 .
              
               
                 Farewell
                 dear
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 it
                 will
                 be
                 tedious
                 Night
              
               
                 With
                 me
                 ,
                 as
                 long
                 as
                 I
                 do
                 want
                 your
                 light
                 .
              
               
                 Farewell
                 those
                 ruby
                 Lips
                 which
                 seem
                 to
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 Nature's
                 Glory
                 an
                 Epitome
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Nectar
                 and
                 Ambrosia
                 I
                 shall
                 want
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 hang
                 on
                 them
                 ,
                 and
                 fast
                 an
                 irksome
                 Lent.
              
               
                 Farewell
                 best
                 Tongue
                 ,
                 now
                 Thee
                 I
                 shall
                 not
                 hear
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 wou'd
                 not
                 care
                 if
                 all
                 things
                 silent
                 were
                 .
              
               
                 Farewell
                 all
                 fair
                 ,
                 Beauty
                 I
                 shall
                 not
                 view
                 ,
              
               
                 Untill
                 again
                 I
                 do
                 behold
                 't
                 in
                 You.
              
               
               
                 Farewell
                 Physician
                 of
                 my
                 love-sick
                 Soul
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 sight
                 alone
                 can
                 make
                 your
                 Patient
                 whole
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 On
                 a
                 ROSE
                 sticking
                 on
                 a
                 Ladies
                 Breast
                 .
              
               
                 SWeet
                 fading
                 Flower
                 ,
                 that
                 with
                 the
                 Sun's
                 uprise
              
               
                 Unfold'st
                 thy
                 Bud
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 the
                 Ev'ning
                 dyes
                 .
              
               
                 Swell
                 now
                 with
                 beauteous
                 pride
                 ,
                 and
                 let
                 thy
                 bright
              
               
                 And
                 blushing
                 Leaves
                 joy
                 and
                 refresh
                 our
                 sight
                 .
              
               
                 Incorporate
                 thy
                 sweet
                 and
                 fragrant
                 smell
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 those
                 refreshing
                 Odours
                 there
                 do
                 dwell
                 .
              
               
                 Blest
                 ,
                 ah
                 for
                 ever
                 blest
                 be
                 that
                 fair
                 Hand
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 did
                 transplant
                 thee
                 to
                 that
                 Sacred
                 Land.
              
               
                 Oh
                 happy
                 Rose
                 ,
                 that
                 in
                 that
                 Garden
                 rests
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Paradise
                 betwixt
                 that
                 Ladies
                 Breasts
                 :
              
               
                 There
                 's
                 an
                 Eternal
                 Spring
                 ,
                 where
                 thou
                 shalt
                 lye
                 ,
              
               
                 Betwixt
                 two
                 
                   Lilly
                   Mounts
                
                 ,
                 and
                 never
                 dye
                 :
              
               
                 There
                 thou
                 shalt
                 spring
                 among
                 the
                 fertile
                 Vallies
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 buds
                 ,
                 like
                 thee
                 ,
                 that
                 grow
                 in
                 midst
                 of
                 Allies
                 ;
              
               
               
                 There
                 none
                 dare
                 pluck
                 thee
                 from
                 that
                 sacred
                 place
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 yet
                 attempt
                 thy
                 Beauty
                 to
                 deface
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 any
                 ,
                 but
                 approach
                 ,
                 strait
                 doth
                 arise
              
               
                 A
                 most
                 surprizing
                 light
                 ,
                 which
                 blasts
                 his
                 Eyes
                 ;
              
               
                 There
                 ,
                 '
                 stead
                 of
                 Ruin
                 ,
                 shall
                 living
                 Fountains
                 flow
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 Wind
                 her
                 fragrant
                 Breath
                 for
                 ever
                 blow
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 now
                 ,
                 as
                 wont
                 ,
                 shall
                 one
                 bright
                 Sun
                 thee
                 cheer
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 two
                 conjoyn'd
                 ,
                 which
                 from
                 her
                 Eyes
                 appear
                 .
              
               
                 Oh
                 then
                 ,
                 what
                 Monarch
                 wou'd
                 not
                 think
                 't
                 a
                 Grace
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 leave
                 his
                 Regal
                 Throne
                 to
                 have
                 thy
                 place
                 .
              
               
                 My self
                 to
                 gain
                 thy
                 blessed
                 seat
                 ,
                 do
                 Vow
                 ,
              
               
                 Wou'd
                 be
                 transform'd
                 into
                 a
                 Rose
                 ,
                 as
                 thou
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 ON
                 THE
                 Most
                 Charming
                 GALECIA's
                 PICTURE
                 .
                 (a)
              
               
                 HAppy
                 the
                 Hand
                 ,
                 which
                 to
                 our
                 longing
                 sight
                 ,
              
               
                 Presents
                 that
                 Beauty
                 ,
                 which
                 the
                 dazling
                 light
              
               
                 Of
                 your
                 bright
                 Charms
                 ,
                 do's
                 hide
                 from
                 weaker
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 access
                 (
                 save
                 by
                 this
                 Art
                 )
                 denies
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 only
                 here
                 our
                 Sight
                 hath
                 strength
                 to
                 view
              
               
                 Those
                 Beauties
                 ,
                 which
                 do
                 terminate
                 in
                 you
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 this
                 your
                 great
                 Perfections
                 we
                 conceive
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Gracious
                 Image
                 seeming
                 to
                 give
                 leave
                 ;
              
               
                 Which
                 daily
                 by
                 your
                 Votaries
                 is
                 seen
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 the
                 Muses
                 has
                 saluted
                 been
                 .
              
               
                 Who
                 ,
                 whilst
                 an
                 Infant
                 ,
                 placed
                 in
                 your
                 Hand
              
               
                 The
                 Bays
                 so
                 many
                 strove
                 for
                 in
                 this
                 Land.
              
               
                 Wisely
                 fore-seeing
                 your
                 
                   Poetick
                   Pen
                
                 ,
              
               
                 Might
                 claim
                 the
                 primacy
                 of
                 th'wittiest
                 Men.
              
               
               
                 〈◊〉
                 you
                 th'
                 extreams
                 of
                 Pow'r
                 and
                 Beauty
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 ●ho
                 are
                 the
                 Quintessence
                 and
                 Soul
                 of
                 Love.
              
               
                 ●s
                 the
                 bright
                 Sun
                 (
                 whose
                 distant
                 Beams
                 delight
                 )
              
               
                 ●f
                 equal
                 Glory
                 to
                 your
                 Beauties
                 light
                 ;
              
               
                 ●s
                 wisely
                 pl●c'd
                 in
                 so
                 sublime
                 a
                 seat
                 ,
              
               
                 ●'extend
                 his
                 light
                 ,
                 and
                 moderate
                 his
                 heat
                 .
              
               
                 ●o
                 happy
                 't
                 is
                 you
                 move
                 in
                 such
                 a
                 Sphere
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 do's
                 not
                 over-come
                 our
                 sence
                 ,
                 but
                 chear
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 our
                 Breasts
                 do's
                 qualifie
                 that
                 fire
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 kindled
                 by
                 those
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 h●d
                 flamed
                 higher
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 when
                 the
                 scorched
                 World
                 like
                 hazard
                 run
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 the
                 approach
                 of
                 the
                 ill-guided
                 Sun.
              
               
                 Such
                 Eyes
                 as
                 yours
                 on
                 Iove
                 himself
                 have
                 thrown
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 bright
                 and
                 fierce
                 a
                 lightning
                 as
                 his
                 own
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 THE
                 YOUNG
                 LOVER's
                 ADVOCATE
                 :
                 BEING
                 An
                 Answer
                 to
                 a
                 Copy
                 of
                 Verses
                 .
              
               
                 Written
                 by
                 Galaecia
                 to
                 her
                 
                   Young
                   Lover
                
                 on
                 his
                 Vow
                 .
              
               
                 
                   TOo
                   rigid
                   ,
                   too
                   censorious
                   and
                   severe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   unjust
                   scruples
                   plainly
                   do
                   appear
                   .
                
                 
                   Why
                   shou'd
                   you
                   question
                   that
                   most
                   sacred
                   Vow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   in
                   sincerity
                   I
                   made
                   but
                   now
                   ?
                
                 
                   Did
                   I
                   not
                   Vow
                   by
                   all
                   the
                   Pow'rs
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   None
                   but
                   Galaecia
                   shou'd
                   but
                   obtain
                   my
                   Love
                   ?
                
                 
                   I
                   did
                   ,
                   and
                   made
                   a
                   Cov'nant
                   with
                   my
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   other
                   Beauties
                   shou'd
                   my
                   Heart
                   surprize
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   may
                   those
                   Pow'rs
                   their
                   vengeance
                   from
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   Show'r
                   on
                   my
                   head
                   ,
                   when
                   e'er
                   I
                   perjur'd
                   prove
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   thousand
                   Deaths
                   I
                   'd
                   rather
                   chuse
                   to
                   dye
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   once
                   my
                   Faith
                   to
                   break
                   or
                   falsifie
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Not
                   all
                   your
                   Sexes
                   charms
                   shall
                   tempt
                   me
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   other
                   Object
                   shall
                   my
                   Soul
                   adore
                   .
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Sex
                   ,
                   alas
                   !
                   is
                   but
                   a
                   Lottery
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   thousand
                   Blanks
                   for
                   one
                   true
                   Prize
                   we
                   see
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   since
                   kind
                   Fate
                   has
                   giv'n
                   me
                   such
                   a
                   Lott
                   ,
                
                 
                   Think
                   you
                   I
                   'll
                   hazard
                   what
                   's
                   so
                   hardly
                   got
                   ?
                
                 
                   No
                   ,
                   rather
                   think
                   me
                   constant
                   as
                   the
                   Sun
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   never
                   s●ts
                   ,
                   till
                   he
                   his
                   race
                   hath
                   run
                   :
                
                 
                   Firm
                   as
                   the
                   Centre
                   ,
                   as
                   the
                   Poles
                   unmov'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Faithfull
                   as
                   honest
                   Swains
                   to
                   their
                   Belov'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   you
                   alledge
                   for
                   Love
                   I
                   am
                   too
                   green
                   ,
                
                 
                   Though
                   two
                   years
                   turn'd
                   ,
                   and
                   upwards
                   of
                   Eighteen
                   .
                
                 
                   Alas
                   ,
                   too
                   long
                   I
                   think
                   I
                   've
                   been
                   debarr'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   five
                   years
                   since
                   Love's
                   pleasures
                   shou'd
                   have
                   shar'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Lovers
                   as
                   young
                   as
                   me
                   I
                   can
                   produce
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   Precedents
                   to
                   warrant
                   my
                   Excuse
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Famous
                   Sappho
                   summ'd
                   up
                   all
                   her
                   joy
                
                 
                   In
                   the
                   Embrace
                   of
                   a
                   Sicilian
                   Boy
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Queen
                   of
                   Greece
                   lov'd
                   Theseus
                   but
                   a
                   Lad
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Cytharea
                   her
                   Adonis
                   had
                   :
                
                 
                   Nay
                   Love
                   himself
                   ,
                   that
                   God
                   ,
                   is
                   but
                   a
                   Child
                   ;
                
                 
                   Shall
                   I
                   for
                   want
                   of
                   Years
                   then
                   be
                   Exil'd
                   ?
                
                 
                 
                   Yea
                   ,
                   I
                   have
                   heard
                   fair
                   Virgins
                   say
                   ,
                   in
                   truth
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   all
                   that
                   love
                   ,
                   give
                   me
                   the
                   smooth-chinn'd
                   Youth
                   :
                
                 
                   My
                   tender
                   years
                   my
                   innocence
                   may
                   prove
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   non-acquaintance
                   with
                   the
                   Wiles
                   of
                   Love.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 my
                 Ingenious
                 Friend
                 ,
                 Mrs.
                 
                   IANE
                   BARKER
                
                 ,
                 ON
                 MY
                 Publishing
                 her
                 Romance
                 of
                 SCIPINA
                 .
              
               
                 
                   COu'd
                   I
                   the
                   Censure
                   of
                   each
                   Critick
                   dread
                   ,
                
                 
                   Before
                   your
                   Book
                   my
                   Lines
                   shou'd
                   not
                   be
                   read
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   't
                   will
                   be
                   thought
                   ,
                   shou'd
                   I
                   attempt
                   your
                   Praise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Trophies
                   of
                   Int'rest
                   to
                   my self
                   I
                   'd
                   raise
                   .
                
                 
                   Since
                   the
                   same
                   Pen
                   that
                   wou'd
                   applaud
                   my
                   Friend
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   once
                   my
                   Copy
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   Lines
                   ,
                   commend
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   cou'd
                   my
                   Silence
                   'scape
                   from
                   Censure
                   free
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   other
                   Hands
                   ,
                   they
                   'd
                   say
                   ,
                   I
                   brib'd
                   for
                   the●
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Yet
                   cou'd
                   Applause
                   your
                   learned
                   Piece
                   set
                   forth
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   your
                   Fame
                   as
                   endless
                   as
                   your
                   Worth
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   wou'd
                   invoke
                   some
                   gentle
                   Muse
                   t'
                   inspire
                
                 
                   My
                   active
                   Pen
                   with
                   a
                   Poetick
                   fire
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   it
                   might
                   blazon
                   forth
                   your
                   Matchless
                   Wit
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   your
                   due
                   Merits
                   to
                   the
                   World
                   transmit
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   since
                   this
                   Subject
                   doth
                   require
                   the
                   Skill
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   of
                   a
                   Maro
                   ,
                   or
                   a
                   Waller's
                   Quill
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   must
                   desist
                   ,
                   and
                   quit
                   the
                   brave
                   design
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   great
                   task
                   to
                   better
                   hands
                   resign
                   .
                
                 
                   Only
                   as
                   th'
                   empty
                   Coach
                   is
                   wont
                   t'
                   attend
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Mourn
                   the
                   Obsequies
                   of
                   some
                   dear
                   Friend
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   shall
                   my
                   Worthless
                   lines
                   ev'n
                   now
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   want
                   of
                   better
                   ,
                   to
                   bring
                   up
                   the
                   Rear
                
                 
                   Of
                   those
                   that
                   welcome
                   th'
                   Issue
                   of
                   your
                   Wit
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   in
                   so
                   soft
                   and
                   smooth
                   a
                   Style
                   you
                   've
                   writ
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   You
                   fair
                   Scipina's
                   Name
                   do
                   here
                   advance
                
                 
                   Unto
                   the
                   Title
                   of
                   a
                   sam'd
                   Romance
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   in
                   smooth
                   Lines
                   you
                   celebrate
                   her
                   Praise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   crown
                   her
                   Temples
                   with
                   immortal
                   Bays
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   Heroes
                   Fights
                   you
                   bravely
                   have
                   exprest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   blest
                   with
                   Peace
                   ,
                   he
                   in
                   her
                   Arms
                   finds
                   rest
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   How
                   wou'd
                   it
                   please
                   the
                   gallant
                   Scipio's
                   Ghost
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   The
                   bravest
                   Gen'ral
                   th'
                   Elyzian
                   Fields
                   can
                   boast
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   his
                   Battles
                   acted
                   o'er
                   again
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   thy
                   victorious
                   and
                   triumphant
                   Pen.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Thy
                   Virgin
                   Muse
                   soars
                   upwards
                   still
                   on
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   Out-strips
                   the
                   
                     Dedalean
                     Scuddery
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   swifter
                   flights
                   of
                   Fancy
                   wings
                   each
                   line
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   harshest
                   Thoughts
                   to
                   gentle
                   Love
                   refine
                   .
                
                 
                   Each
                   Stoick's
                   Heart
                   ,
                   and
                   softer
                   Females
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   the
                   same
                   Passion
                   that
                   you
                   write's
                   possest
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   carping
                   Criticks
                   then
                   complain
                   of
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   envy
                   what
                   they
                   cannot
                   imitate
                   .
                
                 
                   Since
                   't
                   is
                   beyond
                   their
                   Art
                   or
                   Pow'r
                   to
                   blast
                
                 
                   Your
                   Virgin
                   Lawrels
                   ,
                   which
                   do
                   spread
                   so
                   fast
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 Batchelor's
                 Life
                 ,
                 in
                 pursuit
                 of
                 Mrs.
                 BARKER's
                 Verses
                 in
                 Praise
                 of
                 a
                 
                   Single
                   Life
                
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 the
                 Author
                 of
                 the
                 Ten
                 preceding
                 Copies
                 .
              
               
                 
                   SInce
                   ,
                   O
                   ye
                   Pow'rs
                   ,
                   it
                   is
                   by
                   your
                   decree
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Women
                   I
                   've
                   so
                   great
                   indiff'rencie
                   :
                
                 
                   Suffer
                   me
                   not
                   by
                   Love
                   to
                   be
                   mis-led
                   ;
                
                 
                   Let
                   nought
                   induce
                   me
                   to
                   the
                   
                     Nuptial
                     Bed.
                  
                
                 
                   Let
                   no
                   frail
                   Beauties
                   to
                   my
                   Eyes
                   resort
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lest
                   those
                   false
                   Centinels
                   betray
                   the
                   Fort.
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   blind
                   Cupid
                   with
                   a
                   poys'nous
                   Dart
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   chance
                   to
                   penetrate
                   my
                   
                     Marble
                     Heart
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   let
                   an
                   Icy
                   chillness
                   freeze
                   my
                   blood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   stop
                   the
                   
                     active
                     motion
                  
                   of
                   its
                   slood
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   may
                   I
                   in
                   this
                   happy
                   state
                   abide
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   laugh
                   at
                   those
                   a
                   
                     Single
                     Life
                  
                   deride
                   :
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   they
                   (
                   b'ing
                   caught
                   in
                   wretched
                   Wedlock's
                   Noose
                
                 
                   Do
                   both
                   their
                   fr●e●om
                   and
                   their
                   pleasures
                   loose
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   cursed
                   Avarice
                   and
                   Iealousie
                   ,
                
                 
                   Attends
                   on
                   him
                   th'
                   
                     unlucky
                     Knot
                  
                   doth
                   tye
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   Soul
                   to
                   Mirth
                   can
                   never
                   be
                   inclin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Cares
                   and
                   Fears
                   ever
                   distract
                   his
                   Mind
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Wou'd
                   he
                   be
                   merry
                   ,
                   straight
                   his
                   Consorts
                   Noise
                   ,
                
                 
                   E'er
                   he
                   can
                   think
                   th'
                   
                     Abortive
                     thought
                  
                   ,
                   destroys
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   if
                   his
                   Spouse
                   proves
                   Barren
                   ,
                   then
                   he
                   prays
                
                 
                   To
                   Heav'n
                   for
                   Children
                   ,
                   or
                   to
                   end
                   her
                   days
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   o'er-stock'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Husband
                   then
                   repines
                
                 
                   At
                   the
                   too
                   fruitfull
                   Issue
                   of
                   his
                   Loins
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   are
                   his
                   thoughts
                   employ'd
                   to
                   get
                   and
                   spare
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   provision
                   for
                   a
                   wanton
                   Heir
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   How
                   happy
                   is
                   he
                   then
                   ,
                   who
                   's
                   free
                   to
                   chuse
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   he
                   will
                   ,
                   accept
                   ,
                   when
                   not
                   ,
                   refuse
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   Cares
                   in
                   Love
                   can
                   discompose
                   his
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   
                     Anxious
                     Fears
                  
                   e'er
                   rob
                   him
                   of
                   his
                   Rest
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   unconcern'd
                   he
                   is
                   in
                   things
                   to
                   come
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   London
                   please
                   not
                   ,
                   Paris
                   is
                   his
                   home
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   a
                   
                     Fond
                     Wife
                  
                   ,
                   or
                   Wanton
                   pratling
                   Boy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Perhaps
                   might
                   all
                   his
                   gen'rous
                   thoughts
                   destroy
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Exchange
                 of
                 HEARTS
                 .
                 A
                 SONG
                 .
                 By
                 the
                 same
                 .
                 Being
                 an
                 Answer
                 to
                 a
                 SONG
                 in
                 the
                 81st
                 Page
                 of
                 the
                 First
                 Part.
                 
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   HAppy
                   the
                   Man
                   ,
                   thrice
                   happy
                   he
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   had
                   the
                   high
                   Desert
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   lose
                   to
                   you
                   his
                   Libertie
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   change
                   a
                   Lover's
                   Heart
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   If
                   his
                   do's
                   your
                   Repose
                   invade
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rob
                   you
                   of
                   your
                   Rest
                   ;
                
                 
                   Believe
                   as
                   much
                   Disorder's
                   made
                
                 
                   By
                   yours
                   within
                   his
                   Breast
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   Reason
                   with
                   him
                   has
                   no
                   more
                   pow'r
                
                 
                   Than
                   you
                   ,
                   to
                   stop
                   the
                   Course
                
                 
                   Of
                   an
                   inrag'd
                   and
                   fierce
                   Amour
                   ,
                
                 
                   Drove
                   by
                   its
                   own
                   wild
                   force
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 Upon
                 a
                 FLOCK
                 of
                 GOLD-FINCHES
                 Seen
                 in
                 the
                 MORNING
                 .
              
               
                 SCarce
                 had
                 the
                 prancing
                 Coursers
                 of
                 the
                 World
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 their
                 fresh
                 steeming
                 breath
                 the
                 Morning
                 curl'd
                 ;
              
               
                 When
                 a
                 gilt
                 flock
                 of
                 
                   Winged
                   Stars
                
                 did
                 play
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 strange
                 light
                 increase
                 the
                 new-born
                 day
                 :
              
               
                 Sure
                 they
                 were
                 sent
                 from
                 some
                 Celestial
                 Nest
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 teach
                 Aurora
                 how
                 she
                 should
                 go
                 drest
                 .
              
