New poems, songs, prologues, and epilogues never before printed / written by Thomas Duffett ; and set by the most eminent musicians about the town. Duffett, Thomas. 1676 Approx. 102 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 64 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2003-09 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A36760 Wing D2449 ESTC R10023 11989947 ocm 11989947 51998 This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal . The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission. Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A36760) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 51998) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 64:14) New poems, songs, prologues, and epilogues never before printed / written by Thomas Duffett ; and set by the most eminent musicians about the town. Duffett, Thomas. [6], 120 p. Printed for Nicholas Woolfe ..., London : 1676. First ed. Reproduction of original in Huntington Library. Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2tei.xsl, TEI @ Oxford. Re-processed by University of Nebraska-Lincoln and Northwestern, with changes to facilitate morpho-syntactic tagging. Gap elements of known extent have been transformed into placeholder characters or elements to simplify the filling in of gaps by user contributors. 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Copies of the texts have been issued variously as SGML (TCP schema; ASCII text with mnemonic sdata character entities); displayable XML (TCP schema; characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or text strings within braces); or lossless XML (TEI P5, characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or TEI g elements). Keying and markup guidelines are available at the Text Creation Partnership web site . eng English poetry -- Early modern, 1500-1700. Songs, English -- Texts. 2003-01 TCP Assigned for keying and markup 2003-02 Aptara Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2003-06 Judith Siefring Sampled and proofread 2003-06 Judith Siefring Text and markup reviewed and edited 2003-08 pfs Batch review (QC) and XML conversion NEW POEMS , SONGS , PROLOGUES and EPILOGUES . Never before Printed . Written by THOMAS DUFFETT , And Set by The most Eminent Musicians about the Town . Qui fugit Molam fugit Farinam . LONDON : Printed for Nicholas Woolfe at the End of Breadstreet , next to the Red Lion in Cheap-side . 1676. With Permission . Roger L'Estrange . September 30. 1675. THE DEDICATION TO CELIA . THe suff'ring SouldiEr , that with sliGhted pray'r , Has Often sought His just Arrears of war , Shows his Maim'd boDy to the gazing Croud , ProclAims his services and Wants aloud ; Is pity'D and whEne'r the story 's nam'd , The valour 's prAis'd , and the iNjustice damn'd ; So all by whoM Amintor'S Love is read , Will praise his Faith and blaMe the cruel Maid . While by this Name secuR'd , more close tO veil YouR blushing guilt , Against your self yoU rail ; PerhaPs the fRequeNt cheat may Make you kind , And with your language Change yOur cruel miNd . Strong NatUre does LovEs secret Paths oRdain , But Pow'rful custom doeS o're NAture reign . And those coMplaints wHich singly wanted Art , May thus unitEd , melt yoUr fRosen heart . Swift time maY bring the blessings Chance deny'd , And we May glory in thoSe cHains we hide . Pardon mY daring hope 's — And do Not what your Beauty mAde despIse ; If to onE soaring thought — My faNcy rise , It Was inspir'd — By Celia's ch Arming eyeS . T. D. TO THE READERS . I. You gentle Readers , whose lost coyn and time , Are richly paid with warbling Tune and Rime , Look up — my gingling Bells begin to chime . II. Like sated wenchers , when the charge comes on ▪ Don't the poor suff'ring Lass disown , That you gallanted so about the Town . III. Fierce Criticks , that Amboyna Justice Act , By whom each Line 's to horrid postures rackt ; Write what you 'd have me say , I 'll own the fact . IV. I 'm harden'd in my errours and should be , As known Buffoons are , from correction free , Your witty malice would be lost on me . V. The old debauch , still boldly walks the street , Lifts his half nose and shakes his palsy'd feet , While modest sinners fly from all they meet . VI. Yet fear not , Mr. Woolfe , the Book will go , When Nature's fairest works neglected grow . Monsters maintain the Master of the show . NEW POEMS , Songs , Prologues and Epilogues . Song to the Irish Tune , I. SInce Caelia's my foe , To a Desart I 'll go , Where some River For ever Shall Eccho my woe : The Trees shall appear More relenting than her ; In the morning Adorning Each leaf with a tear . When I make my sad mone To the Rocks all alone , From each hollow Will follow Some pitiful grone . But with silent Disdain She requites all my pain , To my mourning Returning No answer again . II. Ah caelia adieu , When I cease to pursue , You 'll discover No Lover Was ever so true . Your sad Shepherd flies From those dear cruel eyes , Which not seeing His being Decaies , and he dies . Yet t is better to run To the Fate we can't shun , Then for ever To strive , for What cannot be won . What ye gods have I done , That Amyntor alone Is so treated And hated For Loving but one . The Complaint . ONe Saint with equal and impartial ears , The Vows of many sev'ral sinners hears : Nor is she to the first that Pray'd , most kind , The truest Zeal , does still most pity find . As many Lovers to your shrine repair , At your bright Eyes to offer up their Pray'r ; But with unequal pity you reward , True Vows are scorn'd , while Hypocrites are heard . So persecutions on the faithful wait , While the Apostate thrives in every State. Perhaps my suff'rings must your power shew , Love , like Religion must have Martyrs too . Once more for mercy to your feet I fly ; Alas I cannot change , and would not die : No Saint in th' other World will pity shew , To one that never thought their Worship due , Nor ever Pray'd to any Saint but you . Song set by Mr. Marsh junior . COme all you pale Lovers that sigh and complain , While your beautiful Tyrants but laugh at your pain ; Come practice with me To be happy and free , In spight of Inconstancy , Pride or Disdain . I see , and I Love , and the Bliss I enjoy , No Rival can lessen , nor envy destroy . My Mistriss so fair is , no Language or Art , Can describe her Perfection in every part , Her meen's so Gentile , With such ease she can kill : Each look with new passion she captives my heart . I see , &c. No Rival , &c. Her smiles the kind message of Love from her Eyes , When she frowns 't is from others her Flame to disguise , Thus her Scorn or Spight I convert to delight , As the Bee gathers Hony where ever he flies . I see , &c. No Rival , &c. My Vows she receives from her Lover unknown , And I fancy kind answers although I have none . How Blest should I be If our Hearts did agree ! Since already I find so much Pleasure alone . I see , and I Love , and the Bliss I enjoy , No Rival can lessen , nor Envy destroy . To Madam M. H. MAdmen we pity , though their crimes we hate , And lay the guilt on their too rigid Fate . Rob'd by your Eyes of Reason and of Sense ▪ Your Beauty may excuse my great offence . He that does seriously of sins Repent , Unto the Gods appears as Innocent ; Never was Penitence more true than mine , Then Pardon me , for you are all Divine . Conditional Love. THe sad unhappy Merchant that beholds A late tempestuous Ocean gently smile , While yet each Wave his wrackt Estate infolds , And seems to Triumph o're the wealthy spoil : Stands shivering 'twixt hope and fierce despair , He fain would hazard all he has once more , At once his many losses to repair ; But first his Cargo does at home ensure : So does the sad Fidelio doubting stand , While fair Miranda's sparkling eyes he sees , Longing to have the Jewel in his hand , But loth to trust his heart to Loves false Seas . Insulting Fortune , and deluding Love , So often have betray'd my easie heart , Their fairest shows my Faith can hardly move , From the remaining stock of peace to part . Yet would I pay an age of sighs and pain , Pass all the storms by Fortune rais'd or Art , If you 'd ensure I should at last obtain Th' unvalu'd Treasure of your Love and Heart , Let not my Passion be misunderstood , To make Conditions does it strength evince : The Valiant Souldier that has lost his blood , And after been neglected by his Prince ; Though all his heart 's with war and glory