               
                 Gay
                 Nature's
                 lively
                 Pencil
                 never
                 drew
              
               
                 Its
                 own
                 Perfection
                 in
                 a
                 brighter
                 hew
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 in
                 light
                 hoverings
                 they
                 their
                 Bodies
                 poise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 hang
                 in
                 AEquilibriums
                 without
                 noise
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Amorous
                 Wind
                 in
                 gentle
                 Whispers
                 sings
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 coyly
                 kisses
                 their
                 Enamell'd
                 Wings
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 curling
                 Waves
                 it
                 pleats
                 their
                 silken
                 Plumes
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 their
                 spicy
                 Breasts
                 doth
                 suck
                 Perfumes
                 ;
              
               
                 Then
                 softly
                 swells
                 ,
                 and
                 heaves
                 its
                 rising
                 Weight
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 mounting
                 Birds
                 enjoy
                 a
                 noble
                 height
                 :
              
               
               
                 There
                 in
                 a
                 spangled
                 Crescent
                 they
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 a
                 flying
                 Rain-bow
                 gild
                 the
                 Air.
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 Sol's
                 Rays
                 dart
                 from
                 their
                 Eastern
                 seat
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 a
                 golden
                 Blush
                 these
                 Rivals
                 meet
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 then
                 recoil
                 ,
                 more
                 sumptuous
                 to
                 behold
                 ,
              
               
                 Ten
                 thousand
                 Colours
                 mixing
                 with
                 their
                 Gold.
              
               
                 Thus
                 they
                 which
                 make
                 the
                 watry
                 Fleeces
                 proud
                 ,
              
               
                 Themselves
                 draw
                 Lustre
                 from
                 a
                 living
                 Cloud
                 .
              
               
                 Oft
                 through
                 the
                 Air
                 their
                 active
                 Course
                 they
                 change
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 quick
                 windings
                 their
                 brisk
                 Squadrons
                 range
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Impressive
                 Atmosphere
                 ,
                 where
                 they
                 had
                 flown
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 a
                 long
                 train
                 of
                 painted
                 Lightning
                 shone
                 .
              
               
                 Downward
                 at
                 length
                 they
                 fell
                 ,
                 sure
                 wanton
                 Iove
              
               
                 In
                 such
                 a
                 splendid
                 Storm
                 enjoy'd
                 his
                 Love.
              
               
                 When
                 doubtfull
                 Swains
                 behold
                 with
                 wond'ring
                 sight
                 ,
              
               
                 Keen
                 Exhalations
                 with
                 their
                 pointed
                 Light
                 ,
              
               
                 Shoot
                 through
                 the
                 yielding
                 darkness
                 of
                 the
                 Night
                 .
              
               
                 They
                 think
                 it
                 was
                 some
                 guilty
                 Star
                 that
                 fell
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 trembling
                 pray
                 ,
                 that
                 all
                 in
                 Heaven
                 be
                 well
                 .
              
               
                 Oh
                 ,
                 had
                 they
                 seen
                 with
                 what
                 a
                 radiant
                 pride
                 ,
              
               
                 These
                 feather'd
                 Meteors
                 from
                 above
                 did
                 glide
                 ;
              
               
                 They
                 would
                 have
                 pity'd
                 the
                 deserted
                 Sky
                 ,
              
               
                 Thinking
                 they
                 did
                 a
                 Constellation
                 spy
                 :
              
               
               
                 Which
                 ,
                 that
                 it
                 might
                 indulge
                 blest
                 Mortals
                 Ears
                 ,
              
               
                 Had
                 brought
                 with
                 it
                 the
                 Musick
                 of
                 the
                 Spheres
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 such
                 soft
                 Ayrs
                 did
                 all
                 the
                 Birds
                 descend
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 their
                 bright
                 Course
                 to
                 the
                 next
                 Bush
                 they
                 bend
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 purling
                 Noise
                 their
                 flutt'ring
                 Wings
                 they
                 clapt
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 they
                 had
                 for
                 Entertainment
                 rapt
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Thorns
                 themselves
                 shrunk
                 in
                 to
                 make
                 them
                 room
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sheath'd
                 their
                 prickles
                 in
                 their
                 barky
                 Womb.
              
               
                 New
                 buds
                 from
                 their
                 
                   Potential
                   beds
                
                 did
                 leap
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 peep
                 't
                 to
                 see
                 who
                 't
                 was
                 disturb'd
                 their
                 sleep●
              
               
                 Spying
                 such
                 Guests
                 ,
                 their
                 fragrant
                 Laps
                 they
                 spread
                 ;
              
               
                 Such
                 Tap'stry
                 none
                 but
                 fragrant
                 Feet
                 must
                 tread
                 .
              
               
                 Each
                 awfull
                 twig
                 gave
                 an
                 obsequious
                 nod
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 bowing
                 ,
                 stoop't
                 unto
                 its
                 welcome
                 load
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 the
                 glitt'ring
                 Bush
                 on
                 high
                 displays
              
               
                 Its
                 streaming
                 Branches
                 ,
                 deck't
                 with
                 chirping
                 Rays
                 .
              
               
                 It
                 s
                 Golden
                 back
                 's
                 clad
                 with
                 a
                 breathing
                 Fleece
                 ,
              
               
                 Richer
                 than
                 that
                 bold
                 Iason
                 brought
                 ●rom
                 Greece
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 wav'ring
                 boughs
                 under
                 their
                 weight
                 did
                 leap
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 their
                 blithfull
                 chantings
                 time
                 did
                 keep
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Neighb'ring
                 Brook
                 stop't
                 its
                 attentive
                 stream
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 hush't
                 Winds
                 hung
                 lull'd
                 into
                 a
                 dream
                 .
              
               
               
                 Ne'er
                 did
                 the
                 Perriwig'd
                 Hesperian
                 Grove
                 ,
              
               
                 On
                 its
                 bright
                 Head
                 so
                 rich
                 an
                 Autumn
                 move
                 .
              
               
                 Hail
                 ,
                 happy
                 Shrub
                 ,
                 wrap't
                 in
                 a
                 Golden
                 shade
                 ,
              
               
                 Whom
                 Nature
                 hath
                 her
                 living
                 Wardrobe
                 made
                 ;
              
               
                 Hail
                 ,
                 Queen
                 of
                 Plants
                 ,
                 crown'd
                 with
                 a
                 Diadem
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 every
                 Iewel
                 is
                 a
                 
                   Vocal
                   Gem
                
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 warm
                 soft
                 Gem
                 ,
                 whose
                 splendor
                 do's
                 excell
              
               
                 Th'
                 obdurate
                 off-spring
                 of
                 the
                 Indian
                 shell
                 .
              
               
                 May
                 still
                 such
                 Phoenixes
                 shine
                 on
                 thy
                 Crest
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 never
                 burn
                 their
                 
                   odoriferous
                   Nest
                
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 may
                 each
                 Morn
                 thy
                 glorious
                 twigs
                 recruit
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 a
                 new
                 brood
                 of
                 such
                 Melodious
                 fruit
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 THE
                 POET's
                 Answer
                 to
                 One
                 ,
                 Complaining
                 of
                 their
                 NEGLIGENCE
                 ,
                 In
                 not
                 Writing
                 the
                 DUKE
                 OF
                 BUCKINGHAM's
                 ELEGY
                 .
              
               
                 
                   NOR
                   needs
                   he
                   slender
                   Verse
                   ,
                   his
                   Mighty
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rais'd
                   above
                   us
                   ,
                   do's
                   all
                   our
                   Praise
                   disclaim
                   ;
                
                 
                   Poets
                   have
                   liv'd
                   by
                   him
                   ,
                   he
                   cannot
                   live
                   by
                   them
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   great
                   his
                   Bounty
                   ,
                   we
                   as
                   well
                   might
                   show
                
                 
                   The
                   secret
                   Head
                   ,
                   whence
                   fertile
                   Nile
                   do's
                   flow
                   .
                
                 
                   Like
                   Nilus
                   he
                   ,
                   for
                   with
                   a
                   willing
                   Hand
                
                 
                   He
                   gave
                   to
                   all
                   ,
                   his
                   stream
                   o'er-flow'd
                   the
                   Land.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   still
                   the
                   Muse
                   was
                   his
                   peculiar
                   Care
                   ;
                
                 
                   Now
                   could
                   I
                   ought
                   in
                   Verse
                   !
                   A
                   subject's
                   here
                
                 
                 
                   Might
                   —
                   But
                   the
                   Mind
                   's
                   ill
                   serv'd
                   by
                   Faculties
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   something
                   still
                   we
                   know
                   ,
                   we
                   can't
                   express
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Trojan
                   Shield
                   ,
                   which
                   Maro
                   once
                   did
                   frame
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   an
                   intent
                   to
                   raise
                   Augustus
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   Should
                   not
                   do
                   more
                   ,
                   if
                   (
                   as
                   my
                   Theme's
                   as
                   great
                   )
                
                 
                   I
                   could
                   assume
                   his
                   Majesty
                   and
                   State.
                
                 
                   But
                   nothing
                   ●an
                   rehearse
                   his
                   wond'rous
                   Praise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unless
                   kind
                   Heaven
                   from
                   his
                   dust
                   should
                   raise
                
                 
                   Another
                   matchless
                   mighty
                   Buckingham
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   ,
                   like
                   himself
                   ,
                   could
                   gloss
                   the
                   glorious
                   Theme
                   .
                
                 
                   Two
                   great
                   effects
                   we
                   had
                   from
                   's
                   noble
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   State
                   and
                   Theatre
                   at
                   once
                   refin'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   When
                   e'er
                   he
                   pleas'd
                   to
                   lash
                   the
                   nauseous
                   Times
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   just
                   Rules
                   corre●t
                   the
                   Poet's
                   Crimes
                   :
                
                 
                   Nonsence
                   ,
                   and
                   Bays
                   ,
                   and
                   Bombast
                   took
                   their
                   flight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   frighted
                   Phantoms
                   from
                   the
                   hated
                   Light.
                
                 
                   As
                   by
                   the
                   order
                   of
                   this
                   World
                   we
                   guess
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   God
                   ,
                   not
                   Chance
                   ,
                   first
                   mov'd
                   the
                   mighty
                   Mass
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   whilst
                   we
                   saw
                   ,
                   when
                   we
                   made
                   War
                   ,
                   Success
                   ,
                
                 
                   Advantage
                   ,
                   when
                   we
                   pleas'd
                   to
                   grant
                   a
                   Peace
                   :
                
                 
                   We
                   ,
                   by
                   the
                   Beauty
                   ,
                   knew
                   ,
                   Villers
                   was
                   there
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   God-like
                   Charles
                   was
                   eas'd
                   of
                   half
                   his
                   care
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   So
                   in
                   the
                   Realms
                   above
                   't
                   is
                   Iove's
                   to
                   will
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   lesser
                   Powers
                   his
                   Commands
                   fulfill
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   was
                   his
                   Body
                   inferiour
                   to
                   his
                   Mind
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   when
                   he
                   was
                   created
                   ,
                   Fate
                   design'd
                
                 
                   That
                   he
                   should
                   be
                   the
                   wonder
                   of
                   Mankind
                   .
                
                 
                   Goodness
                   and
                   Grace
                   did
                   always
                   with
                   him
                   move
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   Men
                   he
                   Honour
                   claim'd
                   ,
                   from
                   Women
                   Love
                
                 
                   Some
                   slighted
                   Swain
                   ,
                   whom
                   Celia's
                   scorn
                   opprest
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   raise
                   a
                   Flame
                   in
                   some
                   less
                   guarded
                   Breast
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   there
                   the
                   Curse
                   do's
                   not
                   intirely
                   fall
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   form'd
                   the
                   Race
                   of
                   Women
                   to
                   enthrall
                   ,
                
                 
                   Reveng'd
                   upon
                   their
                   Sex
                   the
                   quarrels
                   of
                   us
                   all
                   .
                
                 
                   Ten
                   thousand
                   ways
                   soft
                   thoughts
                   he
                   cou'd
                   inspire
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   kindled
                   in
                   all
                   hearts
                   a
                   gen'rous
                   fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Bounty
                   wealth
                   ,
                   his
                   Beauty
                   gave
                   desire
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Iudgment
                   gave
                   us
                   Laws
                   ,
                   a
                   Play
                   his
                   Wit
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   him
                   we
                   liv'd
                   ,
                   we
                   lov'd
                   ,
                   we
                   rul'd
                   ,
                   we
                   writ
                   .
                
              
            
          
           
             
             
               These
               Thirteen
               following
               COPIES
               done
               by
               Mr.
               
                 HOVENDEN
                 WALKER
              
               ,
               sometime
               of
               Trinity-Colledge
               in
               Dublin
               .
            
             
               
                 PSALM
                 the
                 
                   CXXXIX
                   .
                   Paraphras'd
                
                 from
                 Verse
                 the
                 7.
                 to
                 Verse
                 the
                 13.
                 
              
               
                 
                   WHere
                   shall
                   I
                   ●ind
                   a
                   close
                   conceal'd
                   Abode
                   ?
                
                 
                   Or
                   how
                   avoid
                   an
                   God!
                
                 
                   Whither
                   ,
                   O
                   whither
                   ,
                   can
                   a
                   Sinner
                   flee
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Almighty
                     Lord
                  
                   ,
                   from
                   thy
                   Ubiquitie
                   !
                
                 
                   How
                   from
                   thy
                   Omnipresence
                   can
                   he
                   hide
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   ev'ry-where
                   thy
                   Spirit
                   do's
                   reside
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   Would
                   I
                   ascend
                   to
                   Heaven
                   ,
                   ev'n
                   there
                
                 
                   Do's
                   thy
                   Refulgent
                   Glory
                   most
                   appear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Light
                   do's
                   there
                   ●ill
                   the
                   unbounded
                   space
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   dost
                   thou
                   thy
                   bright
                   Pavilion
                   place
                   ;
                
                 
                   At
                   thy
                   right
                   hand
                   ,
                   thy
                   dear
                   ,
                   thy
                   darling
                   Son
                
                 
                   Sits
                   ,
                   and
                   thy
                   Spirit
                   hovers
                   o'er
                   the
                   Throne
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   While
                   Hallelujahs
                   to
                   their
                   God
                   ,
                   and
                   King
                   ,
                
                 
                   Myriads
                   of
                   Blessed
                   Saints
                   and
                   Angels
                   sing
                   .
                
                 
                   Would
                   I
                   ,
                   to
                   shun
                   thee
                   ,
                   dive
                   to
                   deepest
                   Hell
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   there
                   thy
                   Horrours
                   ,
                   and
                   thy
                   Iudgments
                   dwell
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Terrours
                   there
                   the
                   wretched
                   Damn'd
                   invade
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Bed
                   of
                   Rest
                   or
                   Refuge
                   there
                   is
                   made
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   ever
                   there
                   thy
                   Triumphs
                   do
                   remain
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Which
                   ,
                   Satan
                   to
                   forget
                   ,
                   still
                   strives
                   in
                   vain
                   )
                
                 
                   E'er
                   since
                   for
                   Man
                   thou
                   didst
                   Redemption
                   gain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   by
                   thy
                   Death
                   both
                   Death
                   and
                   Hell
                   were
                   slain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Cou'd
                   I
                   with
                   wings
                   fly
                   to
                   the
                   utmost
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   Swift
                   as
                   the
                   Light
                   ,
                   which
                   brings
                   approaching
                   day
                   ;
                
                 
                   Swift
                   as
                   the
                   Dawn
                   ,
                   which
                   do's
                   it self
                   disperse
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   half
                   a
                   Day
                   ,
                   through
                   half
                   the
                   Universe
                   .
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   this
                   a
                   vain
                   and
                   fond
                   Design
                   would
                   prove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   from
                   thy
                   just
                   Protection
                   could
                   I
                   move
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   the
                   wide
                   World's
                   most
                   large
                   circumference
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   circumscrib'd
                   by
                   thy
                   vast
                   Providence
                   .
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Goodness
                   me
                   from
                   dang'rous
                   Ills
                   would
                   save
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   lead
                   me
                   safely
                   o'er
                   each
                   angry
                   Wave
                   .
                
                 
                   Thy
                   right
                   hand
                   would
                   conduct
                   me
                   through
                   all
                   harms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   wouldst
                   protect
                   me
                   in
                   thy
                   mighty
                   Arms.
                
                 
                 
                   Under
                   thy
                   Wings
                   I
                   should
                   in
                   quiet
                   sleep
                   ,
                
                 
                   Though
                   toss'd
                   and
                   threaten'd
                   by
                   the
                   dreadfull
                   Deep
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Would
                   I
                   propose
                   to
                   hide
                   me
                   from
                   thy
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   an
                   Egyptian
                   Darkness
                   ,
                   and
                   thick
                   Night
                   ?
                
                 
                   A
                   glorious
                   Splendour
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Light
                   divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   out
                   of
                   that
                   thou
                   wouldst
                   command
                   to
                   shine
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thou
                   wouldst
                   that
                   blackest
                   Cov'ring
                   make
                   as
                   bright
                
                 
                   As
                   the
                   gay
                   Beams
                   of
                   the
                   Sun
                   's
                   dazling
                   Light
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   thee
                   the
                   Night
                   can
                   no
                   concealment
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Night
                   and
                   Day
                   are
                   still
                   the
                   same
                   to
                   thee
                   :
                
                 
                   Therefore
                   in
                   vain
                   fond
                   Men
                   attempt
                   to
                   run
                
                 
                   From
                   thee
                   ,
                   and
                   thy
                   Eternal
                   Presence
                   shun
                   .
                
                 
                   Thou
                   unconfin'd
                   thy self
                   ,
                   do'st
                   all
                   confine
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   all
                   is
                   full
                   of
                   thee
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   is
                   thine
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 PASTORAL
                 ,
                 In
                 Imitation
                 of
                 VIRGIL's
                 Second
                 ECLOGUE
                 .
              
               
                 
                   A
                   Lowly
                   Swain
                   lov'd
                   a
                   proud
                   Nymph
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   did
                   the
                   Country
                   and
                   the
                   Fields
                   disdain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Because
                   the
                   fairest
                   of
                   the
                   City
                   Train
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   haughty
                   She
                   despis'd
                   his
                   humble
                   Flame
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   soaring
                   ,
                   flew
                   at
                   a
                   more
                   noble
                   Game
                   .
                
                 
                   Unheard
                   ,
                   unseen
                   ,
                   he
                   daily
                   came
                   to
                   mourn
                
                 
                   Near
                   lonesome
                   streams
                   ,
                   and
                   shades
                   ,
                   her
                   cruel
                   scorn
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   while
                   alone
                   ,
                   he
                   moan'd
                   his
                   luckless
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   griefs
                   ev'n
                   senceless
                   Trees
                   and
                   Rocks
                   did
                   move
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   neighb'ring
                   Hills
                   with
                   horrour
                   seem'd
                   to
                   shake
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   to
                   himself
                   ●hese
                   raving
                   words
                   he
                   spake
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   Shall
                   I
                   ,
                   as
                   others
                   ,
                   to
                   my
                   Flocks
                   complain
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   I
                   a
                   cruel
                   Beauty
                   love
                   in
                   vain
                   ?
                
                 
                 
                   Shall
                   I
                   ,
                   with
                   fruitless
                   cries
                   ,
                   disturb
                   my
                   Lambs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   ,
                   with
                   my
                   quer'lous
                   groans
                   ,
                   a●●right
                   their
                   Dams
                   ?
                
                 
                   Their
                   Dams
                   ,
                   that
                   strangers
                   are
                   to
                   Lover's
                   cares
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   can
                   enjoy
                   their
                   Loves
                   without
                   their
                   Fears
                   !
                
                 
                   No
                   ,
                   let
                   me
                   here
                   in
                   secret
                   pine
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   sad
                   objects
                   read
                   my
                   Doom
                   each
                   day
                   .
                
                 
                   Lo
                   ,
                   through
                   these
                   Clifts
                   a
                   trav'lling
                   Current
                   glides
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   little
                   Rocks
                   the
                   purling
                   streams
                   divides
                   .
                
                 
                   Ah!
                   how
                   well
                   this
                   resembles
                   my
                   sad
                   Fate
                   !
                
                 
                   My
                   fruitless
                   tears
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   unsoft'ning
                   hate
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   as
                   these
                   Rocks
                   hard
                   and
                   unmov'd
                   remain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   clear
                   stream
                   but
                   washes
                   'em
                   in
                   vain
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   fall
                   my
                   Tears
                   as
                   unsuccessfully
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   her
                   hard
                   stony
                   Heart
                   can
                   mollifie
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   still
                   they
                   run
                   ,
                   unheeded
                   as
                   this
                   Brook
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   will
                   she
                   stop
                   'em
                   by
                   one
                   pleasing
                   look
                   .
                
                 
                   Oh
                   ,
                   cruel
                   Nymph
                   !
                   why
                   do'st
                   thou
                   thus
                   delight
                
                 
                   To
                   torture
                   me
                   ?
                   why
                   thus
                   my
                   suff'rings
                   ●light
                   ?
                
                 
                   My
                   mournfull
                   Songs
                   neglected
                   are
                   by
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   art
                   regardless
                   of
                   my
                   Verse
                   ,
                   and
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   Thou
                   canst
                   behold
                   ,
                   with
                   an
                   unpittying
                   Eye
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   sorrows
                   ,
                   and
                   art
                   pleas'd
                   to
                   see
                   me
                   dye
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Lo
                   ,
                   now
                   each
                   Creature
                   either
                   rests
                   ,
                   or
                   feeds
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   spotted
                   Lyzards
                   dance
                   in
                   shady
                   weeds
                   ;
                
                 
                   All
                   are
                   imploy'd
                   ,
                   and
                   bonny
                   Mall
                   takes
                   care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dinners
                   for
                   weary
                   Reapers
                   to
                   prepare
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   I
                   ,
                   by
                   sa●
                   complaints
                   ,
                   at
                   noon
                   am
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   Making
                   ,
                   with
                   Grashoppers
                   ,
                   the
                   Shrubs
                   resound
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   while
                   I
                   trace
                   thy
                   wand'ring
                   s●eps
                   all
                   day
                   ,
                
                 
                   Oppress'd
                   wi●h
                   heat
                   of
                   Love
                   ,
                   my
                   spirits
                   decay
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   by
                   the
                   Sun
                   scorch't
                   up
                   I
                   faint
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   Had
                   I
                   not
                   better
                   far
                   ,
                   contented
                   ,
                   born
                
                 
                   Brown
                   Amaryllis
                   little
                   peevish
                   scorn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   lofty
                   Soul
                   ,
                   high
                   Parents
                   ,
                   and
                   Descent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Against
                   my
                   Love
                   had
                   been
                   no
                   Argument
                   ?
                
                 
                   Or
                   I
                   had
                   better
                   far
                   have
                   lov'd
                   
                     black
                     Bess
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   though
                   her
                   Wealth
                   and
                   Beauty
                   had
                   been
                   less
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   though
                   her
                   Skin
                   was
                   of
                   a
                   tawny
                   hew
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   though
                   as
                   fair
                   as
                   whitest
                   Lillies
                   you
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   her
                   so
                   long
                   in
                   vain
                   I
                   had
                   not
                   strove
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   she
                   would
                   have
                   rewarded
                   Love
                   with
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Oh
                   ,
                   beauteous
                   Nymph
                   ,
                   do
                   not
                   so
                   much
                   delight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   pride
                   thy self
                   that
                   thou
                   art
                   sair
                   and
                   white
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   whitest
                   Blossoms
                   most
                   neglected
                   fall
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   the
                   ripe
                   Blackberry
                   is
                   pluck't
                   by
                   all
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   I
                   am
                   so
                   despis'd
                   ,
                   so
                   scorn'd
                   by
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   dost
                   not
                   ev'n
                   so
                   much
                   as
                   ask
                   of
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   stock
                   I
                   do
                   of
                   larger
                   Cattel
                   keep
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   stor'd
                   with
                   Milk
                   ,
                   or
                   how
                   inrich't
                   with
                   Sheep
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   thousand
                   Lambs
                   wander
                   on
                   yonder
                   Hills
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   my
                   large
                   Flock
                   th'
                   adjacent
                   Valley
                   fills
                   ;
                
                 
                   Summer
                   nor
                   Winter
                   my
                   Kine
                   ne'er
                   are
                   dry
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   with
                   new
                   Milk
                   my
                   little
                   House
                   supply
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   or
                   my
                   Verse
                   or
                   Musick
                   could
                   but
                   prove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   force
                   enough
                   to
                   make
                   my
                   fair
                   one
                   love
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   would
                   oblige
                   her
                   with
                   such
                   Songs
                   ,
                   such
                   lays
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   those
                   with
                   which
                   Amphion
                   in
                   pristine
                   days
                   ,
                
                 
                   Himself
                   of
                   old
                   the
                   Theban
                   Walls
                   did
                   raise
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   am
                   I
                   so
                   deform'd
                   to
                   be
                   despis'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   I
                   but
                   lately
                   with
                   the
                   Sea
                   advis'd
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   the
                   
                     still
                     Winds
                  
                   did
                   undisturbed
                   sleep
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   with
                   their
                   Rage
                   wrinkled
                   the
                   smooth-fac'd
                   Deep
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   if
                   that
                   Image
                   did
                   not
                   flatter
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   need
                   not
                   fear
                   ,
                   though
                   to
                   be
                   judg'd
                   by
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   I
                   less
                   handsome
                   to
                   your
                   sight
                   should
                   prove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   happy
                   Citizens
                   whom
                   you
                   so
                   lov●
                   .
                
                 
                   Oh
                   that
                   it
                   necessary
                   were
                   for
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   live
                   in
                   humble
                   Cottages
                   with
                   me
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   To
                   hunt
                   swift
                   Deer
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   a
                   
                     verdant
                     twig
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   drive
                   my
                   Ewes
                   ,
                   which
                   with
                   their
                   young
                   are
                   big
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   while
                   my
                   pretty
                   Lambs
                   in
                   Pastures
                   feed
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   imitate
                   our
                   Pan
                   upon
                   a
                   Reed
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   let
                   it
                   grieve
                   you
                   that
                   you
                   wear
                   away
                
                 
                   Your
                   tender
                   Lips
                   upon
                   my
                   Pipes
                   to
                   play
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   ,
                   if
                   he
                   were
                   but
                   half
                   so
                   blest
                   to
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   would
                   not
                   the
                   oblig'd
                   Amyntas
                   do
                   ?
                
                 
                   I
                   have
                   that
                   Pipe
                   which
                   was
                   bestow'd
                   on
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   Swain
                   Dametas
                   ;
                   when
                   he
                   dy'd
                   ,
                   said
                   he
                   ,
                
                 
                   Accept
                   this
                   Pipe
                   as
                   the
                   best
                   Legacie
                   .
                
                 
                   Dametas
                   said
                   it
                   ,
                   but
                   Amyntas
                   griev'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   I
                   so
                   great
                   a
                   present
                   had
                   receiv'd
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   in
                   an
                   unsafe
                   Vale
                   I
                   found
                   besides
                
                 
                   Two
                   tender
                   Kids
                   with
                   pretty
                   speckled
                   Hides
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   twice
                   a
                   day
                   dreign
                   a
                   full
                   Udder'd
                   Sheep
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   these
                   for
                   you
                   with
                   so
                   much
                   care
                   I
                   keep
                   .
                
                 
                   Mall
                   would
                   long
                   since
                   have
                   beg'd
                   'em
                   both
                   ●rom
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   she
                   shall
                   have
                   'em
                   ,
                   since
                   contemn'd
                   by
                   thee
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Come
                   here
                   ,
                   bright
                   Maid
                   ,
                   come
                   hither
                   charming
                   fair
                   ,
                
                 
                   See
                   what
                   for
                   thy
                   reception
                   Nymphs
                   prepare
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   See
                   how
                   they
                   do
                   adorn
                   the
                   shady
                   Bow'rs
                   ;
                
                 
                   See
                   how
                   they
                   gather
                   all
                   the
                   sweetest
                   Flow'rs
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   thee
                   pleasant
                   Garlands
                   ,
                   see
                   how
                   they
                
                 
                   Prepare
                   to
                   crown
                   thee
                   ,
                   the
                   bright
                   Queen
                   of
                   May.
                
                 
                   Lo
                   I
                   my self
                   have
                   search't
                   the
                   Orchard
                   round
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   where
                   the
                   best
                   Apples
                   may
                   be
                   found
                   :
                
                 
                   Chesnuts
                   and
                   yellow
                   Plums
                   I
                   've
                   gather'd
                   ,
                   such
                
                 
                   As
                   once
                   my
                   Amaryllis
                   lov'd
                   so
                   much
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   here
                   's
                   an
                   Apple
                   that
                   can
                   all
                   out-doe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   I
                   particularly
                   pluck't
                   for
                   you
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   twigs
                   of
                   Lawrel
                   from
                   yon
                   Tree
                   I
                   'll
                   take
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Myrtle
                   mix
                   ,
                   the
                   better
                   scents
                   to
                   make
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   artsully
                   into
                   a
                   Garland
                   wove
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Flowers
                   sweet
                   shall
                   crown
                   my
                   sweeter
                   Love.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   all
                   thy
                   clownish
                   Gifts
                   unheeded
                   are
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   do's
                   the
                   Nymph
                   for
                   such
                   a
                   Bumpkin
                   care
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   Gifts
                   of
                   thine
                   canst
                   thou
                   believe
                   will
                   take
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   City-Youths
                   can
                   so
                   much
                   richer
                   make
                   ?
                
                 
                   Thy
                   humble
                   Presents
                   fading
                   are
                   ,
                   and
                   poor
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   lasting
                   as
                   their
                   bright
                   and
                   shining
                   Ore.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Alas
                   ,
                   what
                   shall
                   I
                   do
                   ?
                   where
                   find
                   out
                   Rest
                   ?
                
                 
                   Where
                   ease
                   the
                   Burthens
                   of
                   my
                   lab'ring
                   Breast
                   ?
                
                 
                   I
                   leave
                   expos'd
                   (
                   distracted
                   in
                   my
                   mind
                   )
                
                 
                   My
                   choicest
                   Gardens
                   to
                   the
                   
                     Southern
                     Wind.
                  
                
                 
                   My
                   clearest
                   Fountains
                   I
                   preserve
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   unruly
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   nasty
                   Boar.
                
                 
                   My
                   tender
                   Flocks
                   by
                   me
                   neglected
                   are
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   are
                   no
                   more
                   as
                   once
                   my
                   only
                   care
                   .
                
                 
                   While
                   I
                   to
                   Passion
                   am
                   ,
                   unguarded
                   they
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   devouring
                   Wolf
                   become
                   a
                   prey
                   .
                
                 
                   Each
                   day
                   the
                   Sun
                   rises
                   upon
                   my
                   Love
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   still
                   as
                   that
                   ascends
                   ,
                   this
                   do's
                   improve
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   to
                   Thetis
                   Lap
                   he
                   goes
                   to
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   feel
                   no
                   quiet
                   in
                   my
                   Tortur'd
                   Breast
                   .
                
                 
                   Unhappy
                   Nymph
                   ,
                   whom
                   wouldst
                   thou
                   coyl●
                   shun
                   ?
                
                 
                   Ah
                   ,
                   whither
                   from
                   a
                   wretched
                   Lover
                   run
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   greatest
                   Heroes
                   did
                   of
                   old
                   ,
                   nay
                   Gods
                
                 
                   Have
                   chose
                   to
                   dwell
                   in
                   Sylvan
                   Shades
                   and
                   Woods
                   .
                
                 
                   
                     Dardanian
                     Paris
                  
                   lov'd
                   the
                   Verdant
                   Plains
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   liv'd
                   most
                   happy
                   ,
                   while
                   amongst
                   the
                   Swains
                   .
                
                 
                   Pallas
                   her self
                   did
                   Fields
                   and
                   Forrests
                   love
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   was
                   delighted
                   with
                   the
                   pleasant
                   Grove
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   there
                   ,
                   for
                   her
                   abode
                   ,
                   built
                   shady
                   Bow'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   stately
                   Palaces
                   ,
                   and
                   lofty
                   Tow'rs
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   therefore
                   I
                   so
                   much
                   prefer
                   above
                
                 
                   The
                   smoaky
                   City
                   ,
                   the
                   delightfull
                   Grove
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   these
                   Shades
                   how
                   happy
                   could
                   I
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Disdainfull
                   Nymph
                   ,
                   wer
                   't
                   not
                   for
                   Love
                   of
                   thee
                   :
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   that
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   that
                   which
                   thus
                   my
                   Rest
                   destroys
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   that
                   that
                   ruins
                   all
                   my
                   
                     rural
                     Ioys
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   thee
                   I
                   am
                   so
                   prone
                   ,
                   so
                   bent
                   to
                   thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   cannot
                   tast
                   the
                   least
                   felicitie
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   ●lying
                   Wolves
                   by
                   the
                   fierce
                   Lyoness
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   hotlier
                   pursu'd
                   ;
                   nor
                   are
                   Kids
                   less
                
                 
                   Follow'd
                   by
                   chasing
                   Wolves
                   ,
                   nor
                   can
                   Kids
                   be
                
                 
                   More
                   fond
                   of
                   Cytisus
                   than
                   I
                   of
                   thee
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   follow
                   that
                   in
                   which
                   they
                   most
                   delight
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   you
                   alone
                   can
                   my
                   Desires
                   invite
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Ah
                   ,
                   foolish
                   Swain
                   ,
                   what
                   ●renzy
                   haunts
                   thy
                   mind
                   ?
                
                 
                   Canst
                   thou
                   no
                   ease
                   ,
                   no
                   moderation
                   ●ind
                   ?
                
                 
                   Will
                   not
                   thy
                   Love
                   one
                   minutes
                   rest
                   allow
                   ?
                
                 
                   Behold
                   the
                   lab'ring
                   Ox
                   has
                   left
                   the
                   Plow●
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   the
                   Sun
                   hasts
                   to
                   his
                   Ev'ning
                   bed
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   low
                   degrees
                   still
                   doubling
                   ev'ry
                   shade
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   All
                   Creatures
                   now
                   ,
                   with
                   the
                   expiring
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   Cease
                   from
                   their
                   Toil
                   ,
                   to
                   sleep
                   away
                   the
                   Night
                   .
                
                 
                   Do's
                   Love
                   alone
                   a
                   cruel
                   Master
                   prove
                   ?
                
                 
                   Is
                   there
                   no
                   end
                   of
                   the
                   hard
                   Tasks
                   of
                   Love
                   ?
                
                 
                   See
                   how
                   yon
                   Vine
                   untrim'd
                   neglected
                   lyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   wilt
                   thou
                   ne'er
                   repent
                   ?
                   wilt
                   ne'er
                   be
                   wise
                   ?
                
                 
                   Apply
                   thy self
                   to
                   some
                   more
                   usefull
                   thing
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   may
                   a
                   much
                   more
                   certain
                   profit
                   bring
                   .
                
                 
                   Shake
                   off
                   for
                   shame
                   at
                   last
                   this
                   fruitless
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wasting
                   Time
                   to
                   better
                   ends
                   improve
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   you
                   needs
                   must
                   love
                   ,
                   hereafter
                   chuse
                
                 
                   Some
                   gentler
                   Nymph
                   ,
                   who
                   'll
                   not
                   your
                   Love
                   refuse
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Fourth
                 ELEGY
                 OF
                 CORNELIUS
                 GALLUS
                 ,
                 OF
                 THE
                 Miseries
                 of
                 Old
                 Age.
                 Made
                 English.
                 
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Poet
                   gives
                   an
                   account
                   of
                   his
                   loving
                   a
                   
                     Young
                     Maid
                  
                   very
                   privately
                   in
                   his
                   Youth
                   ,
                   but
                   at
                   last
                   how
                   in
                   his
                   sleep
                   he
                   discover'd
                   what
                   so
                   carefully
                   he
                   hid
                   waking
                   ;
                   and
                   concludes
                   the
                   Elegy
                   with
                   the
                   consideration
                   of
                   the
                   inconveniences
                   he
                   lyes
                   under
                   by
                   being
                   Old.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   YET
                   let
                   me
                   one
                   more
                   Youthfull
                   Tale
                   reherse
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   please
                   my self
                   with
                   my
                   own
                   empty
                   Verse
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   idle
                   Stories
                   very
                   well
                   agree
                
                 
                   With
                   antick
                   Dotage
                   ,
                   and
                   stupiditie
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   as
                   in
                   changing
                   years
                   ,
                   Mankind
                   is
                   found
                
                 
                   With
                   various
                   Chances
                   always
                   turning
                   round
                   :
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   so
                   those
                   times
                   which
                   most
                   inverted
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Seem
                   most
                   obliging
                   to
                   the
                   Memorie
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   A
                   Virgin
                   once
                   there
                   was
                   ,
                   whom
                   Heav'n
                   design'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Both
                   by
                   the
                   Graces
                   of
                   her
                   Face
                   and
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   be
                   adapted
                   ,
                   so
                   ,
                   that
                   she
                   became
                
                 
                   By
                   Nature
                   Candid
                   ,
                   as
                   she
                   was
                   by
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   pure
                   white
                   Hair
                   around
                   her
                   shoulders
                   spread
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fell
                   decently
                   in
                   Ringlets●rom
                   ●rom
                   her
                   Head
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   ev'ry
                   Part
                   of
                   her
                   was
                   bright
                   ,
                   and
                   fair
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   full
                   as
                   charming
                   as
                   her
                   
                     Flaxen
                     Hair.
                  
                
                 
                   The
                   tune●ull
                   Lyre
                   s●e
                   touch't
                   with
                   such
                   a
                   grace
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   it
                   confirm'd
                   the
                   Conquests
                   of
                   her
                   Face
                   ;
                
                 
                   While
                   from
                   the
                   trembling
                   strings
                   soft
                   Tunes
                   did
                   flow
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Love
                   and
                   Ioy
                   my
                   Heart
                   did
                   tremble
                   too
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   she
                   joyn'd
                   thereto
                   some
                   witty
                   Song
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   many
                   Cupids
                   sate
                   upon
                   her
                   Tongue
                   !
                
                 
                   Each
                   moving
                   word
                   ,
                   each
                   accent
                   sent
                   a
                   Dart
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ev'ry
                   Note
                   did
                   wound
                   my
                   melting
                   Heart
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   then
                   she
                   Danc'd
                   with
                   such
                   a
                   charming
                   Air
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   made
                   each
                   Part
                   appear
                   more
                   killing
                   fair
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   stratagems
                   of
                   Love
                   by
                   her
                   e'er
                   mist
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   had
                   I
                   pow'r
                   my
                   Ruin
                   to
                   resist
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   did
                   with
                   secret
                   Pleasure
                   entertain
                
                 
                   The
                   silent
                   and
                   the
                   smooth
                   delightfull
                   pain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Thus
                   one
                   bright
                   Maid
                   ,
                   but
                   yet
                   assisted
                   well
                
                 
                   With
                   such
                   Auxiliaries
                   ,
                   as
                   nought
                   could
                   quell
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   various
                   ways
                   storm'd
                   my
                   defenceless
                   Mind
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   did
                   one
                   Charm
                   the
                   least
                   resistance
                   find
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   by
                   down-right
                   ●orce
                   she
                   was
                   possest
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   ne'er
                   forsook
                   my
                   entertaining
                   Breast
                   .
                
                 
                   Once
                   seen
                   ,
                   her
                   beauteous
                   form
                   still
                   stay'd
                   with
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   day
                   and
                   night
                   dwelt
                   in
                   my
                   Memorie
                   .
                
                 
                   How
                   o●t
                   has
                   my
                   Imagination
                   brought
                
                 
                   Her
                   absent
                   Image
                   present
                   to
                   my
                   Thought
                   .
                
                 
                   Fix't
                   ,
                   and
                   intent
                   ,
                   how
                   oft
                   (
                   though
                   far
                   remov'd
                   )
                
                 
                   Have
                   I
                   suppos'd
                   I
                   talk'd
                   with
                   her
                   I
                   lov'd
                   .
                
                 
                   How
                   oft
                   with
                   Pleasure
                   would
                   my
                   Fancy
                   bring
                
                 
                   Those
                   Songs
                   to
                   mind
                   which
                   she
                   was
                   wont
                   to
                   sing
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   how
                   I
                   strove
                   my
                   Voice
                   ,
                   like
                   hers
                   ,
                   to
                   frame
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bin
                   delighted
                   as
                   it
                   were
                   the
                   same
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   I
                   my self
                   ,
                   against
                   my self
                   took
                   part
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   like
                   a
                   cheat
                   ,
                   play'd
                   booty
                   with
                   my
                   Heart
                   .
                
                 
                   How
                   oft
                   ,
                   alas
                   ,
                   have
                   my
                   own
                   Friends
                   believ'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   I
                   of
                   Sense
                   and
                   Reason
                   was
                   depriv'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   can
                   I
                   think
                   that
                   they
                   were
                   much
                   deceiv'd
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   For
                   neither
                   was
                   I
                   perfectly
                   compos'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   altogether
                   with
                   my
                   Frenzy
                   doz'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   't
                   is
                   a
                   mighty
                   trying
                   hardship
                   sure
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   stifled
                   secret
                   Passion
                   to
                   endure
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   furious
                   Rage
                   no
                   mortal
                   Breast
                   can
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   in
                   the
                   Countenance
                   it
                   will
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Though
                   never
                   so
                   reserv'd
                   ,
                   though
                   never
                   so
                   severe
                   .
                
                 
                   By
                   the
                   alternate
                   change
                   of
                   White
                   and
                   Red
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   true
                   Discovery
                   is
                   quickly
                   made
                   .
                
                 
                   Th'
                   affected
                   Face
                   do's
                   the
                   hid
                   thoughts
                   declare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Blushing
                   bespeaks
                   a
                   shame
                   ,
                   and
                   Paleness
                   fear
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   ev'n
                   my
                   Dreams
                   betray'd
                   my
                   Privacie
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Treach'rous
                   Dreams
                   did
                   faithless
                   prove
                   to
                   me
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   did
                   my
                   sad
                   Anxieties
                   reveal
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   cou'd
                   ev'n
                   Death
                   like
                   sleep
                   ,
                   my
                   Cares
                   conceal
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   when
                   my
                   Senses
                   all
                   inclin'd
                   to
                   Rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   by
                   
                     oblivious
                     slumbers
                  
                   were
                   possest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   then
                   my
                   conscious
                   Tongue
                   my
                   Guilt
                   con●est
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   As
                   on
                   the
                   Grass
                   ,
                   sleeping
                   I
                   once
                   was
                   lay'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Close
                   by
                   the
                   Father
                   of
                   my
                   lovely
                   Maid
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   while
                   He
                   thoughtless
                   slumber'd
                   by
                   my
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   in
                   my
                   Dreams
                   disturb'd
                   ,
                   aloud
                   I
                   cry'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hast
                   ,
                   hast
                   ,
                   my
                   Candida
                   ,
                   make
                   no
                   delay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   
                     secret
                     Love
                  
                   is
                   ruin'd
                   if
                   you
                   stay
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   see
                   ,
                   already
                   peeps
                   the
                   prying
                   Sun
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   w'
                   are
                   discovered
                   we
                   are
                   both
                   undone
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   envious
                   Light
                   will
                   our
                   
                     stol'n
                     Loves
                  
                   betray
                   ,
                
                 
                   Hast
                   ,
                   hast
                   ,
                   my
                   Candida
                   ,
                   make
                   hast
                   away
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Awak'd
                   at
                   this
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   a
                   strange
                   surprize
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   started
                   up
                   ,
                   and
                   scarce
                   believ'd
                   his
                   Eyes
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   for
                   his
                   Daughter
                   ,
                   search't
                   the
                   place
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   only
                   I
                   was
                   sleeping
                   on
                   the
                   ground
                   ;
                
                 
                   Gasping
                   and
                   panting
                   there
                   he
                   saw
                   me
                   lye
                   ,
                
                 
                   Transported
                   from
                   my self
                   with
                   Ecstasie
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   what
                   vain
                   Dreams
                   ,
                   said
                   he
                   ,
                   art
                   thou
                   possest
                   ?
                
                 
                   Or
                   has
                   a
                   real
                   Love
                   usurp'd
                   thy
                   Breast
                   ?
                
                 
                   And
                   so
                   thy
                   sleep
                   discovers
                   a
                   true
                   jest
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   waking
                   Objects
                   ,
                   I
                   indeed
                   conclude
                   ,
                
                 
                   Upon
                   thy
                   gentler
                   slumbers
                   may
                   intrude
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   
                     fleeting
                     Forms
                  
                   thy
                   Wishes
                   do
                   delude
                   .
                