fill'd , Till his reward 's assur'd the battle flies , That done , none goes more boldly to the field , None lives more faithful or more bravely dies . To Francelia . IN cruelty you greater are , Then those fierce Tyrants who decreed , The Noblest prisoner ta'n in war , Should to their gods a Victim bleed . A year of pleasures and delight , The happy prisoner there obtain'd , And three whole daiese'r deaths long night , In pow'r unlimited he reign'd . To your Victorious Eyes I gave My heart a willing Sacrifice ; A tedious year have been your slave , Felt all the pains Hate could devise . But two short hours of troubl'd Bliss , For all my suffrings you restore ; And wretched I must die for this , And never never meet you more : Never , how dismally it sounds ! If I must feel eternal pain , Close up a while my bleeding wounds , And let me have my three daies reign . On a Rose taken from Francelia's Breast . I. POor hapless Emblem of Amyntors Heart , Thy blooming Beauty 's overcast ; Deep shades of grief seem to o'respread each part , Yet still thy fragrant sweets do last . II. Thou wer 't not , when my dearest Nymph is kind , In all thy Pride so Blest as I , She gone my wounded heart thy fate does find , So does it droop , and so will die . III. What joyful blushes did thy leaves adorn ! How gay ! how proudly didst thou swell ! When in Francelia's charming Bosom worn , That Paradise where Gods would dwell . VI. O had my heart thy happy place possest , It never had from thence been torn , But like a Phoenix in her spicy nest , It still should live and ever burn . V. No wonder thy perfume so near thy death Still lasts , though thy Vermilion's gone , Thy sweets were borrow'd from her sweeter breath , Thy fading colour was thy own . VI. See how my burning sighs thy leaves have dry'd , Where I have suck'd thy stol'n sweets , So does the am'rous youth caress his Bride , And print hot kisses on her lips . VII . Hadst thou ungather'd fall'n , among the rest Lost and forgotten thou hadst been , Thou hadst not flourish'd in Francelia's brest , Nor been the Subject of my Pen. VIII . Amber dissolv'd and beaten Spices smell , That Gold is valu'd most that 's prov'd , Coy beauty 's lost , but lasting fame will tell Their praise that love and are belov'd . Song set by Mr. Marsh senior . THe spring with fresh beauties hath drest up each field , And the gardens with sweets and soft musick are fill'd , The Birds pretty notes to new pleasures invite , And Nature herself appears young with delight ; Sad Strephon sees this , but can be no partaker , His Nymph is unkind and he cannot forsake her . Amidst all these glories I walk like a shade , And adore the bright Nymph by whose Eyes I 'm betray'd ; Each moment her shape to my fancy appears , I sigh , and I court her to stay with my tears . But when my imbraces their pris'ner would make her , Francelia flies off and I cannot o'retake her . Asleep I am happy , for then she seems kind ▪ But some God that does Envy the Blessings I find : The imbraces , the smiles , O the joys in extream , 'T is Heav'n to have her , though but in a dream . Disturbs my short sleep that from me he might take her , And then she 's unkind , yet I cannot forsake her . Great Love , whose high power we strive with in vain , Let her share in my sighs , or give me her disdain ; Shew her all the delights of a mutual flame , The greatness and truth of my Passion proclaim . One Arrow of thine to Loves joys would awake her , And when my Nymph's kind I will never forsake her . To Francelia . LOve without hope of Pity who can bear ? Consuming fire-brands in his Bosom wear ? Always endure Diseases of the mind , Still forc'd to seek what he must never find ? Pardon me Madam , for I must complain , Sure you may hear , though not relieve my pain . Those that a glorious Martyrdom pursue , When certain and eternal joy's in view ; On their Tormentors cruelty complain , And sigh aloud in the beloved flame : The short liv'd fires that round their bodies roul , Soon end their griefs , but leave their Spirits whole ; Love ever burns the never dying Soul. Condemn'd to death without hopes of reprieve , What they no more can keep with ease they give , I bleed and die for you ev'n while I live . If Love 's requited with such rigid fate , What tortures can you find to punish Hate ? Ah Francelia ! If in your heart I ne'r must gain a room , At least be cunning in the cruel doom : Your eyes from your too charming eyes I took , My first deep wound was conquer'd with a look . O let me read that fair condemning book , 'Till I have gaz'd away my panting breath , I 'd give the world to dy so sweet a death . Alas ! In vain I sigh , in vain I rave , Like drowning men in vain my hands I wave , And cry to one that can but will not save ; As thirsty Trav'lers in a sandy plain , Call to the scorching Sun for help in vain , Which drinks all moisture up but sends no rain . When friends or bus'ness for my presence stay , Love and Francelia call another way ; My feet move on , my thoughts are fix'd on her , Dreaming of kindness I shall never hear ; I know not how , for what , or where I run , Till at the window I behold my Sun ; In vain the envious Casement's shut , alas , The daz'ling Jewel sparkles through the Case , Like beautious Pictures through a Crystal glass : Swifter then Lightning it consumes my heart , Leaving no marks on the exterior part . At last , at last be kind , O do but prove The charming sweets of a successful Love. Why should dull custom or cold fear prevent Pleasures so sweet , and Joys so innocent ? What e'r the World pretends to you or me , Francelia and Amyntor still are free . Must I not see you ? Why will you create Laws more severe , than Virtue , Man or Fate ? If at your feet I wait your lov'd command , And breath my Soul in kisses on your hand , While thousand Beauties in your eyes do shine , And raise as many smiling joys in mine , To heat your speech , while pleasure stops my own ; Then sigh and wish that you were mine alone . Where is the Crime ? Virtue all this has taught , But if you hate me , — O that dismal thought , It Stabs — my pen falls from my trembling hand , My heart beats faintly , all my Spirits stand . If still your Servant you with hate pursue , Let me receive my doom from none but you ; And like a Christian Lover , my last breath Shall praise and pardon her that caus'd my death . Song set by Mr. Staggins . To the Tune of Augusta . FRancelia's heart is still the same , Cold and hard as Winters morning , Round her Love is ever burning , Yet no Sighs or Frowns can ever Warm her Ice , or cool my Feaver . So much I think and talk of her , That ev'ry Grove and Stream can name her ; All the Nymphs and Ecchos blame her : If she keeps her cruel fashion , Only death can ease my Passion . All the Arts that Lovers have , All the Vows , and all the anguish , All the looks with which I languish , Move not her to any feeling ; Beauty takes delight in killing . A Rant against the God of Love. I. THou damn'd perpetual peevish folly , Curse of a quiet life , Father and Child of lazy Melancholy , Author of publick care and secret strife , Expensive ruine , everlasting cheat , Belov'd consumption of the great , Plague of the poor : Son of a salted frothy Whore ; Whose Emblematick birth , Foretold her mischiefs to the misbelieving Earth ▪ II. So rotten and so base The Embryo was , The Gods in Heav'n and Earth ▪ could find no place Impure enough for such vile Midwifry , But drenched it in the Worlds sink , the Sea ; There by the rapid motion , And the briny pickle of the Ocean , Which like a sickly Stomach , strove To disembogue the Potion On the resisting Rocks , who drove The Poyson back again Into the troubl'd main : Preserv'd from dissolution , It became The Queen of Beauty , Lust and Shame . III. Thy lawless Sire , Compos'd of Rapine , Blood and Fire . God of destructive Rage , and War ; Lean Poverty and Desolation , are The Blessings which do fall from his vainglorious Car. With horrid slaughter all imbru'd , With Curses and with hate pursu'd , He Venus woo'd : The Union of this matchless pair , Of Rash and Brave , Lustful and Fair , Produc'd this most accomplish'd Heir ; An Off-spring for such Parents fit , Eternal Moth of Treasure , Peace and Wit. The Excuse . TRansports of Passion cannot be withstood , Therefore are pardon'd by the wise and good . Anger in misbecoming language flies , And o're the kindest Friends would Tyrannize . Enlarging joyes