                 
                   Astonish't
                   !
                   he
                   my
                   broken
                   Murmurs
                   watch't
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   each
                   imperfect
                   dropping
                   Sentence
                   catch't
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Gently
                   his
                   right
                   hand
                   on
                   my
                   Heart
                   he
                   lay'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   in
                   soft
                   Whispers
                   ,
                   more
                   inquiries
                   made
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   so
                   apply'd
                   ,
                   the
                   sly
                   Inquirers
                   Hand
                
                 
                   From
                   sleeping
                   Breasts
                   can
                   any
                   thing
                   command
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   loos'd
                   Tongue
                   do's
                   by
                   that
                   Charm
                   impart
                
                 
                   The
                   very
                   choicest
                   secrets
                   of
                   the
                   Heart
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   I
                   ,
                   who
                   did
                   so
                   long
                   my self
                   behave
                
                 
                   So
                   well
                   ,
                   and
                   seem'd
                   to
                   all
                   so
                   good
                   ,
                   so
                   grave
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   had
                   a
                   sober
                   Reputation
                   kept
                   ,
                
                 
                   My self
                   ,
                   at
                   last
                   ,
                   discover'd
                   ,
                   as
                   I
                   slept
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   now
                   has
                   my
                   whole
                   wretched
                   Life
                   been
                   free
                
                 
                   From
                   imipous
                   actions
                   ,
                   and
                   impuritie
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   can
                   I
                   say
                   I
                   did
                   these
                   Crimes
                   prevent
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   much
                   by
                   Vertue
                   ,
                   as
                   by
                   Accident
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   I
                   'm
                   Old
                   ,
                   and
                   want
                   the
                   strength
                   to
                   sin
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   pleases
                   me
                   my
                   Youth
                   hath
                   guiltless
                   been
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   what
                   just
                   Praise
                   deserv'dly
                   due
                   can
                   be
                
                 
                   To
                   Aged
                   Men
                   ,
                   that
                   they
                   from
                   Vice
                   are
                   free
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   't
                   is
                   not
                   choice
                   ,
                   but
                   meer
                   necessitie
                   ?
                
                 
                   Strength
                   only
                   sleeps
                   ,
                   but
                   Inclinations
                   wake
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   not
                   they
                   Vice
                   ,
                   but
                   Vice
                   do's
                   them
                   forsake
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Pleasure
                   deserts
                   their
                   unperforming
                   Years
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   leaves
                   them
                   fill'd
                   with
                   painfull
                   toils
                   ,
                   and
                   cares
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   are
                   but
                   glad
                   they
                   do
                   no
                   evil
                   fact
                   ,
                
                 
                   Only
                   because
                   they
                   want
                   the
                   Pow'r
                   to
                   act
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   worth
                   our
                   while
                   ,
                   if
                   we
                   consider
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   penalties
                   in
                   Age
                   we
                   undergo
                   ;
                
                 
                   How
                   that
                   ,
                   with
                   it
                   ,
                   a
                   slow
                   repentance
                   brings●
                
                 
                   For
                   all
                   our
                   youthfull
                   faults
                   ,
                   and
                   riotings
                   ;
                
                 
                   How
                   many
                   sighs
                   ,
                   and
                   groans
                   it
                   pays
                   ,
                   and
                   tears
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   dear-bought
                   Luxury
                   of
                   younger
                   years
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   though
                   Mankind
                   will
                   sometimes
                   strive
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Youth's
                   boyling
                   Heats
                   to
                   curb
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   restrain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Yet
                   oft-times
                   knowingly
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   much
                   skill
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   cunningly
                   persist
                   in
                   doing
                   Ill.
                
                 
                   W'
                   are
                   oft
                   industrious
                   ,
                   studious
                   ,
                   wise
                   ,
                   and
                   nice
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   the
                   performance
                   of
                   some
                   witty
                   Vice
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   Vice
                   sometimes
                   bears
                   us
                   by
                   force
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   oft
                   its
                   call
                   more
                   eas'ly
                   we
                   obey
                   .
                
                 
                   Oft
                   ,
                   though
                   we
                   cannot
                   compass
                   what
                   we
                   will
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   are
                   Well-wishers
                   to
                   some
                   pleasing
                   Ill.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 my
                 MISTRISS
                 .
              
               
                 Translated
                 out
                 of
                 Tibullus
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Nulla
                   tuum
                   nobis
                   subducet
                   foemina
                   lectum
                   ,
                   Hoc
                   primum
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   MY
                   Love
                   to
                   thee
                   no
                   Beauty
                   shall
                   betray
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   it
                   is
                   firmly
                   ●ix't
                   ,
                   and
                   cannot
                   stray
                   .
                
                 
                   None
                   ,
                   none
                   seems
                   fair
                   methinks
                   in
                   all
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   thee
                   ;
                   thou
                   pleasest
                   ,
                   and
                   delight'st
                   alone
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   wish
                   indeed
                   that
                   none
                   thy
                   Charms
                   could
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   they
                   were
                   undiscern'd
                   by
                   all
                   ,
                   but
                   me
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   might
                   I
                   love
                   with
                   some
                   securitie
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   wish
                   not
                   to
                   be
                   envy'd
                   ,
                   nor
                   desire
                
                 
                   That
                   any
                   should
                   my
                   blessed
                   state
                   admire
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Wise-man
                   loves
                   a
                   
                     secret
                     Happiness
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   to
                   be
                   publick
                   ,
                   makes
                   it
                   but
                   the
                   less
                   .
                
                 
                   "
                   With
                   thee
                   for
                   ever
                   I
                   in
                   Woods
                   would
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Where
                   never
                   humane
                   Foot
                   the
                   ground
                   has
                   prest
                   .
                
                 
                   Thou
                   who
                   forbid'st
                   Disquiets
                   to
                   intrude
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   Who
                   from
                   Nights-shades
                   the
                   Darkness
                   canst
                   exclude
                   ,
                
                 
                   "
                   And
                   from
                   a
                   Desert
                   banish
                   Solitude
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Shou'd
                   Heav'n
                   it self
                   conspire
                   to
                   change
                   my
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   send
                   me
                   down
                   a
                   Mistriss
                   from
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   Adorn'd
                   with
                   all
                   the
                   Beauties
                   of
                   the
                   Skies
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   she
                   would
                   attempt
                   to
                   charm
                   my
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   Venus
                   self
                   I
                   would
                   for
                   thee
                   despise
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   I
                   most
                   solemnly
                   by
                   Iuno
                   swear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   you
                   to
                   all
                   the
                   other
                   Gods
                   prefer
                   .
                
                 
                   Hold
                   ,
                   Mad-man
                   ,
                   hold
                   !
                   what
                   do
                   I
                   do
                   ?
                   what
                   say
                   ?
                
                 
                   But
                   I
                   have
                   sworn
                   ,
                   confest
                   ,
                   and
                   must
                   obey
                   .
                
                 
                   Fool
                   that
                   I
                   was
                   ,
                   my
                   Fear
                   has
                   led
                   me
                   on
                
                 
                   To
                   this
                   grand
                   senceless
                   indiscretion
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   thou
                   hast
                   conquer'd
                   ,
                   and
                   may'st
                   tyrannize
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   all
                   the
                   Pow'rs
                   of
                   thy
                   resistless
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   While
                   I
                   but
                   dote
                   the
                   more
                   :
                   Yes
                   ,
                   brainless
                   Sot
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   by
                   thy
                   foolish
                   babling
                   tongue
                   th'
                   ast
                   got
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   I
                   submit
                   ,
                   command
                   me
                   what
                   you
                   will
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   am
                   your
                   most
                   obedient
                   Servant
                   still
                   .
                
                 
                   Thy
                   hardest
                   Mandates
                   I
                   will
                   ne'er
                   refuse
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   delightfull
                   well-known
                   Bondage
                   chuse
                   .
                
                 
                   Only
                   to
                   Venus
                   Altars
                   I
                   'll
                   repair
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   my
                   Love
                   ,
                   and
                   there
                   my
                   Faith
                   declare
                   ;
                
                 
                   She
                   punishes
                   the
                   false
                   ,
                   the
                   just
                   do's
                   spare
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Agreement
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   CLose
                   by
                   a
                   Silver
                   Rivulet
                   ,
                
                 
                   Grac'd
                   with
                   rich
                   Willows
                   ,
                   mournfull
                   Daphne
                   sate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Leaning
                   her
                   melancholy
                   Head
                
                 
                   On
                   the
                   sad
                   Banks
                   o●
                   an
                   Enamell'd
                   Mead
                   ,
                
                 
                   O'er-charg'd
                   with
                   Griefs
                   her
                   Heart
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Eyes
                   o'er-charg'd
                   with
                   Tears
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   an
                   intolerable
                   smart
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   daily
                   pains
                   ,
                   and
                   nightly
                   fears
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   most
                   uncertain
                   hopes
                   ,
                   and
                   sure
                   despairs
                   ,
                
                 
                   'Gainst
                   Tyrant
                   Love
                   a
                   long
                   complaint
                   she
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   each
                   sad
                   Object
                   did
                   her
                   sorrows
                   aid
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   Then
                   Three-heart
                   rending
                   sighs
                   she
                   drew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Deeper
                   than
                   ever
                   Poet's
                   Fiction
                   knew
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   cruel
                   ,
                   cruel
                   Thyrsis
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   Why
                   thus
                   unkind
                   to
                   an
                   enamour'd
                   Maid
                   ?
                
                 
                   A
                   Maid
                   whose
                   Breast
                   abounds
                
                 
                   With
                   kindness
                   ,
                   that
                   can
                   move
                
                 
                   By
                   dire
                   ,
                   and
                   miserable
                   sounds
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Compliance
                   from
                   the
                   very
                   Grove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   my
                   Heart
                   labours
                   to
                   conceal
                   its
                   Love
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   oh
                   in
                   curst
                   Despair
                   first
                   let
                   me
                   dye
                   ,
                
                 
                   E'er
                   he
                   ,
                   by
                   loving
                   me
                   ,
                   ●inds
                   misery
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   Then
                   three
                   more
                   dismal
                   Groans
                   she
                   took
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   cruel
                   noise
                   ,
                   like
                   a
                   great
                   Earthquake
                   ,
                   shook
                
                 
                   The
                   neighbouring
                   Plebean
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   to
                   commiserate
                   her
                   sorrows
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   'll
                   tortur'd
                   be
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   more
                   I
                   'll
                   grieve
                   in
                   vain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Inrag'd
                   with
                   furious
                   Heat
                   ,
                   she
                   swore
                   ,
                
                 
                   These
                   silent
                   streams
                   shall
                   ease
                   my
                   pain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   'll
                   no
                   more
                   'gainst
                   him
                   ,
                   and
                   Love
                   complain
                   :
                
                 
                   Witness
                   these
                   lonely
                   Fields
                   ,
                   how
                   I
                   have
                   lov'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   for
                   his
                   sake
                   this
                   fatal
                   Med'cine
                   prov'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   IV.
                   
                
                 
                   Iust
                   with
                   thick
                   trouble
                   in
                   her
                   face
                   ,
                
                 
                   Descending
                   from
                   the
                   miserable
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thyrsis
                   ,
                   to
                   save
                   the
                   Nymph
                   appears
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Eyes
                   half
                   drown'd
                   with
                   over-flowing
                   Tears
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Thyrsis
                   (
                   alas
                   )
                   had
                   heard
                
                 
                   The
                   Maid
                   repeat
                   her
                   Woe
                   :
                
                 
                   Thyrsis
                   the
                   consequence
                   too
                   fear'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ah
                   ,
                   why
                   do'st
                   thou
                   my
                   Passion
                   know
                   ?
                
                 
                   (
                   Sad
                   Daphne
                   said
                   )
                   loose
                   me
                   ,
                   and
                   let
                   me
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   at
                   some
                   rest
                   ,
                   for
                   ever
                   I
                   may
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   not
                   despis'd
                   by
                   a
                   Triumphing
                   He.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   V.
                   
                
                 
                   Ah
                   ,
                   
                     Cruel
                     Nymph
                  
                   (
                   griev'd
                   Thyrsis
                   cries
                
                 
                   With
                   dolefull
                   Face
                   ,
                   and
                   lamentable
                   Eyes
                   )
                
                 
                   Cou'd
                   you
                   ,
                   O
                   cou'd
                   you
                   thus
                   undo
                
                 
                   A
                   Swain
                   ,
                   who
                   secretly
                   has
                   burnt
                   for
                   you
                   ?
                
                 
                   With
                   joy
                   she
                   stops
                   him
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   Brighter
                   her
                   Eyes
                   became
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   her
                   all-clouded
                   Face
                   grew
                   clear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   (
                   blushing
                   said
                   )
                   I
                   am
                   to
                   blame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   you
                   for
                   Daphne
                   had
                   a
                   private
                   flame
                   :
                
                 
                   Pleas'd
                   with
                   this
                   blest
                   discovery
                   ,
                   both
                   agree
                
                 
                   Their
                   
                     Mutual
                     Love
                  
                   no
                   more
                   conceal'd
                   shou'd
                   be
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 SONG
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   DAmon
                   to
                   Sylvia
                   ,
                   when
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Did
                   thus
                   express
                   his
                   Love
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fair
                   Nymph
                   ,
                   I
                   must
                   a
                   Passion
                   own
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   else
                   would
                   fatal
                   prove
                   .
                
                 
                   Can
                   you
                   a
                   faithfull
                   Shepherd
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   languishes
                   in
                   pain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   so
                   cruel-hearted
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   let
                   him
                   sue
                   in
                   vain
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   Then
                   with
                   his
                   Eyes
                   all
                   full
                   of
                   fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   winning
                   phrases
                   ,
                   he
                
                 
                   Intreated
                   her
                   to
                   ease
                   Desire
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   grant
                   some
                   Remedy
                   .
                
                 
                   Allur'd
                   with
                   
                     Am'rous
                     looks
                  
                   ,
                   the
                   Maid
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fearing
                   he
                   might
                   prevail
                   ,
                
                 
                   Begg'd
                   that
                   he
                   wou'd
                   no
                   more
                   perswade
                
                 
                   A
                   Virgin
                   that
                   was
                   frail
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   Fear
                   not
                   ,
                   dear
                   Nymph
                   ,
                   replyes
                   the
                   Swain
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   's
                   none
                   can
                   know
                   our
                   bliss
                   ;
                
                 
                   None
                   can
                   relate
                   our
                   Loves
                   again
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   this
                   place
                   silent
                   is
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Damon
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   lov'd
                   surprize
                   ,
                
                 
                   Leap't
                   close
                   into
                   her
                   Arms
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   
                     Ravishing
                     delights
                  
                   he
                   dyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   melts
                   with
                   thousand
                   charms
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 
                   Innocent
                   Discov'ry
                
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Air
                   was
                   calm
                   ,
                   the
                   Sky
                   serene
                   and
                   clear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Kindly
                   the
                   Lamps
                   of
                   Heaven
                   did
                   appear
                   .
                
                 
                   Faintly
                   their
                   Light
                   some
                   weak
                   Reflexes
                   made
                
                 
                   On
                   the
                   clos'd
                   Casements
                   ,
                   which
                   to
                   Eyes
                   betray'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nought
                   ,
                   but
                   a
                   
                     dying
                     Tapers
                  
                   glim'ring
                   light
                   ,
                
                 
                   Befitting
                   well
                   that
                   season
                   of
                   the
                   night
                   .
                
                 
                   Sleep
                   having
                   welcom'd
                   ev'ry
                   weary'd
                   limb●
                
                 
                   And
                   gentle
                   silence
                   waiting
                   upon
                   him
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Under
                   Olinda's
                   blest
                   Apartment
                   ,
                   I
                
                 
                   (
                   To
                   ease
                   my
                   never-ceasing
                   Malady
                   )
                
                 
                   Took
                   up
                   my
                   well-strung
                   Lute
                   ,
                   some
                   Ayrs
                   to
                   play
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ayrs
                   soft
                   as
                   sleep
                   ,
                   and
                   pleasing
                   as
                   the
                   day
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   On
                   silence
                   I
                   no
                   sooner
                   made
                   a
                   Breach
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   the
                   joy'd
                   Sound
                   her
                   sacred
                   Ears
                   did
                   reach
                   ;
                
                 
                   Willing
                   to
                   know
                   who
                   had
                   disturb'd
                   her
                   Rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Came
                   to
                   the
                   Window
                   like
                   Aurora
                   drest
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   splendour
                   ;
                   only
                   let
                   this
                   diff'rence
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   fair
                   Olinda
                   brighter
                   was
                   than
                   she
                   .
                
                 
                   Lest
                   I
                   should
                   see
                   her
                   (
                   Ah
                   ,
                   dear
                   Innocence
                   )
                
                 
                   Puts
                   out
                   the
                   Candle
                   ,
                   but
                   th'
                   Impertinence
                
                 
                   Of
                   the
                   vain
                   plot
                   did
                   make
                   me
                   wonder
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   I
                   beheld
                   her
                   plainer
                   than
                   before
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   only
                   had
                   remov'd
                   the
                   Moon
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   hinder'd
                   me
                   of
                   a
                   more
                   perfect
                   day
                   :
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Eclipse
                   ,
                   when
                   gone
                   ,
                   discover'd
                   to
                   my
                   sight
                
                 
                   A
                   better
                   prospect
                   of
                   the
                   Sun
                   's
                   strong
                   light
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 THE
                 PETITION
                 .
                 A
                 SONG
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   OH
                   use
                   me
                   gently
                   ,
                   since
                   I
                   am
                   your
                   slave
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Tyranize
                   o'er
                   Wretches
                   is
                   not
                   brave
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   tort'ring
                   me
                   ,
                   what
                   Glory
                   can
                   be
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   am
                   defenceless
                   ,
                   and
                   securely
                   bound
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   Tempt
                   not
                   your
                   Conquests
                   ,
                   &
                   your
                   Strength
                   too
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   use
                   your
                   Captive
                   with
                   a
                   wiser
                   care
                   ;
                
                 
                   Such
                   influence
                   will
                   your
                   kindness
                   have
                   on
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   I
                   shall
                   never
                   wish
                   for
                   libertie
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   The
                   wary
                   Shipwright
                   can't
                   by
                   force
                   reduce
                
                 
                   The
                   
                     sturdy
                     Oak
                  
                   to
                   his
                   more
                   pliant
                   use
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   gently
                   warms
                   it
                   by
                   an
                   easie
                   fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   it
                   yields
                   to
                   what
                   he
                   will
                   desire
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   IV.
                   
                
                 
                   For
                   Love
                   is
                   more
                   commanding
                   far
                   than
                   Hate
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Cruelty
                   Rebellion
                   will
                   create
                   .
                
                 
                   That
                   King
                   sits
                   always
                   safest
                   on
                   his
                   Throne
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   rules
                   his
                   Subjects
                   by
                   his
                   Love
                   alone
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 FATE
                 .
                 A
                 SONG
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   THou
                   know'st
                   (
                   my
                   Fair
                   )
                   how
                   much
                   I
                   love
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   my
                   flames
                   do
                   still
                   improve
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   they
                   still
                   burn
                   ,
                   and
                   still
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   bright
                   as
                   thy
                   dear
                   Eyes
                   are
                   clear
                   :
                
                 
                   Still
                   they
                   are
                   pure
                   as
                   the
                   first
                   Cause
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   swerve
                   they
                   from
                   the
                   very
                   Laws
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   
                     Womens
                     practices
                  
                   impose
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   ●irst
                   their
                   Humors
                   ,
                   since
                   their
                   Pride
                   has
                   chose
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   No
                   fault
                   in
                   all
                   my
                   Love
                   is
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   you
                   will
                   not
                   heal
                   my
                   Wound
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   I
                   tell
                   you
                   how
                   I
                   burn
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   will
                   vouchsafe
                   me
                   no
                   return
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   your
                   pity
                   I
                   implore
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   smile
                   to
                   see
                   my
                   
                     bleeding
                     sore
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   ,
                   though
                   a
                   Kiss
                   wou'd
                   do
                   the
                   Cure
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unkind
                   Graciana
                   lets
                   me
                   still
                   endure
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   For
                   this
                   what
                   reason
                   can
                   there
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Why
                   so
                   averse
                   to
                   Love
                   and
                   Me
                   :
                
                 
                   Alas
                   ,
                   too
                   late
                   ,
                   I
                   know
                   too
                   late
                
                 
                   The
                   strong
                   necessity
                   of
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   Woman
                   yet
                   was
                   ever
                   made
                
                 
                   To
                   Love
                   aright
                   ,
                   but
                   be
                   betray'd
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Men
                   ,
                   who
                   dote
                   on
                   them
                   ,
                   they
                   shun
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   the
                   Arms
                   of
                   the
                   indiff'rent
                   run
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 MY
                 RELIGION
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   ME
                   in
                   the
                   Church
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   true
                   ,
                   you
                   often
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   there
                   I
                   come
                   not
                   with
                   intent
                
                 
                   To
                   hear
                   a
                   thick-scull'd
                   Parson
                   vent
                
                 
                   His
                   phlegmatick
                   Divinitie
                   :
                
                 
                   No
                   ,
                   my
                   Graciana
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   to
                   look
                   on
                   thee
                   ;
                
                 
                   On
                   thee
                   I
                   gaze
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   thy
                   Eyes
                   find
                   sence
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beyond
                   the
                   Gown-man's
                   holy
                   Eloquence
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   what
                   has
                   his
                   dull
                   tale
                   of
                   Doom
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   horrid
                   things
                   to
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   doe
                   with
                   Love
                   ,
                   and
                   Thee
                   ,
                   which
                   I
                   alone
                
                 
                   For
                   my
                   
                     Established
                     Religion
                  
                   own
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   The
                   Croud
                   ,
                   nay
                   the
                   more
                   Learn'd
                   ,
                   and
                   Wise
                   ,
                   for
                   this
                
                 
                   Perhaps
                   will
                   me
                   an
                   Atheist
                   call
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   say
                   that
                   I
                   believe
                   no
                   God
                   at
                   all
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   oh
                   they
                   judge
                   ,
                   they
                   judge
                   amiss
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   wond'rously
                   themselves
                   deceive
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   I
                   a
                   mighty
                   Deity
                   believe
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   ten
                   thousand
                   Sighs
                   ,
                   as
                   many
                   Tears
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   painfull
                   Groans
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   incessant
                   Pray'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   a
                   due
                   Sacrifice
                   each
                   day
                   I
                   give
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   sometimes
                   ,
                   she
                   disdains
                   not
                   to
                   receive
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   one
                   kind
                   thing
                   from
                   her
                   weighs
                   more
                   with
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   all
                   their
                   
                     Bodies
                     of
                     Divinitie
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   With
                   much
                   more
                   sence
                   ,
                   indeed
                   they
                   may
                   ,
                
                 
                   Accuse
                   me
                   of
                   Idolatrie
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   I
                   to
                   you
                   that
                   Worship
                   pay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   only
                   Heav'n
                   shou'd
                   have
                   from
                   me
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   let
                   the
                   wisest
                   of
                   them
                   all
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   most
                   precise
                   ,
                   and
                   Pharisaical
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tell
                   me
                   ,
                   if
                   my
                   Graciana
                   wou'd
                   be
                   kind
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   holy
                   indignation
                   cou'd
                   they
                   find
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   pious
                   zeal
                   ,
                   what
                   sanctity
                   of
                   mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   guard
                   them
                   from
                   a
                   sin
                   so
                   charming
                   sweet
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   wou'd
                   fall
                   down
                   ,
                   and
                   worship
                   at
                   thy
                   feet
                   ;
                
                 
                   Striving
                   ,
                   like
                   me
                   ,
                   in
                   lasting
                   Verse
                   ,
                   to
                   raise
                
                 
                   Eternal
                   Trophies
                   to
                   thy
                   praise
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   IV.
                   
                
                 
                   For
                   ,
                   if
                   to
                   me
                   she
                   once
                   her
                   Love
                   wou'd
                   give
                   ,
                
                 
                   Graciana's
                   Name
                   shou'd
                   then
                   for
                   ever
                   live
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   each
                   proud
                   ,
                   and
                   swelling
                   line
                   ,
                
                 
                   Graciana's
                   Name
                   shou'd
                   like
                   rich
                   Iewels
                   shine
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   wou'd
                   it
                   less
                   avail
                   ,
                   to
                   make
                
                 
                   My
                   Verse
                   immortal
                   ,
                   as
                   her
                   Fame
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   consecrated
                   with
                   her
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   Men
                   wou'd
                   read
                   them
                   for
                   Graciana's
                   sake
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 KISS
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   OH
                   ,
                   take
                   not
                   this
                   sweet
                   Kiss
                   so
                   soon
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   on
                   these
                   Lips
                   let
                   me
                   for
                   ever
                   stay
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   Food
                   ,
                   Love's
                   Appetite
                   ,
                   can
                   ne'er
                   destroy
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   too
                   AEtherial
                   to
                   cloy
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Manna
                   ,
                   from
                   Indulgent
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   to
                   the
                   murm'ring
                   Iews
                   was
                   giv'n
                   ,
                
                 
                   Did
                   not
                   so
                   many
                   Delicates
                   afford
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   in
                   one
                   Kiss
                   of
                   thine
                   are
                   stor'd
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   it
                   resembles
                   something
                   more
                   Divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   that
                   above
                   ,
                   on
                   which
                   bright
                   Angels
                   Dine
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Where
                   ,
                   an
                   Eternal
                   Meal
                   by
                   them
                   's
                   enjoy'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   ,
                   with
                   glutted
                   fullness
                   ,
                   never
                   cloy'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   Me
                   therefore
                   do
                   not
                   you
                   deprive
                
                 
                   Of
                   my
                   Lifes
                   chief
                   preservative
                   ;
                
                 
                   Though
                   I
                   confess
                   that
                   it
                   affords
                   to
                   me
                
                 
                   More
                   than
                   a
                   bare
                   subsistencie
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   thy
                   dear
                   Kiss
                   ,
                   a
                   kind
                   of
                   tast
                   do's
                   give
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   all
                   the
                   blest
                   above
                   do
                   live
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   methinks
                   ,
                   when
                   e'er
                   I
                   joyn
                
                 
                   My
                   happy
                   Lips
                   to
                   sacred
                   thine
                   ;
                
                 
                   Am
                   with
                   the
                   joy
                   transported
                   so
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   perfectly
                   I
                   do
                   not
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whether
                   my
                   ravish'd
                   Soul
                   be
                   fled
                   ,
                   or
                   no
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   this
                   I
                   certainly
                   can
                   say
                   ,
                   I
                   feel
                
                 
                   Pleasures
                   that
                   are
                   unspeakable
                   .
                
                 
                   Tell
                   me
                   ,
                   Graciana
                   ,
                   prit●ee
                   doe
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   only
                   you
                   the
                   truth
                   can
                   know
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   on
                   thy
                   Lips
                   dwell
                   such
                   prevailing
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   thy
                   Kisses
                   such
                   delights
                   abound
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   Ecstasies
                   ,
                   what
                   Raptures
                   will
                   be
                   ●ound
                   ,
                
                 
                   Within
                   the
                   
                     Magick
                     Circle
                  
                   of
                   thy
                   Arms.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 WRACK
                 .
              
               
                 Set
                 by
                 Mr.
                 
                   G.
                   Hart.
                
                 
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   IN
                   vain
                   I
                   strive
                   ,
                   with
                   Buis'ness
                   ,
                   to
                   remove
                
                 
                   The
                   pleasing
                   Tormen●s
                   of
                   incroaching
                   Love
                   ;
                
                 
                   Drest
                   in
                   such
                   beauteous
                   Forms
                   ,
                   still
                   He
                   appears
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   sweet
                   Delusions
                   ,
                   charming
                   all
                   my
                   Fears
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   strongly
                   he
                   allures
                   ,
                   and
                   do's
                   invite
                
                 
                   To
                   follow
                   distant
                   Pleasures
                   ,
                   scarce
                   in
                   sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   his
                   dear
                   Witchcraft
                   I
                   want
                   strength
                   to
                   shun
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   yield
                   ,
                   with
                   vast
                   delight
                   ,
                   to
                   be
                   undone
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   Such
                   strange
                   Inchantments
                   the
                   sly
                   Boy
                   do's
                   use
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Chains
                   ,
                   before
                   my
                   Liberty
                   ,
                   I
                   chuse
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   though
                   my
                   Ruin
                   ,
                   I
                   before
                   me
                   spy
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   'd
                   perish
                   ,
                   rather
                   than
                   turn
                   back
                   to
                   fly
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   wretched
                   Sailers
                   ,
                   in
                   an
                   open
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   Treach'rous
                   Syrens
                   ,
                   led
                   an
                   unknown
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   See
                   the
                   ensuing
                   Storms
                   ,
                   their
                   Songs
                   create
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   want
                   the
                   Pow'r
                   t'
                   avoid
                   their
                   certain
                   Fate
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 TO
                 Mr
                 P.
                 Berault
                 UPON
                 HIS
                 FRENCH
                 GRAMMAR
                 .
              
               
                 
                   WHat
                   equal
                   Thanks
                   ?
                   what
                   Gratitude
                   is
                   due
                   ,
                
                 
                   Industrious
                   Friend
                   from
                   all
                   this
                   Isle
                   to
                   you
                   ?
                
                 
                   For
                   all
                   your
                   Labour
                   ,
                   all
                   your
                   Toil
                   ,
                   and
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   bringing
                   us
                   ,
                   from
                   France
                   ,
                   their
                   Language
                   here
                   :
                
                 
                   Their
                   Language
                   ,
                   which
                   is
                   sure
                   their
                   richest
                   store
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   each
                   Wise
                   man
                   do's
                   prize
                   ,
                   and
                   value
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   all
                   the
                   Goods
                   that
                   came
                   from
                   thence
                   before
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   Language
                   ,
                   which
                   do's
                   more
                   the
                   Wit
                   re●ine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   all
                   their
                   Modes
                   ,
                   than
                   all
                   their
                   sparkling
                   Wine
                
                 
                   And
                   this
                   thou
                   do'st
                   in
                   such
                   a
                   Method
                   teach
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   ev'n
                   the
                   least
                   Capacity
                   may
                   reach
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   By
                   such
                   plain
                   rules
                   ,
                   and
                   axiom●
                   thou
                   dost
                   show
                
                 
                   The
                   Pronunciation
                   ,
                   none
                   could
                   better
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   Did
                   they
                   to
                   France
                   for
                   their
                   Instruction
                   go
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   us
                   ,
                   thou
                   mak'st
                   ,
                   by
                   this
                   ,
                   their
                   Learning
                   known
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   th'
                   Original
                   't
                   is
                   all
                   our
                   own
                   :
                
                 
                   Translators
                   oft
                   unfaithfull
                   ,
                   and
                   unjust
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   second-hand
                   we
                   need
                   no
                   longer
                   trust
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   in
                   their
                   prim'tive
                   Beauty
                   we
                   may
                   see
                
                 
                   The
                   famous
                   Boileau
                   ,
                   and
                   Sieur
                   Scudery
                   ;
                
                 
                   Now
                   those
                   two
                   mighty
                   Wits
                   we
                   may
                   caress
                
                 
                   In
                   their
                   own
                   Elegant
                   ,
                   and
                   Native
                   Dress
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   learn
                   from
                   them
                   ,
                   bright
                   Ladies
                   how
                   to
                   praise
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   softest
                   Language
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   smoothest
                   Phrase
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   French
                   alone
                   so
                   easie
                   is
                   ,
                   and
                   free
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   sweetly
                   gentle
                   ,
                   that
                   it
                   seems
                   to
                   be
                
                 
                   At
                   ●irst
                   design'd
                   for
                   ,
                   and
                   contriv'd
                   by
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   th'
                   only
                   Charm
                   ,
                   a
                   scornfull
                   Nymph
                   to
                   move
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   sur●
                   our
                   rambling
                   Youth
                   will
                   stay
                   at
                   home
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   wantonly
                   so
                   oft
                   to
                   Paris
                   roam
                   ,
                
                 
                   Under
                   pretext
                   to
                   learn
                   the
                   Language
                   there
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   you
                   instruct
                   them
                   so
                   much
                   better
                   here
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   They
                   need
                   no
                   more
                   tempt
                   the
                   unfaithfull
                   Seas
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   what
                   your
                   Grammar
                   teaches
                   (
                   if
                   they
                   please
                   )
                
                 
                   With
                   much
                   less
                   charge
                   at
                   home
                   ,
                   &
                   much
                   more
                   ease
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   ,
                   therefore
                   ,
                   from
                   thy
                   care
                   we
                   hope
                   to
                   gain
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   thy
                   Endeavours
                   may
                   those
                   Sparks
                   detain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   roving
                   Minds
                   lead
                   them
                   to
                   France
                   from
                   hence
                   ,
                
                 
                   Meerly
                   (
                   forsooth
                   ,
                   under
                   the
                   slight
                   pretence
                
                 
                   Of
                   Courtly
                   Breeding
                   ,
                   Carriage
                   ,
                   Wit
                   ,
                   and
                   Sence
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   To
                   learn
                   the
                   Affectation
                   of
                   the
                   Proud
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   noise
                   ,
                   and
                   nonsence
                   of
                   the
                   Vain
                   ,
                   and
                   Loud
                   ;
                
                 
                   Foisting
                   upon
                   some
                   easie
                   Coxcombs
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   Those
                   cast
                   of
                   Vices
                   which
                   they
                   pickt
                   up
                   there
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 SONG
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   EVadne
                   ,
                   I
                   must
                   tell
                   you
                   so
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   are
                   too
                   cruel
                   grown
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   smiles
                   nor
                   pity
                   you
                   bestow
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Death
                   in
                   ev'ry
                   frown
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Love
                   ,
                   though
                   chast
                   and
                   cons●ant
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   no
                   relief
                   can
                   ●ind
                   ;
                
                 
                   Curst
                   be
                   the
                   slave
                   that
                   's
                   false
                   to
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   Though
                   you
                   are
                   still
                   unkind
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   Were
                   you
                   as
                   mercifull
                   as
                   fair
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   wishes
                   wou'd
                   obtain
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   love
                   I
                   must
                   ,
                   though
                   I
                   despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   perish
                   in
                   the
                   pain
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   in
                   an
                   Age
                   I
                   can
                   prevail
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   happy
                   then
                   shall
                   be
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   cou'd
                   I
                   live
                   ,
                   I
                   wou'd
                   not
                   fail
                
                 
                   To
                   wait
                   Eternally
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 same
                 SONG
                 Inverted
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 Mr.
                 Walker
                 .
              
               
                 
                   EVadne
                   ,
                   I
                   must
                   let
                   you
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Cruelty
                   is
                   vain
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   if
                   you
                   will
                   no
                   smiles
                   bestow
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   scorn
                   your
                   proud
                   disdain
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   since
                   my
                   Love
                   ,
                   though
                   pure
                   and
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   just
                   relief
                   can
                   find
                   ;
                
                 
                   Curst
                   be
                   that
                   Fool
                   shall
                   dote
                   on
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   you
                   are
                   still
                   unkind
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   Were
                   you
                   as
                   gentle
                   as
                   you
                   're
                   fair
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   'd
                   strive
                   your
                   Love
                   to
                   gain
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   I
                   can
                   n●ver
                   court
                   Despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   cherish
                   ne●dless
                   pain
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   in
                   a
                   Week
                   I
                   cou'd
                   prevail
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   I
                   might
                   happy
                   be
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   Love
                   and
                   Patience
                   ,
                   both
                   will
                   fail
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   wait
                   Eternally
                   .
                
              
            
          
           
             
             
               The
               Five
               following
               Copies
               done
               by
               Mr.
               
                 C.
                 G.
              
               of
               AEton-Colledge
               .
            
             
               
                 A
                 Paraphrase
                 on
                 the
                 23d
                 Idyll
                 .
                 of
                 Theocritus
                 ,
                 from
                 the
                 beginning
                 ,
                 to
                 
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   AN
                   Amorous
                   little
                   Swain
                
                 
                   Was
                   set
                   to
                   keep
                
                 
                   His
                   Father's
                   goodly
                   Flock
                   of
                   Sheep
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Fed
                   in
                   a
                   Common
                   that
                   belong'd
                   to
                   Pan
                   ,
                
                 
                   About
                   the
                   middle
                   of
                   th'
                   
                     Arcadian
                     Plain
                  
                   .
                   )
                
                 
                   By
                   chance
                   a
                   noble
                   Youth
                   came
                   by
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   when
                   his
                   sparkling
                   Eyes
                   did
                   spy
                
                 
                   His
                   watchfull
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   there
                   stood
                   Centinel
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   did
                   perform
                   their
                   office
                   well
                   ;
                
                 
                   Stoutly
                   prepar'd
                   for
                   every
                   quick
                   surprize
                   .
                
                 
                   Marking
                   the
                   Beauty
                   of
                   his
                   Angel's
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mix't
                   with
                   sweet
                   carriage
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   heavenly
                   grace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Well
                   satisfy'd
                   ,
                   they
                   let
                   him
                   pass
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Who
                   having
                   got
                   admittance
                   ,
                   did
                   impart
                
                 
                   The
                   fatal
                   secret
                   to
                   his
                   wounded
                   heart
                   .
                
                 
                   Charm'd
                   with
                   the
                   Youth
                   he
                   was
                   that
                   Fate
                   had
                   thither
                   brought
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Beauty
                   did
                   surpass
                   desire
                   or
                   thought
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   making
                   whom
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nature
                   for
                   once
                   did
                   thus
                   presume
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   go
                   beyond
                   her
                   Last
                   ,
                   to
                   place
                
                 
                   On
                   a
                   
                     Man's
                     shoulders
                  
                   a
                   fair
                   
                     Womans
                     face
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   rather
                   to
                   adorn
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   more
                   than
                   heav'nly
                   beauty
                   a
                   
                     Terrestial
                     Form.
                  
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   But
                   ah
                   !
                   his
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   like
                   his
                   Angel
                   Face
                   ,
                   proud
                   ,
                   scornfull
                   ,
                   &
                   unkind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Despising
                   those
                   whom
                   Passion
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whom
                   unresisted
                   Passion
                   mov'd
                
                 
                   To
                   highest
                   admiration
                   ;
                
                 
                   Those
                   who
                   disdain'd
                   him
                   most
                   ,
                   he
                   greatly
                   lov'd
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   knew
                   not
                   ,
                   nor
                   did
                   he
                   desire
                   to
                   know
                
                 
                   What
                   Cupid
                   meant
                   ,
                   his
                   Arrows
                   ,
                   or
                   his
                   Bow
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   oft
                   ,
                   how
                   usually
                   he
                   throws
                
                 
                   A
                   Golden
                   Dart
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   wound
                   the
                   Heart
                
                 
                   Of
                   those
                
                 
                 
                   Who
                   most
                   unconquerable
                   seem
                   ,
                
                 
                   Iear
                   at
                   his
                   Godship
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Power
                   contemn
                   .
                
                 
                   Cruel
                   in
                   deed
                   and
                   word
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   never
                   the
                   least
                   comfort
                   would
                   discover
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   one
                   cool
                   drop
                   of
                   ease
                   afford
                
                 
                   To
                   a
                   despairing
                   ,
                   burning
                   ,
                   dying
                   Lover
                   .
                
                 
                   Choler
                   and
                   anger
                   in
                   his
                   Entrails
                   boils
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   pleasant
                   smiles
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   
                     rosie
                     Lips
                  
                   ,
                   nor
                   
                     blushing
                     Cheeks
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   languish't
                   Eyes
                   that
                   might
                   betray
                
                 
                   An
                   inward
                   fondness
                   ,
                   and
                   might
                   seem
                   to
                   say
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   will
                   thy
                   mutual
                   love
                   repay
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   comfortable
                   words
                   he
                   speaks
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   suffers
                   me
                   to
                   ravish
                   one
                   kind
                   kiss
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   entrance
                   to
                   a
                   future
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   perfect
                   bliss
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   as
                   a
                   
                     Chased
                     Boar
                  
                
                 
                   With
                   Vengeance
                   looks
                   upon
                   his
                   
                     Hunter's
                     Spear
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   Sets
                   up
                   his
                   Bristles
                   on
                   his
                   back
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   roaring
                   makes
                
                 
                   The
                   Forrest
                   all
                   around
                   ,
                   and
                   every
                   Creature
                   quake
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   he
                   beholds
                   the
                   Swain
                
                 
                   With
                   desp'rate
                   fury
                   and
                   disdain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Adding
                   more
                   fuel
                   to
                   his
                   never-dying
                   flame
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   Disdain
                   did
                   make
                   his
                   Countenance
                   turn
                   pale
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   his
                   other
                   Charms
                   begin
                   to
                   fail
                   ;
                
                 
                   Anger
                   did
                   banish
                   every
                   Grace
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   dominions
                   of
                   his
                   lovely
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVhilst
                   cruel
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   and
                   harder
                   Heart
                   took
                   place
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   still
                   the
                   Shepherd
                   finds
                   no
                   Arms
                
                 
                   Fit
                   to
                   resist
                   these
                   languishing
                   ,
                   these
                   fainting
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Angel
                   sweetness
                   he
                   must
                   still
                   adore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Troubled
                   that
                   he
                   could
                   manifest
                   his
                   Love
                   no
                   more
                   .
                
                 
                   Alas
                   !
                   how
                   vain
                   and
                   useless
                   all
                   things
                   prove
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVhen
                   enter'd
                   in
                   Damn'd
                   Cupid's
                   School
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVe
                   learn
                   his
                   Precepts
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Rules
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVhen
                   shackled
                   in
                   the
                   chains
                   of
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   Turn
                   ●ashionable
                   fools
                   ;
                
                 
                   VVe
                   scarce
                   can
                   call
                   our selves
                   our
                   own
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   our
                   affections
                   pay
                   obeisance
                   to
                   anothers
                   Crown
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   IV.
                   
                
                 
                   No
                   longer
                   able
                   to
                   contain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Though
                   all
                   was
                   needless
                   ,
                   all
                   in
                   vain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Tears
                   ,
                   like
                   a
                   mighty
                   Flood
                   ,
                
                 
                   Did
                   over-flow
                   their
                   Banks
                   ,
                   and
                   drown'd
                
                 
                   Th'
                   adjacent
                   Barren
                   ,
                   fruitless
                   ,
                   famish'd
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Trembling
                   with
                   fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   last
                   he
                   ventur'd
                   to
                   draw
                   near
                   ,
                
                 
                   VVhere
                   all
                   in
                   Glory
                   stood
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   object
                   of
                   his
                   Love
                   ,
                   the
                   cause
                   of
                   his
                   Despair
                   .
                
                 
                   First
                   he
                   presumes
                   to
                   kiss
                
                 
                   The
                   sacred
                   ground
                   whereon
                   he
                   trod
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   hopes
                   of
                   ●uture
                   happiness
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   all
                   wou'd
                   do
                   no
                   good
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   strove
                   to
                   speak
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   ah
                   !
                   Disdain
                   and
                   Fear
                   his
                   forwardness
                   did
                   check
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   made
                   his
                   half-out
                   lisping
                   words
                   draw
                   back
                   .
                
                 
                   Forcing
                   himself
                   at
                   last
                   ,
                   stutters
                   such
                   words
                   as
                   these
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   V.
                   
                
                 
                   O
                   cruel
                   ,
                   inexorable
                   ,
                   stony
                   Saint
                   ,
                
                 
                   Blind
                   to
                   my
                   Tears
                   ,
                   and
                   Dea●
                   to
                   my
                   Complaint
                   ;
                
                 
                   Sure
                   of
                   some
                   Lyoness
                   ,
                   or
                   Tyger
                   born
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unworthy
                   of
                   my
                   Love
                   ,
                   as
                   I
                   unworthy
                   of
                   your
                   scorn
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   gratefull
                   Gift
                   to
                   you
                   I
                   bring
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   welcomest
                   the
                   only
                   thing
                
                 
                   That
                   now
                   at
                   present
                   do's
                   remain
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   ease
                   me
                   of
                   my
                   pain
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   ease
                   me
                   of
                   my
                   Love
                   ,
                   and
                   you
                   of
                   your
                   Disdain
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   lo
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   willingly
                   I
                   go
                   ;
                
                 
                   How
                   willingly
                   I
                   go
                   ,
                   where
                   you
                
                 
                   By
                   your
                   unkindness
                   ,
                   destin
                   me
                   unto
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   go
                   where
                   every
                   
                     Love-sick
                     Mind
                  
                
                 
                   Is
                   us'd
                   ,
                   an
                   universal
                   Remedy
                   to
                   find
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   place
                   is
                   call'd
                   
                     Oblivion's
                     Land
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Lake
                   call'd
                   Lethe
                   in
                   th'
                   midst
                   do's
                   stand
                   :
                
                 
                   VVhich
                   were
                   it
                   possible
                   that
                   I
                   could
                   dry
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   flames
                   unquenchable
                   I
                   still
                   should
                   fry
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   cou'd
                   I
                   yet
                   forget
                   thy
                   Name
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   oft
                   have
                   I
                   repeated
                   o'er
                   the
                   same
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   find
                   ,
                   alas
                   !
                   no
                   liquor
                   that
                   can
                   quench
                   my
                   flame
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   V.
                   