like swelling Torrents roul , All prudent caution from the fearless Soul. And griefs contracting pain benumbs each sense , Driving the care of life and safety thence . What then should be forgiv'n to o●e that 's fill'd With Love , to which all other Passions yield ? And what compassion should that Lover gain , Whose heart at once all Passions did sustain ? When I my dear Francelia sought to meet , I saw her trouble , and I griev'd to see 't ; Yet intervals of joy did grief o'repow'r , To be so near that Beauty I adore : Then storms of rage my trembling heart did seize , That I should injure whom I 'd die to please . Armies of diff'rent thoughts at once possest , Conquer'd and chang'd the purpose of my brest ; But Love , resistless Love , whose slave I am , Hurrid'd me on , and ev'ry stop o'recame . When rapid flame some petty house surrounds , Th' amazed owners fear no death or wounds , But flighting all concerns of pain or health , Fly through fire to save a little wealth . Loves raging flame on all my Vitals preys , And ev'ry part insensibly decays . And can you , Madam , think it much that I Should for relief to th' Crystal Fountain fly ? O pardon me , and I 'll no more contend , But like a Willow bow to ev'ry wind . And all your blasts of Scorn and Anger bear , Until my Suff'rings do the Tempest tire , Or by my fall the great example prove , Of endless Cruelty and matchless Love. Song set by Mr. Smith . LIberty , Liberty ! Reason and Love are at War , No more on wild Passion I 'll wait , Or cringe to an upstart despair , The Creature of idle conceipt . Draw up my thoughts , let Shame the Fight begin , Charge to the heart , O let not Hope get in , 'T is Loves Heroe , if that appear in his defence , A thousand thousand reasons cannot force him thence . Victory , Victory ! Love the Usurper is fled , His Flames and his Arrows are spent , The toys by which Fools are misled , To adore what themselves do invent . The thing appears that did support his cause ▪ How pale she looks that to my heart gave Laws ! The Nymph's vanish'd , set are the Suns that made me blind , And only Woman , vain weak Woman 's left behind . Phillida , Phillida ! What 's of my Goddess become ? O where is the shape and the Meen , Whose presence has oft struck me dumb , Whose beauty I thought all Divine ? As in the dark to one o'recome by fear , Deformed shapes and sprites seem to appear . The fond Lover strange wonders in his Nymph does find , When all the Charms are in his own deluded mind . To Madam R. P. REason and Love , their ancient feud laid by , Equally strive to raise your power high , Beauty , Loves never failing dart in you , Exceeds all praise , and does all hearts subdue . Cupid in ev'ry careless smile is drest , Kindling a fire in the beholders breast . And Reason , if the slave don't straight submit , Proclaims your Virtue and Victorious Wit ; Love give the charge , and Reason strengthens it . Alas what heart can make resistance , where Youth , Beauty , Wit and Virtue do appear ? Gratitude to Fidelia . THe Frantick Zealot who to Bliss aspires , On Racks of care and mortifi'd desires , Mistakes the way , by blind devotion driv'n ; Your favours lead me to a sweeter Heav'n . As Souls of Lovers murther'd with despair , Do hover still where their fair Tyrants are . On you I waited till your kind reprieve Rais'd my long buri'd hope , and made me live . Eternal blessings your great favour pay , Delights unclouded , Joys without allay : Fate ever smiling like perpetual day . In extasies of pleasing thought I see , Divine Fidelia smiling bow to me . Each hour my Soul recals the Bliss and then , Languishing dies , till I enjoy 't agen . If one short beam of hope such raptures move , Ah! what would my ador'd Fidelia's Love ? Fidelia . With strugling Doubts and dying Hopes opprest , My heart is wandring in a Sea of fire . I see , but cannot reach the port of rest , Forc'd back by Storms of fear and fierce desire . No happy Star , but Fair Fidelia's Eyes Can change the Scene of my decaying state , And turn this Tempest to a Paradise ; Beauty commands all hearts and conquers fate . Loves greatest pleasure to his stupid foes , Seems childish folly in a grave disguise , So sacred Worship to the Atheist shows , Who 's dully blest and ignorantly wise . Those that Religion for brisk Wit deny , And slight sweet Love for Wine or flattering mirth , Are cheated with false pleasures , while they fly The Bliss of Heav'n , and greatest joys on Earth . One smile to me from my Fidelia's Eye , Is more then Kings can give , or Empire buy . The Mistake . I. ALas how short ? how false and vain ? Are the uncertain joys of man , But O how true ? how fixed are His restless pain ? His certain grief and never ceasing Care ? The Trees that bend with flakes of Snow , Spring will adorn with verdant Leaves . The Fruitful Grain that buried lyes , In joyful Blades again shall rise And grow , To pay the Rusticks pain with golden Sheaves . But man , poor wretched man , Once in Loves boundless Ocean launch'd , no more Returns again to joys forsaken shore . II. By flatt'ring hope deceiv'd , For what is wish'd is soon believ'd ; Francelia's favour like a chearful Sun , I thought on her Amyntor shone , Which swell'd my joys to such a wild extreme , I made an Idol of each daz'ling beam . Pardon my easie Faith , O fond deluded Soul , 'T was but a waking dream , Thy comforts vanish'd but thy grief is whole . III. Rivers by Ebbing Waves left dry , Returning Tides as swiftly fill ; The Vally that does lowest lie , Ends at the rising of a Hill. All things to change do swiftly hast , A welcome light Succeeds each night ; Only my Passion and my Pain must last , Since my Francelia's rigid doom is past . Confin'd as sinners are in Hell , I see with Envy , where the Happy dwell . Deep Lakes and rugged way , My passage stay ; But Ah how soon , That weak defence should down , Were it not guarded by my Angels frown ! IV. Mistaken Hope , be gone , Wait on the Happy and the Fair , To whom thy cheats are yet unknown , Let sad Amyntors fate alone ; Thy fading smiles increase despair , Without a murmur or an alter'd face , My unrelenting fate I will imbrace . So close my fire shall be confin'd , I will not trust the whisp'ring wind . My Sighs shall Fan the Flame and feed the smart , Till it consume my rash despised heart ; Then one short grone shall fix a lasting date , To this long difference of Love and Hate , Unless our present thoughts attend our future state . That point I 'll leave to those that here are blest ; Souls with neglected Love and Grief opprest , Can find no greater Hell by seeking Rest. Mine to discover seats of Bliss or Woe Would freely goe , Were it assur'd Francelia though too late , Would sigh and say she was ingrate , A Love so True deserv'd a kinder Fate . Song set by Mr. Marsh senior . DOwn with this Love that has made such a pother , This Jack with a Lanthorn that leads us a round , Till with dull Marriage we cheat one another , For joys that do vanish as soon as th' are found . Repent , ye proud Nymphs , for your tricks shall not pass , We 'l change no more Gold and good Stones for your Glass . While so severely you rail at the pleasure , And kill the poor Lover that 's at your command , Like Doctors you turn your heads from the treasure , But , O how you grasp what is put in your hand . Repent , &c. We 'l change , &c. When the short minute we sigh'd for , is over , The Nymph is more brisk and more kind than before , But how dejected and dull is her Lover , To find all his Passion can purchase no more . Repent , &c. We 'l change , &c. The Resolve . I. FOrtune , I scorn thee now , Thou hast not left one dart , To move my harden'd heart , Or cloud my smiling brow . Like cunning Tyrants , thy severest pain Thou keptst till last : It racks my Soul , but yet I 'll not complain . When this short fit is past , I 'll never Love nor Grieve again . II. Thou canst not any mighty conquest boast , For had I never won , I had not lost ; Then we are even , And after this , What ever comes amiss Or well , I 'll take as sent from Heaven . Thou art no more with me A Deity . Chance , Fortune , Fate , y' are all but empty names , Since fair Francelia thus the War proclaims . Love , Joy , Grief , who Lord it so o're slaves , hence I 'm down , but from my fall , I 'll rise above you all , Shake off your Chains , and be in thought a Prince . III. Ah Francelia must I never ? Curse on my fond heart , It heaves and pants still loth to quit the pleasant smart , Thou shalt submit or break , Swell on , I 'll never speak , Nor look , nor write , nor think , nor hope , nor fear . Be wise , my heart , thou canst not hers subdue , She loves already , none can well love two . Hate all the World since th' art despis'd by her : Or if thou ever canst again Be sensible of Joy or Pain , Rejoyce thou wer 't not poorly slain , But by a Beauty which o're all does reign : Rejoyce that thou lov'dst her alone , And though thy service she disown , Yet pitty her that can adore A man that loves a hundred more . O're one small Province to command alone , Is sweeter than to share a mightly Throne . Song set by Mr. Staggins . WHy should we e'r Beauty fade , Slaves to care and age be made , Since our flying youth can no more be had . Where Love and Mirth do call , let 's go And crop new joys each minute as they grow ; Tomorrows fate there 's none can know . Let 's sing and laugh sad thoughts away , Mirth shall rule the active day , And the night to raptures of Love we 'l pay . Thus should youth in pleasures reign ; And gods that cannot put on Earth again , Shall wish for such delights in vain . To the King on his Birth-Day . 