                
                 
                   Adieu
                   !
                   lov'd
                   Youth
                   ,
                   eternally
                   adieu
                   !
                
                 
                   But
                   scornfull
                   fair
                   first
                   know
                   what
                   doom
                   ,
                
                 
                   Undoubtedly
                   shall
                   on
                   your
                   Beauty
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   my
                   dying
                   mouth
                   believe
                   it
                   true
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   pleasant
                   Day
                   ,
                   alas
                   !
                   is
                   quickly
                   gon
                   ,
                
                 
                   Flowers
                   in
                   th'
                   Morning
                   fresh
                   cut
                   down
                   by
                   Noon
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   blushing
                   Rose
                   do's
                   fade
                   ,
                   and
                   wither
                   soon
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   White
                   Snow
                   do's
                   melt
                   before
                   the
                   scorching
                   Sun
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   youthfull
                   Beauty's
                   full
                   of
                   charms
                   ,
                   but
                   all
                   are
                   quickly
                   gon
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   time
                   will
                   come
                   when
                   you
                   your self
                   will
                   prove
                
                 
                   How
                   great
                   a
                   Deity
                   is
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Charm'd
                   by
                   some
                   beauteous
                   she
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   'll
                   offer
                   up
                   your
                   sacrifice
                   of
                   Tears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   weary
                   her
                   with
                   your
                   continual
                   Prayers
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   Night
                   you
                   'll
                   sigh
                   ,
                   and
                   pine
                   ,
                   by
                   Day
                   you
                   'll
                   woo
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   all
                   's
                   in
                   vain
                   that
                   you
                   can
                   doe
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   greater
                   pity
                   will
                   you
                   find
                   ,
                   than
                   I
                   from
                   you
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   will
                   your
                   Conscience
                   bring
                   Me
                   into
                   mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   to
                   delight
                   ,
                   but
                   serve
                   you
                   in
                   your
                   kind
                   ;
                
                 
                   My
                   restless
                   Ghost
                   shall
                   come
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   to
                   cry
                   Ah!
                   but
                   Io
                   !
                   at
                   your
                   doom
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   VI.
                   
                
                 
                   However
                   grant
                   me
                   this
                   ,
                   ev'n
                   this
                   at
                   least
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   'll
                   ask
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                   but
                   grant
                   me
                   this
                   request
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   when
                   thou
                   passest
                   by
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   woul'st
                   not
                   let
                   me
                   unregarded
                   lye
                   ,
                
                 
                   Seeing
                   the
                   fatal
                   Dagger
                   in
                   my
                   Breast
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   come
                   ,
                   and
                   grieve
                   ,
                   and
                   weep
                   a
                   while
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   ask
                   not
                   (
                   what
                   I
                   once
                   so
                   much
                   desir'd
                   )
                   one
                   smile
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   pull
                   the
                   Dagger
                   from
                   the
                   Wound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   close
                   ,
                   and
                   close
                   embrace
                   me
                   round
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Mantle
                   o'er
                   my
                   liveless
                   Body
                   spread
                   ,
                
                 
                   Give
                   me
                   one
                   kiss
                   ,
                   one
                   kiss
                   ,
                   when
                   I
                   am
                   dead
                   :
                
                 
                   I
                   ask
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                   O
                   grant
                   me
                   this
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   thou
                   may'st
                   joyn
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Lips
                   to
                   mine
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   seal
                   them
                   with
                   a
                   meeting
                   ,
                   
                     parting
                     kiss
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   forc'd
                   by
                   thy
                   unkindness
                   I
                   am
                   fled
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   need'st
                   not
                   fear
                   that
                   I
                   can
                   then
                   revive
                   ,
                
                 
                   Though
                   such
                   a
                   kiss
                   cou'd
                   almost
                   raise
                   to
                   life
                   .
                
                 
                   Hew
                   me
                   a
                   stately
                   Tomb
                   to
                   be
                   my
                   Bed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   Love
                   and
                   I
                   may
                   lay
                   our
                   head
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   leave
                   me
                   ,
                   after
                   thou
                   hast
                   three
                   times
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Friend
                   ,
                   my
                   
                     dearest
                     Friend
                  
                   on
                   Earth
                   is
                   dead
                   ;
                
                 
                   O
                   
                     cruel
                     Death
                  
                   ,
                   that
                   canst
                   us
                   two
                   divide
                   ;
                
                 
                   My
                   friend
                   ,
                   my
                   friend
                   ,
                   would
                   God
                   that
                   I
                   ●or
                   thee
                   had
                   dy'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Write
                   this
                   Inscription
                   (
                   since
                   they
                   are
                   in
                   fashion
                   )
                
                 
                   To
                   show
                   how
                   base
                   your
                   scorn
                   ,
                   how
                   excellent
                   my
                   passion
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   lyes
                   a
                   Lover
                   ,
                   kill'd
                   by
                   Deep
                   Despair
                   ;
                
                 
                   Stay
                   ,
                   Reader
                   ,
                   stay
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   only
                   be
                   so
                   kind
                   to
                   say
                   ,
                
                 
                   Alas
                   ,
                   He
                   lov'd
                   ;
                   Alas
                   ,
                   He
                   lov'd
                   a
                   
                     Cruel
                     Fair.
                  
                   
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 CHORUS
                 I.
                 Of
                 Seneca's
                 Agamemnon
                 .
              
               
                 
                   FOrtune
                   ,
                   thou
                   setter
                   up
                   of
                   Kings
                   ,
                
                 
                   Upon
                   whose
                   smiles
                   or
                   frowns
                
                 
                   Depends
                   the
                   standing
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   fall
                   of
                   Crowns
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   various
                   Chances
                   Fortune
                   brings
                   ?
                
                 
                   Mounting
                   on
                   deceitfull
                   Wings
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   lifteth
                   Kings
                   on
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   Wings
                   of
                   Dignity
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   leaves
                   them
                   all
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tells
                   them
                   she
                   must
                   be
                   gone
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   let
                   them
                   stand
                   ,
                   or
                   ●all
                   ,
                   or
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Wings
                   spread
                   out
                   ,
                   away
                   she
                   flies
                   .
                
                 
                   Fortune
                   ,
                   how
                   canst
                   thou
                   cheat
                   us
                   so
                
                 
                   With
                   naughty
                   Goods
                   ,
                   yet
                   make
                   a
                   show
                
                 
                   Of
                   honest
                   Ware
                   ;
                   thou
                   do'st
                   desire
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Goods
                   shou'd
                   rich
                   ,
                   and
                   gay
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Though
                   they
                   be
                   truly
                   little
                   worth
                   ,
                   and
                   truly
                   very
                   dear
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   not
                   the
                   Scepter
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   bearing
                   sway
                   ,
                
                 
                   Can
                   cares
                   and
                   troubles
                   drive
                   away
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   One
                   trouble
                   on
                   anothers
                   neck
                   do's
                   come
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   first
                   retreats
                   ,
                   another
                   takes
                   his
                   room
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   raging
                   Sea
                   contends
                
                 
                   For
                   passage
                   through
                   the
                   Sands
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   skipping
                   Waves
                   do
                   beat
                   and
                   roar
                   ,
                
                 
                   Falling
                   from
                   a
                   lofty
                   shoar
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   Fortune
                   head-long
                   throws
                   ,
                
                 
                   Chances
                   of
                   Kings
                   ,
                   and
                   those
                
                 
                   That
                   are
                   exalted
                   unto
                   dignitie
                   .
                
                 
                   Kings
                   wou'd
                   be
                   feared
                   ,
                   yet
                   we
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   fear
                   ,
                   lest
                   they
                   that
                   fear
                   them
                   shou'd
                   use
                   treacherie
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   not
                   the
                   Night
                   can
                   give
                   them
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Hearts
                   with
                   slavish
                   fear
                   are
                   prest
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   can
                   sweet
                   sleep
                   expell
                   the
                   care
                
                 
                   Of
                   them
                   ,
                   whose
                   Minds
                   unquiet
                   are
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   Pallace
                   is
                   not
                   quickly
                   brought
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   Prince's
                   Wickedness
                   ,
                   to
                   nought
                   ?
                
                 
                   VVhat
                   Tower
                   do's
                   not
                   impious
                   Arms
                
                 
                   VVeary
                   ,
                   with
                   continual
                   harms
                   ?
                
                 
                   All
                   Law
                   and
                   Modesty
                   is
                   fled
                   the
                   Court
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   ties
                   of
                   sacred
                   Wedlock
                   there
                   resort
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   IV.
                   
                
                 
                   But
                   desperate
                   Bellona
                   stands
                
                 
                   With
                   quavering
                   Spear
                   ,
                   and
                   bloody
                   hands
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   stands
                   Erinnys
                   too
                   ,
                   beside
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Punisher
                   of
                   Courtly
                   Pride
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   always
                   waiteth
                   at
                   the
                   door
                
                 
                   Of
                   such
                   as
                   swell
                   in
                   Wealth
                   and
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   lay
                   them
                   level
                   every
                   hour
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   suppose
                   there
                   shou'd
                   be
                   peace
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   th'
                   ills
                   pre-mention'd
                   all
                   shou'd
                   cease
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   V.
                   
                
                 
                   Still
                   things
                   that
                   are
                   so
                   high
                   ,
                   and
                   great
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   over-turn'd
                   by
                   their
                   own
                   weight
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   Sails
                   be
                   blown
                   by
                   prosp'rous
                   Wind
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   fear
                   those
                   Gales
                   shou'd
                   prove
                   unkind
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Auster
                   smites
                   the
                   Tower
                   that
                   shrouds
                
                 
                   His
                   lofty
                   top
                   among
                   the
                   Clouds
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   little
                   Shrubs
                   ,
                   in
                   shades
                   that
                   spread
                   ,
                
                 
                   Do
                   see
                   the
                   tall
                   and
                   ancient
                   Oak
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   blasting
                   Boreas
                   oft
                   has
                   shook
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lie
                   fall'n
                   on
                   th'
                   Ground
                   ,
                   wither'd
                   and
                   dead
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Flashes
                   of
                   Lightning
                   smite
                   the
                   Mountains
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Great
                     Bodies
                  
                   open
                   to
                   diseases
                   lie
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Among
                   the
                   Herd's
                   ,
                   Kine
                   that
                   are
                   fat
                   ,
                   and
                   best
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   chose
                   for
                   slaughter
                   out
                   from
                   all
                   the
                   rest
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   ever
                   tott'ring
                   Fortune
                   do's
                   exalt
                   ,
                
                 
                   Has
                   only
                   Crutches
                   lent
                   to
                   learn
                   to
                   halt
                   .
                
                 
                   Low
                   ,
                   mean
                   ,
                   and
                   mod'rate
                   things
                   bear
                   longest
                   date
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Man
                   is
                   ●ruly
                   ,
                   and
                   is
                   only
                   Great
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   lives
                   contented
                   with
                   a
                   mean
                   Estate
                   .
                
                 
                   Thrice
                   happy
                   is
                   the
                   Man
                   ,
                   whose
                   Means
                   do
                   lye
                
                 
                   Above
                   ,
                   or
                   else
                   below
                   curst
                   Fortune's
                   eye
                   ;
                
                 
                   Too
                   low
                   for
                   Envy
                   ,
                   for
                   Contempt
                   too
                   high
                   .
                
              
               
                 C.
                 G.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 THE
                 PENITENT
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   BY
                   Heav'n
                   !
                   't
                   is
                   scarce
                   ten
                   days
                   ago
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   to
                   my self
                   I
                   made
                   a
                   Vow
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   I
                   wou'd
                   never
                   have
                   to
                   do
                
                 
                   With
                   Duserastes
                   more
                   ;
                
                 
                   Till
                   Wine
                   ,
                   and
                   Love
                   ,
                   and
                   Ease
                   complying
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bore
                   down
                   before
                   'em
                   all
                   denying
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   having
                   his
                   Perfections
                   ,
                   told
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   Made
                   me
                   break
                   the
                   Oath
                   I
                   swore
                   ;
                
                 
                   Threw
                   me
                   head-long
                   to
                   his
                   Arms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   tasting
                   of
                   his
                   usual
                   charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Resolution
                   can
                   with-hold
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   who
                   but
                   Duserastes
                   in
                   my
                   eye
                   ;
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   by
                   his
                   smiles
                   I
                   live
                   ,
                   and
                   by
                   his
                   frowns
                   I
                   dye
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   Your
                   
                     Sunny
                     Face
                  
                   ,
                   through
                   
                     Cloudy
                     Frowns
                  
                   ,
                   in
                   vain
                
                 
                   Wou'd
                   make
                   my
                   
                     Gazing
                     Eyes
                  
                   abstain
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   I
                   as
                   soon
                   can
                   cease
                   to
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   cease
                   to
                   Love
                   ,
                   and
                   gaze
                   on
                   thee
                   ;
                
                 
                   Here
                   cou'd
                   I
                   take
                   up
                   mine
                   Eternitie
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   As
                   well
                   one
                   may
                
                 
                   Touch
                   
                     flaming
                     Coals
                  
                   ,
                   or
                   with
                   a
                   Serpent
                   play
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   receive
                   no
                   harm
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   look
                   on
                   you
                   unmoved
                   by
                   your
                   Charms
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   my
                   part
                   ,
                   I
                   am
                   forc'd
                   to
                   lay
                   down
                   Arms
                   ;
                
                 
                   Although
                   I
                   'm
                   fain
                
                 
                   To
                   be
                   content
                   with
                   nothing
                   but
                   disdain
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   since
                   those
                   things
                   are
                   cheap
                   ,
                   we
                   easily
                   obtain
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   am
                   content
                   a
                   while
                   to
                   live
                   upon
                   despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Iust
                   as
                   Chamelions
                   do
                   on
                   Air.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   I
                   play
                   and
                   dally
                   on
                   Hells
                   brink
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   I
                   perceive
                   my self
                   begin
                   to
                   sink
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   scorch
                   my self
                   too
                   near
                   so
                   great
                   a
                   fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   so
                   am
                   forced
                   to
                   retire
                   .
                
                 
                   Anon
                   forgetfull
                   of
                   my
                   former
                   burn
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   must
                   again
                   ,
                   I
                   must
                   again
                   return
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   do's
                   the
                   little
                   Gnat
                   ,
                   by
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fly
                   round
                   ,
                   and
                   round
                   ,
                   the
                   Candles
                   light
                   ,
                
                 
                   Untill
                   its
                   busie
                   daring
                   Wing
                
                 
                   Too
                   near
                   such
                   heat
                   begins
                   to
                   singe
                   ;
                
                 
                   Yet
                   still
                   unmindfull
                   of
                   the
                   smart
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   must
                   ,
                   she
                   will
                   repeat
                   her
                   former
                   sport
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   IV.
                   
                
                 
                   Hence
                   ,
                   hence
                   ,
                   
                     Heroick
                     Muse
                  
                   ,
                   adieu
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   I
                   must
                   take
                   my
                   leave
                   of
                   you
                   ;
                
                 
                   Love
                   ,
                   that
                   usurps
                   the
                   Rule
                   of
                   my
                   Poetick
                   Vein
                   ,
                
                 
                   Forbids
                   Calliope's
                   Heroick
                   strain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Charges
                   me
                   nothing
                   to
                   endite
                   ,
                
                 
                   Concerning
                   this
                   or
                   t'other
                   fight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   of
                   the
                   Scythian
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   Parthian
                   War
                   to
                   write
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unless
                   to
                   beautifie
                   my
                   Poetry
                   ,
                
                 
                   Those
                   stories
                   to
                   my
                   Love
                   I
                   fitly
                   wou'd
                   apply
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   methinks
                   I
                   feign
                
                 
                   My self
                   an
                   honest
                   faithfull
                   Scythian
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   he
                   a
                   perfidious
                   flying
                   Parthian
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   turned
                   Dart
                
                 
                   Strikes
                   his
                   Pursuer
                   swiftly
                   to
                   the
                   Heart
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   the
                   more
                   eager
                   Phoebus
                   follow'd
                   on
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   swifter
                   Daphne
                   did
                   his
                   Presence
                   shun
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   much
                   the
                   more
                   encreas'd
                   his
                   Passion
                   higher
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   the
                   chast
                   little
                   Virgin
                   ,
                   she
                   grew
                   shier
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   ask
                   not
                   mutual
                   Love
                   in
                   equal
                   weight
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   only
                   give
                   me
                   leave
                   to
                   love
                   thee
                   free
                   from
                   hate
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 DUSERASTES
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 Cruel
                 ,
                 Proud
                 ,
                 and
                 Fair
                 ,
              
               
                 Cause
                 of
                 my
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 cause
                 of
                 my
                 Despair
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 first
                 a
                 little
                 sprouting
                 Beard
                 ,
              
               
                 Those
                 lovely
                 Lips
                 ,
                 and
                 Cheeks
                 shall
                 guard
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 soft
                 as
                 Down
                 ,
                 but
                 rugged
                 ,
                 long
                 ,
                 and
                 hard
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 lovely
                 Locks
                 ,
                 that
                 on
                 your
                 shoulders
                 play
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 turn
                 to
                 the
                 cold
                 hoary
                 Grey
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 ,
                 wasting
                 Time
                 shall
                 eat
                 'em
                 quite
                 away
                 ;
              
               
                 As
                 when
                 too
                 much
                 of
                 working
                 spoils
              
               
                 The
                 very
                 heart
                 of
                 fruitfull
                 Soils
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 makes
                 'em
                 ,
                 without
                 moisture
                 ,
                 hard
                 and
                 dry
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 Plants
                 and
                 Herbs
                 do
                 wither
                 ,
                 fall
                 ,
                 and
                 dye
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 that
                 lovely
                 Red
                 and
                 White
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 in
                 your
                 charming
                 Cheeks
                 do
                 meet
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 make
                 the
                 Lilly
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Rose
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 sweetness
                 ,
                 and
                 their
                 colour
                 lose
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 turn
                 to
                 Wrinkles
                 ,
                 wan
                 ,
                 and
                 pale
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 your
                 other
                 Charms
                 shall
                 fail
                 .
              
               
               
                 Then
                 as
                 you
                 go
                 to
                 gaze
              
               
                 Upon
                 you
                 former
                 Angel's
                 face
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 your
                 too
                 much
                 frequented
                 Looking-glass
                 ;
              
               
                 Then
                 your
                 own
                 Presence
                 will
                 you
                 strive
                 to
                 shun
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thus
                 complain
                 in
                 a
                 forsaken
                 Lover's
                 tone
                 .
              
               
                 Why
                 was
                 I
                 ever
                 Young
                 ?
              
               
                 Why
                 was
                 not
                 Beauty
                 long
                 ?
              
               
                 Why
                 had
                 I
                 ever
                 Charms
                 ,
                 or
                 why
                 are
                 they
                 so
                 quickly
                 gone
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 VOW
                 .
                 To
                 the
                 same
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   WHy
                   do
                   you
                   vex
                   me
                   with
                   continual
                   fears
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   force
                   out
                   needless
                   Tears
                   ?
                
                 
                   Why
                   do
                   you
                   tell
                   me
                   I
                   shall
                   surely
                   dye
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   Courteous
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                   ,
                
                 
                   Both
                   in
                   one
                   resolution
                   do
                   comply
                   ?
                
                 
                   That
                   whensoever
                   you
                   are
                   fled
                   ,
                   unkind
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   will
                   not
                   stay
                   ,
                   I
                   cannot
                   stay
                   behind
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   If
                   envious
                   Fate
                   must
                   strike
                   the
                   Heart
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   better
                   part
                   ,
                
                 
                   Why
                   shou'd
                   this
                   liveless
                   lump
                   of
                   Clay
                
                 
                   Delay
                
                 
                   To
                   mount
                   the
                   Skies
                   to
                   follow
                   thee
                   away
                   ?
                
                 
                   Propitious
                   Fate
                   has
                   spun
                
                 
                   Both
                   threds
                   of
                   Life
                   in
                   one
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   've
                   made
                   a
                   Vow
                   ,
                   yea
                   I
                   have
                   sworn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   will
                   I
                   fail
                   (
                   by
                   Heav'n
                   )
                   to
                   perform
                   ;
                
                 
                   We
                   'll
                   travel
                   both
                   together
                   to
                   our
                   long
                   ,
                   long
                   home
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   In
                   spite
                   of
                   Hell
                   ,
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   we
                   will
                   glide
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   heavy
                   World
                   below
                   deride
                   ,
                
                 
                   Attended
                   by
                   Iove's
                   Messengers
                   on
                   either
                   side
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   Charon's
                   shabby
                   Barge
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   have
                   so
                   great
                   ,
                   so
                   glorious
                   a
                   charge
                   :
                
                 
                   Apollo's
                   Chariot
                   shall
                   us
                   both
                   transport
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Mercury
                   our
                   Guide
                   ,
                
                 
                   Above
                   Moon
                   ,
                   Stars
                   ,
                   and
                   Sun
                   ,
                   we
                   'll
                   glide
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   we
                   arrive
                   to
                   Iove's
                   Eternal
                   Court
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   in
                   Immortal
                   State
                
                 
                   Shall
                   I
                   on
                   yours
                   ,
                   and
                   you
                   on
                   Iove's
                   left
                   hand
                   be
                   set
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Nay
                   ,
                   further
                   still
                   our
                   Glories
                   shall
                   extend
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   shall
                   be
                   worshipp'd
                   as
                   the
                   God
                   of
                   Beauty
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   you
                   shall
                   Mortals
                   pay
                   all
                   sacred
                   Duty
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Name
                   shall
                   signifie
                   a
                   
                     Faithfull
                     Friend
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   Here
                   shall
                   our
                   love
                   no
                   quarrels
                   know
                   ,
                   our
                   joys
                   no
                   end
                   .
                
              
            
          
           
             
               The
               Six
               following
               COPIES
               done
               by
               Mr.
               
                 T.
                 B.
              
               of
               Cambridge
               .
            
             
               
                 An
                 ELEGY
                 on
                 King
                 CHARLES
                 the
                 Second
                 ,
                 who
                 dyed
                 of
                 an
                 Apoplexy
                 .
              
               
                 
                   NO
                   more
                   ,
                   he
                   's
                   gone
                   ,
                   with
                   Angel's
                   Wings
                   he
                   fled
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   Mortal
                   Art
                   cou'd
                   keep
                   him
                   from
                   the
                   Dead
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   Miracles
                   of
                   Art
                   were
                   shewn
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   as
                   cou'd
                   give
                   a
                   meaner
                   Life
                   again
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   Miracles
                   were
                   common
                   in
                   his
                   Reign
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Diet
                   in
                   distress
                   no
                   comfort
                   brings
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   are
                   we
                   sure
                   to
                   lose
                   the
                   best
                   of
                   Kings
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Great
                   Charles
                   ,
                   or
                   lov'd
                   or
                   fear'd
                   too
                   much
                   by
                   Death
                   !
                
                 
                   Our
                   Bribes
                   cou'd
                   get
                   us
                   but
                   a
                   parting
                   breath
                   .
                
                 
                   Unusual
                   Fate
                   destroy'd
                   our
                   chief
                   design
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ev'ry
                   Sister
                   cut
                   the
                   
                     Royal
                     Twine
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   Direfull
                   Solemnities
                   they
                   us'd
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thrice
                   they
                   gave
                   the
                   irrevocable
                   Blow
                   .
                
                 
                   Thrice
                   on
                   the
                   Monarch
                   (
                   for
                   each
                   Nation
                   )
                   seize
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   his
                   Empire
                   suited
                   the
                   Disease
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   did
                   Geryon
                   take
                   his
                   long
                   farewell
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   saw
                   two
                   Heads
                   expire
                   before
                   he
                   fell
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   put
                   Alcydes
                   Vict'ry
                   to
                   a
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   piece-meal
                   fell
                   by
                   an
                   All-conqu'ring
                   hand
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Say
                   ,
                   envious
                   Stars
                   ,
                   did
                   he
                   deserve
                   your
                   spight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Say
                   ,
                   all
                   ye
                   grand
                   Caballers
                   of
                   the
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Did
                   you
                   remember
                   with
                   regret
                   the
                   Day
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   his
                   new
                   Star
                   drove
                   all
                   your
                   Beams
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   the
                   glad
                   Sky
                   did
                   wond'rous
                   smiles
                   dispence
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fear'd
                   you
                   to
                   lose
                   your
                   ancient
                   Influence
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   same
                   good
                   Omen
                   gave
                   our
                   Charles
                   his
                   Birth
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   usher'd
                   in
                   Salvation
                   to
                   the
                   Earth
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Under
                   one
                   Planet
                   grisly
                   Death
                   was
                   slain
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   same
                   bad
                   him
                   live
                   ,
                   and
                   slay
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   ye
                   ,
                   just
                   Pow'rs
                   !
                   That
                   Death
                   (
                   by
                   Faith
                   o'er-come
                   )
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   lead
                   the
                   
                     Faith's
                     Defender
                  
                   to
                   his
                   Tomb.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Britains
                   lament
                   ,
                   inspir'd
                   by
                   sorrow
                   ,
                   sing
                   ,
                
                 
                   Embalm
                   with
                   Tears
                   and
                   Verse
                   your
                   Gracious
                   King
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where-ever
                   Death
                   can
                   come
                   ,
                   let
                   it
                   be
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   mournfull
                   Elegies
                   ,
                   our
                   Gracious
                   King
                   is
                   Dead
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Soul
                   so
                   large
                   ,
                   so
                   generous
                   a
                   Mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   Heav'n
                   all
                   knowing
                   ,
                   and
                   as
                   Heav'n
                   all
                   kind
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   the
                   sad
                   News
                   be
                   born
                   through
                   ev'ry
                   Sea
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   Winds
                   groan
                   whilst
                   they
                   the
                   News
                   convey
                   .
                
                 
                   Our
                   Peacefull
                   Ships
                   will
                   need
                   no
                   Cannon
                   roar
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   the
                   Tidings
                   terrifie
                   the
                   Shoar
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   What
                   Grief
                   in
                   Neighb'ring
                   States
                   shall
                   not
                   be
                   known
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   the
                   soft
                   link
                   of
                   Amity
                   is
                   gone
                   ?
                
                 
                   Love
                   has
                   the
                   
                     Nat'ral
                     World
                  
                   to
                   Peace
                   confin'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   the
                   Political
                   by
                   Charles
                   was
                   joyn'd
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   Grief
                   shall
                   not
                   the
                   Foreign
                   Reg●ons
                   shew
                   ?
                
                 
                   For
                   they
                   have
                   lost
                   their
                   Ioy
                   ,
                   and
                   ●onder
                   too
                   .
                
                 
                   Libyans
                   shall
                   slash
                   their
                   Bre●●●s
                   ,
                   and
                   so
                   ●eclare
                
                 
                   Their
                   outward
                   Grief
                   to
                   Ch●rl●●
                   〈…〉
                   there
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   One
                   ,
                   o'er
                   her
                   Gold
                   ,
                   corroding
                   Drops
                   shall
                   shed
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   other
                   Ind.
                   weep
                   Gems
                   for
                   Iames's
                   head
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   Quarter
                   but
                   shall
                   Sighs
                   and
                   Blessings
                   send
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   a
                   thousand
                   Gods
                   our
                   King
                   shall
                   recommend
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Pardon
                   ,
                   Great
                   Ghost
                   ,
                   your
                   sinfull
                   People
                   spare
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   be
                   our
                   Genius
                   with
                   your
                   Princely
                   care
                   .
                
                 
                   Smiling
                   ,
                   the
                   Story
                   of
                   your
                   Troubles
                   tell
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   pity
                   the
                   mean
                   Souls
                   who
                   cou'd
                   Rebell
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   joy
                   recount
                   the
                   Changes
                   you
                   have
                   known
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   shapes
                   attend
                   the
                   
                     British
                     Crown
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   How
                   faithless
                   ,
                   as
                   incircling
                   Waves
                   ,
                   were
                   We
                   ;
                
                 
                   How
                   you
                   became
                   the
                   Proteus
                   of
                   our
                   Sea
                   :
                
                 
                   How
                   on
                   the
                   Wing
                   you
                   'd
                   now
                   deceive
                   the
                   Foe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   vanish't
                   into
                   Air
                   unseen
                   you
                   'd
                   go
                   :
                
                 
                   How
                   like
                   a
                   stately
                   Oak
                   you
                   'd
                   sometimes
                   Reign
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   long
                   Scepters
                   awe
                   the
                   shrubby
                   Plain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Such
                   were
                   the
                   forms
                   ,
                   Alive
                   ,
                   you
                   us'd
                   to
                   have
                   ,
                
                 
                   Immutable
                   and
                   stiff
                   now
                   in
                   the
                   Grave
                   ;
                
                 
                   Variously
                   prest
                   ,
                   and
                   molded
                   up
                   and
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   were
                   reserv'd
                   for
                   an
                   Eternal
                   Crown
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 DITHYRAMBIQUE
                 ,
                 Made
                 just
                 before
                 the
                 KING
                 and
                 QUEEN
                 Went
                 to
                 Their
                 CORONATION
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I.
                   
                
                 
                   KEep
                   now
                   ,
                   my
                   Muse
                   ,
                   the
                   great
                   Pindarique
                   road
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fly
                   as
                   if
                   to
                   meet
                   a
                   God
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Iames
                   and
                   Mary
                   are
                   the
                   same
                   ;
                
                 
                   Ascend
                   my
                   Muse
                   ,
                   mount
                   in
                   your
                   Flame
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   oh
                   my
                   Soul
                   's
                   in
                   hast
                   to
                   be
                   abroad
                   ;
                
                 
                   Our
                   Souls
                   of
                   old
                   were
                   stol'n
                   from
                   on
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   since
                   ,
                   as
                   if
                   they
                   fear'd
                   Discov'ry
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sneak
                   here
                   below
                   with
                   dull
                   Mortality
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   mine
                   be
                   open
                   ,
                   and
                   confess
                   her
                   Mother-Sky
                   ;
                
                 
                   Visit
                   the
                   Plains
                   above
                   ,
                   and
                   sing
                
                 
                   Some
                   worthy
                   Transports
                   of
                   a
                   
                     God-like
                     King
                  
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   What
                   Muse
                   cannot
                   our
                   Iames
                   inspire
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   cannot
                   
                     Royal
                     Mary
                  
                   doe
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   give
                   us
                   Theams
                   and
                   Genius
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fewel
                   at
                   once
                   ,
                   and
                   Fire
                   .
                
                 
                   Leander
                   stretcht
                   along
                   ,
                   &
                   buffeted
                   the
                   sawcy
                   Waves
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   thought
                   of
                   Life
                   ,
                   and
                   Ioy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dared
                   the
                   kind
                   Thoughts
                   annoy
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   threaten
                   him
                   with
                   Graves
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Taper
                   did
                   not
                   only
                   shew
                   his
                   
                     Pathless
                     Way
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   made
                   him
                   bold
                   ,
                   and
                   strong
                   ,
                
                 
                   Leander
                   stretcht
                   along
                   ;
                
                 
                   Not
                   only
                   on
                   his
                   Eye
                   it
                   play'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   follow'd
                   Love
                   through
                   all
                   the
                   Pores
                   he
                   there
                   had
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   glitter'd
                   in
                   his
                   Mind
                   as
                   well
                   as
                   in
                   the
                   Sea.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   II.
                   
                
                 
                   Heroes
                   ,
                   by
                   Nature
                   ,
                   still
                   dispence
                
                 
                   Vigour
                   and
                   Sence
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   the
                   most
                   Thoughtless
                   subject-Clay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Upon
                   the
                   Machins
                   still
                   they
                   shine
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Machins
                   feel
                   a
                   warmeth
                   Divine
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   briskly
                   move
                   ,
                   and
                   sweetly
                   play
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Their
                   Royal
                   sparkling
                   Virtues
                   are
                
                 
                   The
                   only
                   Stars
                   that
                   have
                   an
                   Influence
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   du
                   '
                   ile
                   as
                   the
                   Gold
                   they
                   wear
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   happy
                   England
                   knows
                   ;
                
                 
                   England
                   is
                   happy
                   in
                   her
                   Sons
                   at
                   last
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Days
                   of
                   Prodigality
                   are
                   past
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   Arms
                   and
                   Arts
                   her
                   Sons
                   grow
                   fit
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   gather
                   Courage
                   ,
                   and
                   they
                   gather
                   Wit
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   their
                   Temper
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Clime
                   oppose
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   once-insulting
                   Neighbours
                   fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Those
                   Lyons●url
                   ●url
                   their
                   Mains
                   no
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   longer
                   tear
                   the
                   ground
                   ,
                   and
                   roar
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   see
                   our
                   Iames
                   his
                   England's
                   shape
                   restore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   break
                   the
                   Charms
                   that
                   made
                   her
                   Beast
                   before
                   ;
                
                 
                   Those
                   Lyons
                   tremble
                   ,
                   and
                   reveer
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   England
                   once
                   again
                   a
                   
                     Royal
                     Matron
                  
                   do's
                   appear
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   III.
                   
                
                 
                   How
                   much
                   indebted
                   must
                   the
                   Coronation
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Heroick
                   Iames
                   ,
                   to
                   very
                   Thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Person
                   wou'd
                   ,
                   unrob'd
                   ,
                   add
                   to
                   th'
                   Solemnity
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Luster
                   to
                   Thee
                   thy
                   Diadem
                   will
                   owe
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Flaming
                   Iewels
                   round
                   thy
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   a
                   good
                   Omen
                   spread
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   do'st
                   on
                   all
                   a
                   noble
                   Stamp
                   bestow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   subtile
                   Beams
                   thorough
                   thy
                   People
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   each
                   
                     Vulgar
                     look
                  
                   to
                   show
                   ,
                
                 
                   Indulgent
                   Planets
                   to
                   their
                   Friends
                   ,
                   and
                   Comets
                   to
                   the
                   Foe
                   :
                
                 
                   Thou
                   ,
                   with
                   Illustrious
                   Graces
                   ,
                   round
                   Thee
                   hurl'd
                
                 
                   From
                   Thy
                   own
                   self
                   ,
                   do'st
                   Animate
                   the
                   British
                   World
                   ;
                
                 
                   Poetick
                   Plato
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   made
                   his
                   Deitie
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   fancy'd
                   what
                   in
                   Iames
                   wee
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   In●inite
                   was
                   plac'd
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Amidst
                   his
                   wond'rous
                   Creation
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Indivisible
                   the
                   Center
                   did
                   possess
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   Extended
                   Spirit
                   ,
                   bless
                
                 
                   The
                   living
                   Circles
                   that
                   his
                   Breath
                   had
                   form'd
                   about
                   his
                   Throne
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Spirit
                   penetrated
                   every-where
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   left
                   no
                   point
                   void
                   of
                   the
                   searching
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Large
                   streams
                   of
                   Inspiration
                   flow'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   taught
                   the
                   Beings
                   ,
                   that
                   they
                   gave
                   ,
                   to
                   praise
                   their
                   God.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   IV.
                   
                
                 
                   Io
                   ,
                   my
                   Muse
                   ,
                   the
                   Triumphs
                   just
                   begin
                   ,
                
                 
                   Over
                   our
                   Nations
                   vanquish't
                   sin
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   Animosities
                   and
                   Feuds
                   are
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   those
                   unhealthy
                   Clouds
                   are
                   gone
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fix't
                   is
                   our
                   Delos
                   now
                   ,
                   nor
                   can
                   th'
                   imbracing
                   Sea
                
                 
                   Flatter
                   her
                   to
                   her
                   old
                   Inconstancie
                   .
                
                 
                   Awake
                   ,
                   my
                   Muse
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   comfortable
                   news
                
                 
                   Reherse
                   ,
                
                 
                   *
                   And
                   tell
                   it
                   to
                   the
                   
                     President
                     of
                     Verse
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   such
                   a
                   President
                   of
                   Verse
                   there
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   any
                   way
                   a-kin
                   to
                   Memorie
                   ;
                
                 
                   How
                   will
                   it
                   work
                   on
                   his
                   Harmonious
                   Mind
                   ?
                
                 
                   How
                   soft
                   will
                   be
                   his
                   strain
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   he
                   shall
                   find
                
                 
                   His
                   own
                   strange
                   Story
                   acted
                   o'er
                   again
                   ?
                
                 
                   He
                   'll
                   smile
                   when
                   e'er
                   You
                   wond'ring
                   tell
                   ,
                
                 
                   Our
                   Delos
                   did
                   become
                   unmoveable
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   'll
                   strike
                   his
                   Lyre
                   ,
                   when
                   You
                   shall
                   praise
                
                 
                   Our
                   crowned
                   Phoebus
                   ,
                   and
                   describe
                   his
                   Rays
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Diana
                   too
                   you
                   must
                   recite
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Three-nam'd
                   Goddess
                   naturally
                   bright
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Native
                   Glories
                   then
                   were
                   seen
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   a
                   vast
                   Tract
                   of
                   Earth
                   was
                   plac'd
                   between
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   she
                   deserv'd
                   alone
                   to
                   be
                   a
                   Queen
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   ,
                   like
                   his
                   Sister
                   ,
                   say
                   she
                   now
                   but
                   borrows
                   Light.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   V.
                   
                
                 
                   Lo
                   ,
                   where
                   Apollo
                   smiling
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   strikes
                   his
                   Lyre
                   with
                   his
                   Melodious
                   hands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Possest
                   with
                   mighty
                   Pleasure
                   ;
                   Lo
                
                 
                   Where
                   he
                   has
                   left
                   his
                   Quiver
                   and
                   his
                   Bow
                   ;
                
                 
                   There
                   are
                   his
                   Arrows
                   lay'd
                   aside
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   by
                   the
                   milder
                   Lyre
                   supply'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   chearfull
                   sound
                   ,
                   the
                   chearfull
                   sound
                   methinks
                   I
                   hear
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   lo
                   ,
                   how
                   every
                   Year
                
                 
                   Dances
                   in
                   decent
                   order
                   here
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   the
                   smooth
                   Motion
                   all
                   their
                   Poyson
                   's
                   spent
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   th'
                   
                     Hieroglyphick
                     Snake
                  
                   grows
                   innocent
                   ;
                
                 
                   At
                   th'
                   chearfull
                   Sound
                   ill-boding
                   Spirits
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   Charm'd
                   from
                   their
                   best-beloved
                   Cruelty
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   vanish
                   ,
                   like
                   sad
                   Ghosts
                   ,
                   that
                   shun
                   the
                   Morning's
                   Eye
                   .
                
                 
                   Ill-boding
                   Spirits
                   on
                   happy
                   Minutes
                   wait
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   boldly
                   vex
                   the
                   Fortunate
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   Politickly
                   seize
                   a
                   glad
                   unwary
                   State
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   Coronation
                   pomp
                   gone
                   by
                   ,
                
                 
                   Behind
                   the
                   greedy
                   Vultures
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   rear's
                   brought
                   up
                   with
                   Iudgments
                   ,
                   Plagues
                   ,
                   Mortality
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   the
                   poor
                   Spectators
                   dye
                   ;
                
                 
                   Instead
                   of
                   Medals
                   to
                   be
                   thrown
                   about
                   ,
                
                 
                   Malicious
                   Powers
                
                 
                   Scatter
                   their
                   Ulcers
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Sores
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   show'r
                   their
                   Tokens
                   on
                   th'
                   Infected
                   Rout
                   ,
                
                 
                   This
                   former
                   times
                   have
                   known
                   ,
                   avert
                   it
                   Heaven
                   from
                   ours
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   VI.
                   
                
                 
                   Close
                   up
                   ,
                   my
                   Muse
                   ,
                   the
                   dismal
                   Scene
                   ,
                
                 
                   Leave
                   the
                   Destroying
                   Angels
                   ,
                   or
                   Destroying
                   Men
                   ;
                
                 
                   Our
                   Monarch
                   shall
                   your
                   Musick
                   make
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   honourable
                   Actions
                   speak
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sing
                   of
                   our
                   Present
                   Ioys
                   ,
                   and
                   Miseries
                   forsake
                   ;
                
                 
                   Speak
                   of
                   the
                   Prince
                   that
                   aw'd
                   the
                   Main
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   the
                   Ocean
                   wide
                   began
                   his
                   Reign
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Prowess
                   heavy
                   Flemmings
                   understood
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Valour
                   every-where
                
                 
                   Escap'd
                   the
                   Rocks
                   and
                   Shallows
                   of
                   Despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   Noah's
                   lawfull
                   Heir
                
                 
                   Succeeded
                   in
                   the
                   boundless
                   Empire
                   of
                   the
                   Flood
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Shew
                   the
                   undaunted
                   Champion
                   on
                   the
                   shore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dying
                   his
                   future
                   Robes
                   in
                   
                     Hostile
                     Gore
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   Shew
                   him
                   in
                   Peace
                   how
                   easie
                   ,
                   and
                   how
                   free
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   beyond
                   the
                   Reach
                   of
                   Mutinie
                   ,
                
                 
                   Eternal
                   Conquerour
                   !
                   in
                   Peace
                   he
                   gets
                   a
                   Victorie
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   stops
                   not
                   there
                   where
                   other
                   Warriours
                   doe
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   do's
                   not
                   always
                   force
                   pursue
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   can
                   both
                   Soul
                   and
                   Body
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mankind
                   in
                   all
                   Capacities
                   subdue
                   :
                
                 
                   He
                   do's
                   not
                   only
                   use
                   the
                   killing
                   Art
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   harmless
                   Skill
                   sometimes
                   he
                   wounds
                   the
                   Heart
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   there
                   plants
                   
                     Loyal
                     Veins
                  
                   to
                   quell
                   the
                   trayt'rous
                   part
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   
                     Vital
                     Flame
                  
                   he
                   do's
                   not
                   always
                   damp
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   pours
                   a
                   precious
                   Oyl
                   into
                   the
                   gloomy
                   Lamp
                   ;
                
                 
                   His
                   former
                   Vict'ries
                   are
                   in
                   this
                   o'er-come
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   he
                   's
                   the
                   greatest
                   Conquerour
                   at
                   home
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   VII
                   .
                
                 
                   Illustrious
                   Prince
                   ,
                   humble
                   and
                   brave
                   ,
                
                 
                   Head
                   of
                   his
                   Country
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Countries
                   slave
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   Souldier's
                   hardships
                   oft
                   h'
                   endur'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   bold
                   Deeds
                   the
                   Prince
                   obscur'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   Iove
                   to
                   the
                   
                     Egyptian
                     Beasts
                  
                   was
                   known
                   ,
                
                 
                   Oft
                   he
                   retir'd
                   to
                   our
                   Condition
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thence
                   took
                   Rise
                   to
                   leap
                   into
                   a
                   Throne
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   He
                   ran
                   through
                   every
                   Task
                   that
                   Subjects
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Accomplish't
                   ,
                   by
                   degrees
                   ,
                   for
                   Royal
                   Care
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Toil
                   he
                   climb'd
                   the
                   Pinnacle
                   of
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Fortune
                   oft
                   was
                   us'd
                   before
                   't
                   was
                   great
                   ,
                
                 
                   *
                   
                     And
                     Lawrels
                     did
                     his
                     Head
                     for
                     the
                     Imperial
                     Crown
                     prepare
                     .
                  