1675. Song set by Mr. Staggins . GReat Love and mighty War be gone , With all your flatt'ring charms and glorious noise . A nobler theme our Art imploys , A theme for gods to think upon . Let the glad sound , Which our voyces deliver , Rebound To the Hills , from the River , Thence to the Sky Let the shrill Eccho fly . On the winds nimble wing , Round the Earth let her run , Like the rays of the Sun , That all may rejoyce for the life of the King. Chorus . O how blest is the day that your birth has made great ! And how happy , how happy are we that do see 't ! While we offer up Vows to the Gods in a Song , That your Fame may shine bright , As the Worlds great light , And your Reign may continue as long . Long life and never-fading health , A mind untroubl'd as the sleep of Saints , When Heavens joy the fancy paints . New Mines of never-ending wealth . Hearts that are true , And devoted to Heaven And you , All the gods have e'r given , Kindly to bless The soft pleasures of Peace . All that story can bring , And the joys yet unknown Be contracted in one , And for ever attend on the life of the King. Chorus . O how blest is the day that your birth has made great ! And how happy , how happy are we that do see 't ! While we offer up Vows to the Gods in a Song , That your Fame may shine bright , As the Worlds great light , And your Reign may continue as long . To the Queen . Set by Mr. Marsh senior . MOunt , mount , my Muse : Up to the gods aspire , And take a spark of their Celestial fire ; No influence else fit raptures can raise , To sing great Gloriana's praise . Her Heav'nly smiles more joys create , Than dawning day to wand'rers brings : Than peace to a decaying state , Or thriving War to youthful Kings . Nature , no longer boast thy flatt'ring snares , Thy Gems , thy Flowers , and thy Stars . Wise Lovers , that quickly coy Beauties would gain , Compare them no more to things fading and vain , But what 's more resistless , more sweet and more fair , To the Beams of her Eyes , or the Nets of her Hair. The Royal graces of her mind , So glorious are , so unconfin'd ; Those happy slaves that on her wait , That can behold and imitate The Zeal that in her worship flames , Will for their never-dying names , With Saints on Earth gain blest abodes , And place their Souls among the gods . A Persuasive to Love. HOw long , O dearer then my Soul ? how long Shall weak distrust my Passion wrong ? And make each prattling child of fear , The shape of monstrous danger wear . Your Honor and your safety are , Of all my thoughts the chiefest care . Dearer to me , than precious breath To wealthy Misers near their death : Than Heirs to mighty names , above The joys and hopes of all my Love. Fix'd like a Statue I would stand , While some bold Villains bloody hand , Tears from my breast my panting heart . Die smiling at the greatest smart , E'r one kind word or favour shown By my fair Goddess , should be known . But Ah! too well , too well I know , The cause that makes you fly me so ; You fear to see the wounds you make , Lest pity your hard heart awake : Pity , the noblest Virtue of the mind , For sure 't is Virtue to be kind , Since Heav'n to pity is so much inclin'd . Fear not our meeting should be known , Believe my heart and trust your own . Why should the blessing be delay'd ? The price of Love we both have pay'd : You when that — was betray'd . That damnd — which all my curses bears ; My heart weeps blood to pay your precious tears . All I have suffer'd , ev'n your Hate . That crime can never expiate . Like seeds that must to flowers spread , Our Love with water has been fed ; Our Love ! O pardon what I said , My wishes do my pen mislead : Yet I 'll wish on , wish that my dear Lov'd me as much as I love her , Then should my flame so faithful prove , I 'd recompence your Grief with Love. Such joys , such pleasures , Love can give , As none but Lovers can believe . As one in false Religion bred , Whose Faith , by Sense and Custom 's led ; Derides the myst'ries more Divine , Till Practice does his Faith refine . Of Love such may your fancy be , But then , my Dearest , think of me : Of me , who , spight of adverse Fate , Strengthen'd by all your Scorn and Hate , Have never yet apostatiz'd , So sweet is Love although despis'd . The hope at last success to gain , ( For Hope does still with Love remain . ) Brings Comfort in the midst of Pain . Try , O my dear Francelia , try But one short minute , Love and see What Heav'nly joys , what extasie , Do in your presence wait on me . Song set by Mr. Le Grange . WIth a damn'd sullen fate let 's no longer conspire , To feed the fierce torments of fear and desire ? Thy frowns and coy looks do thy Passion discover , My care to conceal it declares I'm thy Lover . Then why should we fear the smooth Ocean of Love , Since padling and straining will keep us above ? Let bus'ness and wealth to their Chaos be hurl'd , 'T is Love's the delight and support of the World. He that dotes on his bags while his passing Bell touls , The modest Platonicks that talk of their Souls , The grave men of State that are wise in Grimaces , The canting Reformers that say such long Graces , The fur'd men of Law those deciders of doubt , When Passion is stirring do briskly cry out , Let bus'ness , &c. 'T is Love's , &c. Song set by Mr. Hart. BElieve me , dear Mall , For I 've traded with all Those of name and Estate , That have made the Town prate Of their many brave deeds and great forces , When they come to the matter Are weaker then water , And have nothing that 's strong but their purses . With high jellys and broth , They make the blood froth , Which creates a false fire , And a sickly desire . They imbrace her as if they could eat her , Such eager hot flashes , Straight turn into ashes , And deceive both themselves and the creature . Mother — gives this For a Maxim to Miss , For thy grandeur and fame , Keep a Cock of the game ; But a tough brawny dunghil to tread ye . Let the wealth of thy Cully Provide for thy Bully , Then his weapon will always be ready . The Rival , a Song set by Mr. Marsh senior . INsult not too much on thy fading success , For all that thou hast , I before did possess , I know , my fair Rival , how happy thou art , I know all the secret delights of thy heart . To tempt thee those pleasures were taken from me , And to please some new beauty he 'l take 'em from thee . When first thy Ambition was flatter'd , how sweet ? How dazling was power and wealth at thy feet ? How dear were the minutes when Passion was young , And plaid with the languishing Eyes and the Tongue ? What follow'd , ye gods , I remember too well , Such pleasures , such pleasures no tongue can revele . But e'r long thy fond Heart and sad Eyes will deplore That Coldness and Scorn I lamented before . Thy Beauty and Humor , which makes thee so fair , Will pine with pale Envy , and end in Despair . If then thy lost heart can its freedom regain , More sweet it will be o're thy Passion to reign . I am free from the pangs of desire and hate , I envy no Lovers their wretched estate ; No wishes or fears or fierce jealousies keep My eyes on the rack , or afright my soft sleep But safe on the Shore without Passion I see Poor Lovers tormented and lost on the Sea. The Modish Lover . Song set by Mr. Marsh senior . AT last I find 't is vain to believe The Coy or Kind any Cure can give To a heart that to Love does incline Like mine , Fruition is but a reprieve . I thought my first flame Would still be the same . If Cloris could Love , O I 'd ever be true ; But Love is so blind , When Cloris was kind , I chang'd for less Beauty to one that was new . I felt again the pleasure and smart , The joy and pain which captives the heart . And as many true Oaths as before I swore , From Phillis I never would part . The next pretty face Got Phillis's place , Which my Vows and my Passion as hotly pursu'd : The next did appear More charming than her , And thus are my torments for ever renew'd . When I love one who thinks she's above Loves sacred throne , whom nothing can move , Who thinks that 't is great to appear Severe , And slight the soft pleasures of love ; I fly for relief To the next pretty thief : And to quench my hot flame I seek a new fire ; But never could meet That Beauty or Wit , Whose love or disdain , could confine my desire . All things of course to change do submit , O're-rul'd by force , by fortune or wit ; Then how can a Lover compel His will , When Beauty and Fate wo'n't permit ? Where Love does invite I 'll seek my delight , And give the same freedom to her I adore . Though many pretend Their flame can ne'r end , That woman 's deceiv'd that believes any more . Song set by Mr. Marsh senior . CLoris I come to learn my fate , To Love we are accus'd , Who mad to see his pow'r and state By easie mirth abus'd ; Has from thy Eyes a real dart Into my breasts convey'd , And now tormented by the smart , I come to thee for aid . Since you so long did feed my flame , Till in my heart you reign'd , Since you did know and did not blame My Passion that was feign'd , Condemn not with your cruel frown The story of my fate , It is injustice to disown The Love you did create . Why should you now refuse to hear , What once you did invite ? If Love when dress'd in truth appear Less able to delight . Let me in jest loves pleasure tast , I never will complain ; So the deluding cheat may last , I 'll ne'r love truth again . Thus Damon woo'd but all in vain , She still was more unkind . His Vows could no belief obtain , No pitty could he find . But when he ceas'd to be her slave , And all her scorn repay'd , The Nymph relented and she gave What she so long delay'd . To Miranda . MEn vainly boast the pow'r that nature gave . All-conqu'ring Beauty rules the King and Slave . Read fair Miranda's charming face , and then Tell me where 's the prerogative of men . Here Natures self in all her gayest dress , All her delights and power does express ; And with true lustre free from fading Art , Rules ev'ry Eye , and reigns o're ev'ry heart . No formal pride her Beauty does o'reshade . O happy man , for whom this blessings made ! Let her in joys for ever live , while I , Doom'd for her Victim , at Loves Altar die . Song set by Mr. Smith . I Sigh'd and I Writ , And imploy'd all my Wit , And still pretty Silvia deny'd ; 'T was Virtue I thought , And became such a sot , I ador'd her the more for her pride . Till mask'd in the Pit My coy Lucrece I met , A croud of gay Fops held her play ; So brisk and so free With her smart repartee , I was cur'd and went blushing away . Poor Lovers mistake , The addresses they make With Vows to be constant and true . Though all the Nymphs hold For the sport that is old , Yet their play-mates must ever be new ▪ Each pretty new toy They would dye to enjoy , And then for a newer they pine ; But when they perceive Others like what they leave , They will cry for their bauble agen . One fall'n in love with the sight of a Ladies — Song set by Mr. Marsh senior . I Long was tormented with Envy and Rage , At the freedom that 's us'd in this amorous age , To see the brisk youth even while I was by , Court the Nymph that I lov'd as freely as I : But Fortune , for which I shall ever adore her , Has show'd me a Beauty which is my restorer . So pretty , so plump , such a delicate shape , Such a pure Red and White , as no heart can escape . All the raptures of Poets the skin doth surpass , Without any help of Paint , Patches or Glass . An Innocent wash that 's of Natures own making , Is all it e'r us'd for to make it so taking . Though blind , the deep wounds that it gives more surprise , Then the Stars or the Di'monds of Phillis's Eyes ; Had it sight , it would always be staring abroad , And make the whole World esteem it a God. Its mouth has such melting agreeable motion , All Nations fall down to 't with heat of devotion . 'T is veil'd like a Spaniard but guarded much more , By the Virtue of Sylvia which waits at the door ; A Champion so jealous no force or design , Can gain a new sight of 't until it is mine . Yet this makes me happy , for though 't is so pretty , It ne'r will be common , like Phillis or Betty . Ah Sylvia , how soon all my sorrows would end ! If you heard the advice of your beautiful friend . It show'd , when I saw it , as if 't would be kind , O be not severe to the dumb and the blind . There can be no change or decay in my Passion , 'T is caus'd by a Beauty that 's ne'r out of fashion . Song set by Mr. Marsh senior . NAy pr'y thee no more of this love masquerade , Now all sorts of Fops are grown old in the trade . All the pleasure is gone , And the cheat's so well known , That 't will ruine more Lovers than ever it made . If you think y' are a wit and would fain have me know it , You must leave this dull rode of the over-rid Poet. Alexis and Damon , and twenty Swains more , Have been Sighing and Vowing a hundred times o're . Let me dye , and all that , Is insipid and flat , And your Courtship 's as serious to every Whore. Ah charming Divine ! and O sweet preety Creature ! Is so old , the Amour of a Cobler is greater . You torture a Song till you make the ears ake , Your Alamode wit from the Play-house you take ; And are airy and bold While the borrow'd stock hold , But more mouths than a disciplin'd Monkey you make When 't is spent ; and with Cringes and new fashion'd Curses , Or the price of your Trappings make up your discourses . These shallow designs , and the plots that you cast , Can never prevail o're a woman that 's Chast. And a Wench so well knows Where to take all your blows , That she turns your Weapon against you at last . If such humorous folly can raise love in any , Scaramouch will be sooner prefer'd then his Zany . Epilogue to The Shoomaker 's a Gentleman , Spoken by the Master-Shoomaker . DEar Brothers of the Gentle Craft you see Th' original of our Gentility ; We have new vamp'd , new soald , and made it tite , Lend us your aid to keep it still upright . These Goths and Vandals who do hate your glory , Are met to rase this monumental story . Stand boldly to 't now is the heat o' th' Battle , Let Crispin live , and let Saint Hugh's bones rattle . Valentines Day . BEfore the youthful Spring had dy'd The Earth with Flora's checquer'd pride . Before the new thaw'd fields were seen Dress'd in a joyful Summers green . Grey bearded Winters frosty Chain , Was just dissolv'd by Phoebus Wain ; And the aspiring God flown high , To guard the Spring in 's Infancy , Inviting Flora from her bed , To rob her of her Maiden-head ▪ E'r fair Aurora's blushing head Had edg'd the Eastern Hills with red , My restless fancy guided me Into a happy privacy , Where the embracing Trees had made A pleasant , though yet leafless shade . Each naked branch in coupling wise , A pretty harmless love-knot ties ; From which conjunction Nature shoots Sweet blossoms and delicious fruits . The winged musick of the Air , Did to this am'rous Grove repair ; And with their tempting notes did grace The various pleasures of the place . As I surpris'd with wonder sate , Each Bird chose out his feather'd mate , And seeming fearful of delay , Through yielding Air they cut their way , Some to the Woods , some to the Groves , To consummate their eager Loves . So have I seen at Hymens feasts , A company of youthful guests , A thousand ways advance delight ; But when the long-wish'd lazy night , To bed invokes the blushing Bride , Loves endless quarrel to decide , A silent envy spreads each face , The Men wish his , the Maids her place : And e'r that single Wedding 's o're , It gives a birth to many more . Musing how pow'rful Nature was , Sometimes through prickly thorns I pass , Whose winding branches seem'd to court Me to attend the harmless sport . Sometimes I walk by Crystal Springs , Whose gliding streams in circling rings , Unto the musick listning stood , Till prest by the pursuing flood , Their angry murmurs did betray , How loth they were to pass away . Grown weary with this pleasing sight , Excess of pleasure dulls delight , To rest my drowzy sense I sought The softest , sweetest , grassie plot , But as I wand'red here and there , A voice arrests my idle ear , Which from a neighb'ring thicket flyes , Drawn thither by my greedy Eyes . Two loving Rogues within it lay , And thus I heard the Puppets play . Long did I muse but all in vain , What wanton stars that day did reign . But as my steps did homewards stray I met my Phoebe by the way , My Phoebe , whose commanding Eyes , Had made my heart her Sacrifice ; To her fair hand I paid a kiss , But she return'd a greater bliss , Presenting Violets to me , Good morrow Valentine , said she . Prologue to a Play Acted privately . PRologues , those pleasing and successful ways , To gain protection for ill written Plays , Most useful are in our ingenious times , To cloud brisk nonsense and amazing times ; Th' are interpos'd like flashy glaring light , For they the judgment cheat , as that the sight . Now Poets like the worst Mechanicks grown , Do rail at others ware to sell their own . The last new Play still th' other house does huff , To set some newer mess of folly off . Poor harmless Punck they fiercely do abuse , Because she did Heroick love refuse , Or made the running Nag out-strip the Muse. Finding that Gallants now do Spaniel like , Fawn most on those whose Satyrs deepest strike . Fop , Critick , Flaxen Wig , the Miss and Cit , Are daily massacr'd by Prologue Wit , A modish wheedle to amuse the Pit ; With dropping follyes of their own they drive them in , That their great showr's of dogrel stuff may fall unseen ; From all this mighty pother we are free'd , Our Play does no excuse or Prologue need . He , who all other Poets would devour , Who swells with Poyson suck'd from ev'ry flowr , Who rakes up dirt and lays it by his door , To make his glitt'ring dross seem golden Ore ; Ev'n he , when his Satyrick humour reign'd , Permitted this rare Play to pass unstain'd . Now to our selves — By railing first your censures which we fear , We may prevent or make them less severe ; But to oblige you rather we 'l believe , None will so rudely take what we so freely give . If any should condemn our harmless sport , We will not plead high presidents from Court : But with an equal rashness we 'l maintain , If serious , he 's a formal Fop , whose brain Does envy what it never could attain . The brisker Criticks we 'l debauch'd proclaim , Mere noise and froth without or salt or flame . How patiently the Verestreet croud do stay , And for loud zealous nonsense weep and pray ▪ So eager are they to be led astray . Had you but half their zeal for no expe 〈…〉 With founder reason and far better 〈…〉 You all may go much more reform'd from hence . Prologue to a Play Acted privately . I Know your thoughts , and see in ev'ry Eye The dreadful marks of a censorious spie ; You come , as modish wits to Church these times , Not to reform , but note the speakers crime . Our case is hard , we must be censur'd still , For Acting first , and then for Acting ill . We want brave Scenes , gay Clothes and Confidence , More fit for Players than their Wit or Sense . I 〈…〉 you would say now — since 't is thus , What 's th●ir design to fool themselves and us ? Tell me , why with such mighty cost and care Our jaunty youth to Masquerades repair ? Why in such raptures they return back , What sport ? what pleasures we have had , dear Jack ? What Vizards ? O what Gowns ? didst thou but see 't , When , Do you know me now ? is all the Wit , And stranger dresses daily fill the street . Why some with dull discourse and forc'd Grimaces , Take pains to be accounted serious asses ? Inspir'd by News and Coffee , with what ease They manage Empires and command great Seas ! Wasting whole days in stories which they make More vain and empty than the smoke they take . Tell me — Why some in drunken frolicks spend the night To make one knock , and cry I love the white ? Then frisk and roar until the active brain , Too great and brave for Taverns to contain , Leads them into Loves field to run at Tilt , Where many wounds are giv'n when no blood's spil●● The next dayes language to a friend is this , Rare Mirth , brisk Wine , yet hang 't , it cost a Piece : But such a fine airy Wench — Plague take the Whore , The young man found she had the Pox before ; These things will be , but Gentlemen , we know That none of you were ever wheedl'd so . Tell me , why old sage Matron did of late , Mourn o're her dog and let him lie in state ? Why some make visits six hours longs to know The health of Shock or of my Ladies Toe ? Why others to fond husbands do pretend They heard a Sermon , when they met a friend ? A thousand such ill stories we may hear , But we are confident there 's no such here . Since humor shelters all the Vice in use , We think this mirth of ours needs no excuse . Y' are all our friends and ev'ry one 's a guest , Then be like well-bred people at a Feast , Who , whether pleas'd or not , still speak the best . Epologue to the same . NOw we have done our parts , I do foresee We must the Audience , you the Actors be . And by your pithy Comments you will say , You make a Farce much better than our Play. Lord , to what desp'rate terms we are brought , For all that strive to be ingenious thought , Will show their Rares of wit by finding fault . Vain women cheated by a flatt'ring glass , Which shows fine Charms and Colours in the face , Are not with shame and anger more surpris'd , When their conceited Beauty is despis'd ; Then we like them , with scorn will hide our spight , And that applause we could not gain , will slight . Men of the Gustan , at the French house eat , Many new dishes of the self same meat , No dress not sauce their queazy sense controuls , But Novelty alone commands their Souls . If you 'l be modish , you must do so too ; Our Play is old , but all the Actors new , Such Actors as both Theatres can't make , Adzooks you are not Wits , if this don't take . If pleas'd , y' are kind and wise , but if you hiss , We know who games , who drinks , who keeps the Miss . Ladies , your close Intrigues and Loves we know , If y' are severe , your secret crimes we 'l show ; We 'l do 't — nay our revenge shall speak them worse , So fare you well , Gallants — now take your course . Prologue to Ev'ry Man out of his Humor , Spoken by Mr. Hayns , July , 1675. SO fast from Plays approv'd and Actors known , To drolling , stroling Royal Troop you run , That Hayns despa●ring is Religious grown . So Crack enjoy'd , the queazy Gallants slight , And she , though still her beauty 's in its height , In rage turns Nun and goes to Heav'n in spight . O Novelty , who can thy pow'r oppose ! Polony Bear or strange Grimace out-goes Our finest language and our greatest shows . As thick-scul'd Zealots , who from Churches fly , Think doleful nonsense good that makes them cry ; Y' are pleas'd and laugh because — you know not why . There ign'rant crouds round travel'd Gallants sit , As am'rous youths round Vizards in our Pit , And by their motions judg the Farces Wit. If they but grin , a jest is understood , All laugh outright and cry — I'gad that 's good ; When will our damn'd dull silly rogues do so ? Y' are very complaisant , I fain would know Where lies the wit and pow'r of ( il ohe . ) The modish Nymphs now ev'ry heart will win , With the surprising ways of Harlequin . O the fine motion and the jaunty mene , While you Gallants — Who for dear Missie ne'r can do to much , Make Courtships alamode de Scarramouch . Ha — ha — I could have taught you this , but let that pass , Y'have heard I 've wit , now you shall know I 've grace , I will reform — But what Religion 's best in this , lewd Town , My friends I 'm yet like most of you , of none . If I'commence , I fear it will not do , Religion has its Scarramouchys too , Whose hum's and ha's get all the praise and pence . For noise has still the upper hand of sense . Well since 't is so — I 'll keep my Station till your humors come , Though like the longing woman , now you rome , And leave all dainties for the Butchers thumb . You and vile husbands equally proceed Like rambling Bees , you quit your balm to seed On ev'ry gaudy flow'r and painted weed . When Winter comes you