                
                 
                   Theseus
                   and
                   Bacchus
                   thus
                   Ambrosia
                   gain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   the
                   Healing
                   Nectar
                   calm
                   their
                   former
                   Pain
                   :
                
                 
                   Thus
                   Hercules
                   upon
                   twelve
                   Trophies
                   rose
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   labour'd
                   for
                   ,
                   and
                   merited
                   a
                   long
                   Repose
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   sacred
                   Charles
                   ascends
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   visits
                   his
                   Celestial
                   Friends
                   ;
                
                 
                   Safely
                   he
                   cuts
                   the
                   thund'ring
                   Skies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Adorn'd
                   with
                   new
                   imperious
                   Ioys
                   ;
                
                 
                   Young
                   Angels
                   kiss
                   each
                   tender
                   Limb
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fondly
                   call
                   him
                   Cherubim
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Saviour
                   and
                   his
                   Sire
                   embrace
                   him
                   as
                   he
                   flies
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   VIII
                   .
                
                 
                   Iames
                   ,
                   thou
                   hast
                   won
                   'em
                   ,
                   &
                   our
                   Lives
                   are
                   thine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thousands
                   of
                   ours
                   vouchsafe
                   receive
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   that
                   
                     Great
                     One
                  
                   thou
                   woud'st
                   so
                   often
                   give
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   That
                   Life
                   which
                   weather'd
                   Storms
                   ,
                   &
                   a
                   more
                   damn'd
                   Design
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   can
                   the
                   Devils
                   various
                   shapes
                   decline
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   Patience
                   Second
                   Brother
                   of
                   the
                   Stuart's
                   Line
                   .
                
                 
                   Patience
                   ,
                   the
                   stay
                   of
                   angry
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   pleases
                   Heav'n
                   when
                   it
                   's
                   inclin'd
                   to
                   Hate
                   :
                
                 
                   Patience
                   ,
                   that
                   Patience
                   purchases
                   above
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   sacred
                   Sympathy
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Bar
                   at
                   which
                   the
                   Heav'ns
                   and
                   We
                
                 
                   Meet
                   and
                   Agree
                   ,
                
                 
                   Patience
                   the
                   Alchymie
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   turns
                   to
                   Gold
                   the
                   Leaden
                   Darts
                   of
                   Love
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   Touch-stone
                   Patience
                   ,
                   the
                   creating
                   Counsels
                   know
                
                 
                   If
                   they
                   have
                   fram'd
                   a
                   Master-piece
                   ,
                   or
                   no.
                
                 
                   In
                   Patience
                   Thetis
                   dip't
                   her
                   Boy
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sent
                   him
                   to
                   defy
                   the
                   Force
                   of
                   Troy
                   ;
                
                 
                   Patience
                   the
                   Shield
                   which
                   Cyclops
                   beat
                   ,
                
                 
                   Compos'd
                   of
                   Cold
                   and
                   Heat
                   ,
                
                 
                   Struck
                   by
                   the
                   Sword
                   of
                   Envy
                   ,
                   or
                   of
                   Spite
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   more
                   it
                   sparkles
                   ,
                   and
                   confounds
                   the
                   fight
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Icy
                   Sword
                   snaps
                   on
                   the
                   Shield
                   ,
                
                 
                   Spite
                   falls
                   unarm'd
                   ,
                   and
                   Envy
                   quits
                   the
                   Field
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Thus
                   far
                   th'
                   inconstant
                   style
                   betrays
                   my
                   mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wav'ring
                   ,
                   as
                   needless
                   ,
                   till
                   the
                   Pole
                   they
                   find
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   here
                   't
                   is
                   fix't
                   ,
                   since
                   to
                   the
                   Queen
                   't
                   is
                   brought
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Queen
                   is
                   the
                   Perfection
                   of
                   our
                   Thought
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   Beauty
                   ,
                   which
                   can
                   fire
                   the
                   
                     So●id
                     Iames
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   ease
                   must
                   put
                   our
                   
                     ●inder
                     Breasts
                  
                   in
                   flames
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   Beauty
                   Heav'ns
                   in
                   Modena
                   misplace
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   lay
                   the
                   justest
                   claim
                   to
                   such
                   a
                   Face
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   radiant
                   Eyes
                   our
                   Nation
                   's
                   loss
                   repay
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   the
                   rich
                   Pearls
                   that
                   Caesar
                   bore
                   away
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   in
                   some
                   Vital
                   ,
                   where
                   the
                   Scarlet
                   Blood
                
                 
                   Glides
                   smoothly
                   on
                   ,
                   and
                   keeps
                   an
                   equal
                   ●lood
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   brisker
                   Soul
                   rides
                   high
                   ,
                   and
                   knows
                   no
                   bound
                   ,
                
                 
                   Expands
                   it self
                   ,
                   and
                   slashes
                   round
                   :
                
                 
                   S●
                   must
                   our
                   Queen
                   ,
                   when
                   she
                   shall
                   pass
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   be
                   distinguish't
                   ●rom
                   the
                   Crimson
                   Throng
                   .
                
                 
                   Hail
                   ,
                   Gracious
                   Queen
                   of
                   Beauty
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   Wit
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   whom
                   the
                   two
                   best
                   Characters
                   are
                   writ
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   the
                   blest
                   Hills
                   ;
                   Oh
                   ,
                   Aiding
                   Goddess
                   !
                   You
                
                 
                   Both
                   warm
                   our
                   Climate
                   ,
                   and
                   our
                   Fancies
                   too
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   Off'rings
                   for
                   such
                   Presents
                   cou'd
                   we
                   bring
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   we
                   had
                   not
                   been
                   happy
                   in
                   a
                   King.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 Their
                 GRACES
                 ,
                 THE
                 DUKE
                 and
                 DUTCHESS
                 OF
                 ALBEMARLE
                 ,
                 Upon
                 Their
                 Voyage
                 for
                 IAMAICA
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Great
                   Sir
                   ,
                
                 
                   YOur
                   Presence
                   still
                   we
                   wou'd
                   implore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Did
                   not
                   the
                   Indies
                   court
                   You
                   to
                   their
                   shore
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thence
                   rising
                   Glory
                   drives
                   our
                   Grief
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   only
                   Envy
                   can
                   desire
                   your
                   stay
                   .
                
                 
                   Tremble
                   we
                   might
                   ,
                   and
                   dread
                   Ano●her's
                   Doom
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Your
                   strange
                   Blessings
                   promise
                   more
                   to
                   come
                   .
                
                 
                   We
                   that
                   beheld
                   how
                   Riches
                   slow'd
                   to
                   Thee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Need
                   not
                   suspect
                   a
                   
                     Tributary
                     Sea
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   can
                   we
                   fear
                   that
                   Danger
                   's
                   there
                   design'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   Providence
                   has
                   made
                   the
                   Rocks
                   so
                   kind
                   :
                
                 
                   Prodigious
                   Fortune
                   must
                   on
                   him
                   attend
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   the
                   Waves
                   such
                   pleasing
                   Monsters
                   send
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Your
                   Father's
                   Spirit
                   ,
                   sure
                   on
                   th'
                   Water
                   mov'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wont
                   to
                   restore
                   the
                   Gallant
                   Men
                   he
                   lov'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Go
                   then
                   ,
                   lov'd
                   Prince
                   ,
                   Success
                   your
                   Actions
                   crown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Guarded
                   with
                   vertuous
                   Honours
                   there
                   unknown
                   :
                
                 
                   How
                   shall
                   your
                   Star
                   shine
                   on
                   the
                   
                     new-found
                     Coast
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   please
                   the
                   Pride
                   of
                   the
                   Edward's
                   Ghost
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   far
                   out-doing
                   his
                   Prophetick
                   Boast
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   George
                   by
                   him
                   pent
                   up
                   in
                   Lands
                   he
                   knew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Will
                   make
                   the
                   utmost
                   Conquest
                   under
                   You.
                
                 
                   How
                   shall
                   the
                   slaves
                   to
                   Labour
                   born
                   ,
                   and
                   Toil
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   Your
                   kind
                   Person
                   shall
                   refresh
                   the
                   Isle
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wonder
                   with
                   joy
                   to
                   see
                   each
                   other
                   smile
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   Spirits
                   which
                   ,
                   to
                   them
                   ,
                   You
                   shall
                   dispence
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   much
                   their
                   once-vex't
                   Souls
                   will
                   influence
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   they
                   shall
                   banish
                   all
                   sad
                   sorrows
                   thence
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   ease
                   shall
                   Natives
                   ,
                   what
                   delight
                   possess
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   from
                   blest
                   You
                   derive
                   their
                   Happiness
                   ?
                
                 
                   New
                   Kings
                   at
                   home
                   have
                   
                     Acts
                     of
                     Grace
                  
                   bestow'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Albemarle
                   gives
                   Iubilees
                   abroad
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Madam
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   was
                   no
                   desert
                   in
                   us
                   ,
                   we
                   own
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   long
                   detain'd
                   You
                   to
                   our selves
                   alone
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   Worth
                   of
                   ours
                   ,
                   but
                   Charity
                   in
                   You
                   ,
                
                 
                   Gave
                   more
                   to
                   Us
                   than
                   was
                   by
                   Nature
                   due
                   .
                
                 
                   Your
                   Grace
                   for
                   Universal
                   Comfort
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   the
                   Day-Beams
                   are
                   round
                   the
                   Globe
                   display'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   equally
                   distribute
                   Light
                   and
                   Shade
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   Beauties
                   still
                   of
                   Alexander's
                   mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   one
                   poor
                   World
                   too
                   narrowly
                   con●in'd
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   these
                   two
                   Conqu'rours
                   do
                   this
                   Diff'rence
                   keep
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fate
                   will
                   not
                   let
                   the
                   charming
                   Victress
                   weep
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   When
                   Thund'ring
                   Spaniards
                   Mexico
                   did
                   seize
                   ,
                
                 
                   Indians
                   surprized
                   ,
                   thought
                   'em
                   Deities
                   .
                
                 
                   By
                   suff'ring
                   since
                   ,
                   taught
                   what
                   the
                   Furious
                   are
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   wisely
                   will
                   adore
                   the
                   soft
                   and
                   fair
                   ;
                
                 
                   Even
                   from
                   their
                   Sun
                   to
                   gentler
                   warmth
                   they
                   'll
                   ●ly
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   at
                   Your
                   Rays
                   their
                   smother'd
                   Souls
                   supply
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   'll
                   thank
                   the
                   Heav'ns
                   that
                   made
                   their
                   Herbs
                   for
                   smoke
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sacrifice
                   Plantations
                   ,
                   You
                   t'
                   invoke
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   teeming
                   Soil
                   vast
                   Treasures
                   needs
                   must
                   give
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   You
                   can
                   ripen
                   where
                   the
                   Planets
                   leave
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Your
                   chearfull
                   Eyes
                   all
                   sorrow
                   shall
                   destroy
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fill
                   their
                   Hearts
                   with
                   Plenty
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   joy
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   cannot
                   Greatness
                   ,
                   Wit
                   ,
                   and
                   Beauty
                   doe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   constant
                   Bliss
                   is
                   to
                   Your
                   Presence
                   due
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   if
                   their
                   Spring
                   but
                   Prophesy'd
                   of
                   You
                   ?
                
              
            
             
               
                 Ovid.
                 Amor.
                 lib.
                 2.
                 
                 Eleg.
                 15.
                 
                 A
                 Ring
                 Presented
                 to
                 his
                 Mistress
                 .
              
               
                 GO
                 ,
                 sparkling
                 Ring
                 ,
                 my
                 Fair
                 one
                 's
                 finger
                 bind
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   Shine
                   there
                   ,
                   and
                   tell
                   what
                   Flames
                   you
                   le●t
                   behind
                   .
                
                 
                   Leap
                   on
                   the
                   tender
                   Ioint
                   with
                   eager
                   Zeal
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   may
                   she
                   smile
                   ,
                   and
                   entertain
                   thee
                   well
                   .
                
                 
                   Close
                   may
                   her
                   Finger
                   be
                   to
                   Thee
                   embrac'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   Fate
                   has
                   made
                   my
                   Arms
                   to
                   clasp
                   her
                   Was●
                   .
                
                 
                   Thou
                   little
                   Ring
                   ,
                   how
                   happy
                   must
                   thou
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Handl'd
                   by
                   Her
                   ,
                   and
                   Envy'd
                   ev'n
                   by
                   Me.
                
                 
                   Rais'd
                   to
                   my
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   a
                   Comet
                   thou
                   wilt
                   prove
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   vex
                   the
                   quiet
                   Government
                   of
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Now
                   for
                   a
                   Spell
                   ,
                   that
                   I
                   my
                   Gift
                   might
                   grow
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   rifle
                   all
                   the
                   Charms
                   my
                   Fair
                   can
                   show
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Then
                   as
                   her
                   
                     naked
                     Skin
                  
                   she
                   ever
                   prest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   hid
                   her
                   hand
                   within
                   her
                   heaving
                   Breast
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   joy
                   grown
                   big
                   I
                   'd
                   quit
                   my
                   former
                   hold
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   send
                   to
                   better
                   Mines
                   th'
                   enliv'ned
                   Gold.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   when
                   she
                   seals
                   her
                   Letters
                   with
                   my
                   Gem
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Let
                   not
                   my
                   Ruine
                   be
                   contriv'd
                   in
                   them
                   )
                
                 
                   Lest
                   the
                   soft
                   Wax
                   refuse
                   to
                   let
                   me
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   balmy
                   Kisses
                   will
                   her
                   Lips
                   bestow
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   if
                   hence
                   Betty
                   with
                   this
                   Ring
                   she
                   cries
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   throw
                   it
                   where
                   my
                   other
                   Plunder
                   lyes
                   .
                
                 
                   Shrunk
                   with
                   the
                   fright
                   ,
                   I
                   'll
                   lengthen
                   a
                   Delay
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   'll
                   gently
                   squeeze
                   her
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   Love
                   betray
                   .
                
                 
                   Disgrace
                   from
                   me
                   ,
                   my
                   sweetest
                   ,
                   never
                   fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   am
                   a
                   pretty
                   
                     Woman's
                     Ring
                  
                   ,
                   my
                   Dear
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   You
                   and
                   I
                   go
                   to
                   the
                   Bath's
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   the
                   
                     fruitfull
                     Waters
                  
                   change
                   my
                   Stone
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   ,
                   Madam
                   ,
                   then
                   ,
                   Madam
                   ,
                   the
                   Blessing
                   then
                   ,
                
                 
                   Passion
                   shall
                   teach
                   your
                   Ring
                   the
                   Crimes
                   of
                   Men.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   these
                   are
                   Dreams
                   ,
                   my
                   little
                   Gift
                   ,
                   adieu
                   ,
                
                 
                   Say
                   I
                   adore
                   Her
                   ,
                   and
                   have
                   offer'd
                   You.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 TO
                 AFER
                 .
                 MARTIAL
                 .
                 Epig.
                 31.
                 lib
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 
                   THis
                   for
                   an
                   hundred
                   Pound
                   's
                   engag'd
                   to
                   me
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Merchant
                   owes
                   me
                   two
                   ,
                   that
                   Banker
                   three
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Chamberlain
                   runs
                   deeper
                   in
                   my
                   score
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   Exchequer
                   keeps
                   a
                   thousand
                   more
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   new
                   Plantations
                   raise
                   my
                   Treasure
                   much
                   ;
                
                 
                   Beside
                   a
                   Trade
                   with
                   Spaniards
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Dutch.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   same
                   dull
                   Tale
                   Afer
                   so
                   oft
                   you
                   tell
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   scarce
                   remember
                   my
                   own
                   Name
                   so
                   well
                   .
                
                 
                   Afer
                   ,
                   I
                   faint
                   ,
                   my
                   Patience
                   quite
                   is
                   lost
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   cannot
                   hear
                   your
                   Gains
                   ,
                   but
                   to
                   your
                   Cost
                   .
                
                 
                   Without
                   reward
                   ,
                   such
                   Torture
                   who
                   will
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Poundage
                   is
                   due
                   for
                   every
                   Summ
                   ,
                   I
                   hear
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 An
                 Excuse
                 for
                 not
                 Rhiming
                 in
                 the
                 Time
                 of
                 the
                 Rebellion
                 .
              
               
                 
                   'T
                   IS
                   true
                   ,
                   my
                   Friend
                   ,
                   my
                   Style
                   is
                   mean
                   and
                   low
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   you
                   like
                   it
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   no
                   longer
                   so
                   .
                
                 
                   What
                   to
                   the
                   unkind
                   World
                   do's
                   Humble
                   seem
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lovers
                   and
                   Friends
                   may
                   raise
                   by
                   their
                   Esteem
                   ;
                
                 
                   E'er
                   since
                   the
                   Image
                   of
                   Immortal
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   Made
                   Dust
                   and
                   Ashes
                   fit
                   for
                   Ioys
                   above
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Yet
                   though
                   I
                   had
                   as
                   clear
                   and
                   smooth
                   a
                   Vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Sung
                   as
                   well
                   as
                   any
                   Iovial
                   Swain
                   .
                
                 
                   Though
                   I
                   cou'd
                   force
                   the
                   Dulness
                   of
                   our
                   Clime
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   aid
                   the
                   
                     Lab'ring
                     Fancy
                  
                   with
                   my
                   Rhime
                   ;
                
                 
                   Heighten
                   my
                   thoughts
                   ,
                   expel
                   the
                   Clouds
                   from
                   thence
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   strike
                   from
                   them
                   Flashes
                   of
                   Wit
                   and
                   Sence
                   .
                
                 
                   War
                   wou'd
                   disorder
                   my
                   soft
                   Spirits
                   quite
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   like
                   a
                   Plague
                   infect
                   ,
                   and
                   make
                   them
                   fight
                   .
                
                 
                   Rebellious
                   War
                   all
                   Melody
                   destroys
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   
                     Plow-men's
                     Whistle
                  
                   ,
                   to
                   the
                   
                     Laureat's
                     Voice
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   Swords
                   fright
                   the
                   Muses●rom
                   ●rom
                   their
                   peacefull
                   seat
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Poets
                   are
                   the
                   first
                   they
                   captivate
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Minerva's
                   easie
                   ,
                   while
                   her
                   Garment
                   flows
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dress
                   her
                   in
                   Armour
                   ,
                   and
                   how
                   stiff
                   she
                   goes
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   Harps
                   that
                   drew
                   wild
                   Mortals
                   from
                   the
                   Wood
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   taught
                   the
                   Harmony
                   of
                   Common
                   good
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   just
                   proportion
                   of
                   their
                   tunefull
                   strings
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rank't
                   People
                   ,
                   Gentry
                   ,
                   Nobles
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Kings
                   .
                
                 
                   Hence
                   is
                   it
                   when
                   State-Unisons
                   expire
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   barbarously
                   slay
                   their
                   Parent
                   Lyre
                   .
                
              
               
                 FINIS
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
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               .
            
             
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               Glory
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               God's
               Revenge
               against
               the
               bloody
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               detestable
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               Murther
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               the
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               Examples
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               Story
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               ,
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               A.
               sometime
               Moderator
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               Colledge
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               Terse
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               evidently
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               Member
               of
               the
               
                 Holy
                 Catholick
                 Church
              
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               wherein
               the
               Doctrine
               of
               
                 Arians
                 ,
                 Socinians
              
               ,
               and
               Anabap●ists
               are
               Answered
               and
               Confuted
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               the
               Presbyterians
               proved
               Schisma●icks
               :
               wi●h
               some
               Reasons
               of
               the
               Reverend
               Dr.
               Tillotson
               against
               Pers●cution
               meerly
               for
               Religion
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               Both
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                 P.
                 B.
              
               formerly
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               Order
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               Francis
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               a
               Convert
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               the
               
                 Church
                 of
                 England
              
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               Twelves
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                 Beauty
                 o●
                 Holiness
              
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               .
            
             
          
        
      
    
     
       
         Notes, typically marginal, from the original text
         
           Notes for div A30923-e6570
           
             *
             Wood●
             Auth●●
             anoth●●
             Spee●●
             
          
           
             *
             
               The
               noble
               and
               sordid
               Passions
            
             .
          
           
             *
             Doctors
             .
          
           
             (a)
             
               Old
               Doctors
            
             .
          
           
             (b)
             
               Young
               Physi●ians
            
             .
          
           
             (a)
             
               Having
               learned
               Latin
               by
               reading
               the
               Latin
               Poets
               .
            
          
           
             (b)
             
               My
               Brother
            
             .
          
           
             (c)
             
               The
               Three
               Humours
               of
               the
               Eye
               ,
               and
               its
               several
            
             Tunicks
             .
          
           
             (d)
             
               Ad
               infimum
               ventrem
            
             .
          
           
             (e)
             
               Morbi
               in
               infimo
               ventre
               ,
               Di●rrhaea
               ,
               &c.
               
            
          
           
             (f)
             
               Venae
               Lactea
            
             .
          
           
             (g)
             
               Secundum
               Opinionem
            
             Galinist
             .
             
               contra
               receptaculum
               commune
            
             .
          
           
             (h)
             
               Per
               Diaphragma
            
             .
          
           
             (i)
             
               De
               cordis
               Structura
            
             .
          
           
             (k)
             
               My
               deceased
               Brother
            
             .
          
           
             (l)
             
               De
               Motu
               Cordis
            
             .
          
        
         
           Notes for div A30923-e41050
           
             (a)
             Circumcision
             .
          
           
             (b)
             Baptism
             .
          
           
             (a)
             
               Meaning
               the
               Muse.
            
          
           
             (b)
             
               The
               lady
               being
               painted
               with
               a
               Bough
               of
               Bays
               in
               her
               Hand
               .
            
          
        
         
           Notes for div A30923-e100700
           
             (a)
             
               Trees
               of
               the
               Ladies
               own
               setting
               in
               her
               Garden
               .
            
          
           
             (b)
             
               Being
               at
               the
               Fall
               of
               th'
               Leaf
               .
            
          
           
             (a)
             
               The
               Lady
               having
               Skill
               in
               Physick
               .
            
          
           
             (a)
             
               The
               Lady
               being
               Painted
               wi●h
               a
               Bough
               o●
               Bays
               in
               her
               Hand
               .
            
          
        
         
           Notes for div A30923-e135630
           
             *
             
               Most
               of
               this
               Fourth
            
             Stanza
             
               is
               an
               Allusion
               to
               an
               Old
               Poetical
               Fa●le
               ,
               and
               parallels
               the
               King
               and
               Queen
               ,
               in
               some
               respects
               ,
               to
               the
               Heathen
               Deities
               ,
            
             Apollo
             and
             Diana
             .
          
           
             *
             The
             Motto
             
               of
               the
               King's
               Medal
            
             .