will again grow wise , And visit home the wife that you despise , With empty purses and with laden thighs . Epilogue to Ev'ry Man out of his Humor . HOw crosly and how kindly things do go ! Though forreign troop does very pow'rful grow , Kind Justice beats down our domestick foe . Th' inchanted Castle 's once more overthrown , That Nursery where all the youth in Town , Such deeds of Valour and of Love have shown . Britains Low Countreys , where at mighty rates The younger Brothers urg'd their needy Fates , And th' Elder got diseases for Estates . See how the scatter'd Cracks in parties fly , How like a nest of Wasps disturb'd they ply , And fiercely fix on any Fop that 's high . I warn you , though your presence theirs will bring , Be not too eager for the pretty thing ▪ The bag of Hony's sweet , but ' ware the sting . Play round the light , but from the heat retire ; For if y' are joyn'd between hot Love and Ire , Like Samsons Foxes you 'l set all on fire . Reform your selves , Reformers of the Stage , Blame not my Zeal , who can suppress their rage ? When Love and Wrath spare neither Sex nor Age. For our Play we say nothing — The merit of it will your plaudits gain , Or else new Wit would strive to prop in vain , What Iohnsons sacred mem'ry can't sustain . Prologue to The Mistaken Husband . OUr modest Poet 's in as great a fright , As a young Bride upon the marriage night , She starts and trembles when she sees the Bed , Like Criminals to Execution led ; Alas , poor thing , she 's loth to lose her head . As boys that shiver on the Rivers-brim , Enquire the warmth and depth of those that swim . She asks her marry'd friends what shall I do ? I do so shake — Ah , was it so with you ? And yet she makes a hard shift to go through : Poets were once as full of trouble too , But now th' are desperate — To lose this Play as much our Poet strives , As you to hide your Misses from your Wives , He thinks you Criticks and i'faith 't is right , Are ev'n as merciless to those write , As Husbands to their Wives o' th' Wedding night ; You care no more for Poets pains and fears , Than those fierce men regard the womens tears . At the least fault — If one snuffs and mouths it — there there she went , You open all and damn a Play by th' sent . One of our Nymphs should in my place appear , But y' are so dreadful she 's fall'n sick for fear . Those that pay dear for love , the very'st fools , Though they condemn the work , preserve the tools . Faith , Gallants , le ts compound with you to day , Be you indulgent to our Orphan Play , We 'll be as kind to you another way . Epilogue to the Mall or Modish Lovers . WHat has our Poet done you look so big ? Has he not treated you with brisk intrigue ? Some with dull Morals would affront the Age , And make a Coventicle of the Stage ; Should we but offer you such things as those be , Dam the sententious Fop — come let 's to Mosely . Had we a lively Scene , where you might see The Duck-pond-side and each beloved Tree ; It would recal such stories of your own , What on this bench or that green tuft was done , That our poor Play uncensur'd might have gone . Like boasting Greeks , Troy's Conquest you would tell , Here Helen lay , and there stout Hector fell . To that soft bank the eager foe retir'd ; There the hot breach was mann'd and City fir'd . You Rogue , cries one , the very place I see Where I and Phillis did — O happy Tree , The kind supporter of my Nymph and me . Another with fierce indignation rap't , Cries , rot her for a Bitch , there was I clap't . If you repeat next year such things as these , You 'l rub the rind off and destroy the Trees . Well may our boldest Scenes fall short of you , We do but copy , by the life you drew . Now will you rail when you are gone from hence , O hang 't , 't is baudy , all meer impudence . No serious lines will please you half so well , Unless we Huff the gods and Hector Hell. With Wit and Women you deal much at one , First you debauch , and then you cry them down . Prologue in the Vacation . WHile wars between the first rate houses cease , For want of new supplies compel'd to peace , We little fifth rates , whom they still despise , May boldly cruise and make all lawful prize , With thund'ring Tempests , Fire and Div'ls they fish , And catch adventurers by twosh and threesh . One shilling is the greatest price we wish . They in deep gulfs and spreading Oceans roul , We poor smart things put into ev'ry hole . Your fishing Bess or shoulder o'mutton Malls , I'gad we snap at ev'ry thing that sails . Then for your Company , look , I dare swear Y 'had ne'r the like in either Theatre , Here 's Vizards too , but look your Punks elsewhere ▪ There 's a Beauty , Heav'ns ! So smooth , so fat , Nay , never blush for such a face as that , No Miss in Town is half so plump and round , that 's flat . We have a Poet too — Who sweats and stinks for his Heroick piece As much as ever — did for his . In all we imitate the Play-house thus , Only in Acting they come short of us . Yet as old Nurse instructs young smikring Maid , When she sits stroaking little mark of Lad : See by our penny how their shilling's made . My friends , keep all your hands in sight , I pray , While we are Acting mind no other Play. Our sports but one short hour last , that all the year ; Besides no Company but ours must Act here . Prologue to The Suppos'd Prince . TRappolin suppos'd a Prince this humor shows , All pleasures do depend upon suppose . We by a strong suppose , may have to do With Wine and Women , Wit and Mony too . Thus while you think a zealous Sisters eyes Are lifted up in pious extasies , In strong suppose all her Religion lies . The modest longing girl that dares not woo , Thus does enjoy her fame and pleasure too . He that sits next a pretty female , knows His hand trembles , and something comes and goes . He gazes , faints and dyes , why all this shows The pow'r and pleasure of a sweet suppose . Those that for garnish'd dishes keep adoe , May have as wholesome Fish well butter'd too , In a plain earthen pan for half the toil ; But for suppose — for all 's but — The bodys all one flesh , and yet , dear hearts , A mere suppose makes difference of parts . All were design'd alike for our delight , Yet we suppose it fit to lose our right , And keep the sweetest both from touch and sight . Let that suppose that leads us so astray , As strongly further our supposing Play. The Duke and Trappolin must both be thought Transformed really , though they are not . Suppose that strongly thence our mirth all flows , Then we shall please you all — as we suppose . Prologue to The Armenian Queen . BEloved Miss and Punck , Vizard and Fop , All 's gone that made your modish Prologues up . Ah , Gentlemen , what hope have we to please , When we have lost such pow'rful helps as these ! Helps , that did Soul to all our actions give , Helps , without which nor you nor we can live . Though wit a thousand various ways is shown , From Love all flows , and to it all does run ; As liquors round a spacious Funnel roul , Yet all at last sinks into one small hole . You now like sev'ral Ghosts , but haunt the place , Where once your joy and life's dear treasure was , While one sits thus — his Soul 's to Windsor fled , Hunts ev'ry Closet , searches ev'ry Bed ; At last he finds his nown dear Phillis laid In some close shade , where he had often plaid At Post and Pair with some fresh Country Maid . Enrag'd with thought , he mutters out — Ah Curse ! Those that sit next believe he rails at us ; Such Plague themselves and fright our friends away , Another Ghost's imploy'd a sweeter way , Fixing his Eye upon that very place , Where he pick'd up his last obliging Lass , He sees her , Courts her , nay while he sits there , Carries her to th' Tavern , finds the very Chair ; Feels her — soft hand , her melting Eye beholds , In empty Arms her airy Body folds ; As a famous Author has it — But as the curs'd Drawer disturb'd him there , Some loud Heroick rant awakes him here ; He 's disoblig'd and huffs , the Play 's cry'd down , And we are ruin'd e'r the cause is known . Yet though you damn us all , we still Act on , But what dull sport one party makes alone ? While one thrusts on and th' other still wheels round , Between two stools — you know what falls to ground : Where both are willing there true pleasure 's found . Epilogue to The Armenian Queen . ALas , what hope does there remain for us , When y'have already shut up t'other house ; Yet we this Visitation-time stay here , When raging censure reigns and wit grows dear , In hope to gain your custom all the year . When Tempests and Enchantments fly the Town , When Prosp'ro's Devils dare not stand your frown ; They to the Country strole with painted ware , Where mighty sums of precious time they share ; While Author Punch does strange Machines prepare For their new Opera in Barthol'mew Fair. He , prick'd in Conscience that he chous'd you so , With but the Copy of a Puppet-show ; To please you , thither does invite you all , For two pence to behold th' original . They who for double prices scarce would do , Now that you are in want , do jilt you too . But we are constant still to your delight , Since dear Miss Punch is gone , 'faith do us right , And visit your poor Spouse once ev'ry night . Nay , Gentlemen , this is no strange request , For night and want do bring home Man and Beast . Epilogue by a Woman . Gentlemen , OUr mens late disappointments have made known , Without our Sex no bus'ness can be done ; They treated you just as you deal with us , You promise fair — But if you once get in , ne'r pay a souse , Women support the World and we the house . Nature and Power teach vile men to rome , We poor good humor'd things still play at home . Mens active Legs with one nights dancing grow Quite dull and tir'd — Our Tongues are never so : Their lazy Instruments are out of Tune , And then forsooth there 's nothing to be done . S'life , out or in we women ne'r lie still , While our Pit's kept warm and our Purses fill . Yet , Gallants , you may pardon them for this , We oft have Play'd when you ne'r came to see 's . Be constanter and less Capricious , How long shall we weak Vessels teach you thus ? And yet in troth y' are always kind to us ; But we must rail as cunning Lovers do , Not that y' are false but to preserve you true . You seem best pleas'd when you are most abus'd , But fawning wit and easie love 's refus'd . A murm'ring Miss revives your faint desire , And huffing Prologues raise your kindness higher ; As blustring winds increase decaying fire . Cover our matted Seats but once a day , And to content you , we 'l Act any way . Then Clap us soundly , while we Play our parts , Or else — a mischief on your stony hearts . Prologue to The Indian Emperor , Acted by the Dutchess of Portsmouth's servants , spoken by Mr. Poel . I Come from my despairing friends within , Who , conscious of the desp'rate state th' are in ▪ Dare not before their pardon 's seal'd be seen . By flatt'ring hopes of loud applause betray'd , Which they have seen to our best Actors paid . As boldly they engag'd and came thus far , As young brisk Reformadoes go to War. Success and triumphs take up ev'ry thought , They never think how hardly they are got : All 's brave and well until the foe appears , Then they begin to shrink and shake their Ears . Some few hours past with an assured meen , And chearful voice they practis'd ev'ry Scene . Do 't ? Poh ! because I did but seem to doubt , All were for turning envious Poel out ; But now my huffing Gallants come about . Mr. dear Mr. Poel — Unless you help us out we are undone , I fear they will be out to fast alone . As serious Lovers can alone explain , In some well order'd speech their am'rous pain ; But when their Beauteous Idol comes in place , All 's lost in Cringes and a begging face : Fear of offending and desire to please , Turns all to blushes and half-sentences ; Yet that confusion shows a Love more true , Than all the flow'rs of Rhetorick can do . And if our good intentions here may please , I fear you 'l have too many signs like these . They sent me to excuse their Crimes , who ought With all my skill to heighten ev'ry fault . If they should please , others would treat you thus , And mak 't a mode , then what becomes of us ? The Chamber-trade would quite shut up our house , So jarring Tradesmen , all their Int'rest made , To have the sale of Foreign Wares forbad , And great mens servants straight set up the trade . But for this once may ev'ry one that Plays , Advance your pleasure and obtain your praise . Since they engage no more to do amiss , Their fear is punishment enough for this . Epilogue to the same , spoken by a Girl . ABus'd by that insulting * Player's pow'r , Who from a slave they made an Emperor ; Our Indians gladly saw him die , for fear His Epilogue should be much more severe . There is a strutting Spanish † General too , Another of that envious huffing Crew , Although the Indian's Foe — in this design , To ruine them they equally combine . So Lawyers rail in parties at the Bar , But on the Clients lay the charge o' th' War. Therefore they for their Epilogue chose me , A stranger and from either Faction free , Young , Innocent , and what is more , a Maid , If this won't do , what can your smiles persuade ? Nay , let me tell you , but let not them hear , These Indians are not what they do appear ; If they are pleas'd , none knows what you may get ; For they have Mines were ne'r discover'd yet , Which frowns , or fiercest torments cannot find , In that th' are all of Montezuma's mind : But by your kindness and obliging Arts , You may command their Treasure and their Hearts . Prologue to Psyche Debauch'd . PSyche debauch'd , poor Soul ! she made great hast , I knew the jilting Quean could never last Five weeks , she ( must perhaps decay more fast , ) — As our friend Nicander has it . Whilst our rich neighbors mock our Farce , we know Already th' utmost of their Puppet-show . Since they 'gainst Nature go , they Heav'n offend , If Nature's purpose then cross Nature's end , Unnat ' ral Nature is not Nature's friend . — There 's Nature for you . As Aesop's Cat drest like a Lady , this At first surpris'd , now where 's the gaudy Miss You saw , and knew , and left her in a trice ? None but the Dirty Rout would like her twice . Their well-drest frolick once may please the Eye , But Plays like Women can't so satisfie . Ye masked Nymphs can tell there 's something in ye , Besides the painted face , that gets the penny ; Yet all the fame you give 'em we 'l allow To their best Plays , and their best Actors too , That is , the Painter , Carpenter and Show , Beaumont and Fletcher , Poet and Deva● . But , Sirs , free harmless mirth you here condemn , And Clap at down-right baudery in them . In Epsom-wells for example — Are they not still for pushing Nature on , Till Nature's feat thus in your sight is done . — O Lord ! — Let 's take off Psyche's borrow'd plumes a while ; Hopkins and Sternhold , rise and claim your stile . Dread Kings of Brentford , leave Lardella's Herse , Psyche's despairing Lovers steal your Verse . And let Apollo's Priest restore again , What from the nobler Mamamouchy's ta'n , Let them restore your treble prices too ; To see how strangely they did bubble you , It made me blush and that I seldom do . Now Psyche's strip'd from all her gay attire , Tè dè Pollykagathoy — behold the fire . But , O a long farewel to all this sort , Which Musick , Scenes , nor Preface can't support , Or if they cou'd , who cares a farthing for 't ? Epilogue to the same . NOw to get off , gadzooks , what shall we do ? 'T is plain , my friends , that we have chous'd you too ▪ Our Psyche that so pleasantly appears , Has prov'd as very a jilting Crack as theirs . When your high hopes for Beauty were prepar'd ▪ To meet a common ill-drest thing 't is hard ; But pardon us and your resentments smother , We promise you e'r long a touch with t'other . Song . ALas , my Coy Phillis , this humour 's too old , Pish , fie and for shame , are too silly from you ; For your looks , your sighs , and your blushes have told , That your Vows to cry out will never prove true . Then away with this folly and let 's to the thing , for ; I'faith , I must water my Nag at the Spring ▪ Elyzium's a trick , and the Shades but a cheat , To chear up some over-grown slighted old Maid . If my Phillis should live to that wretched Estate , How she would repent that I heard when she praid ! Then away with this folly , &c. For I'faith , &c. Like zealous Platonicks , we 'l rail at all sin ; I 'll praise thy great merits , and thou cry up mine : To practise in private we 'll lock our selves in ; And while silly soft mortals believe us divine , We 'll laugh at their folly and turn up the thing , And I'faith I will water my Nag at the Spring . O'recome with my Passion and noble intent , My Phillis imbrac'd me and led my Nag on , He dash'd up the water each step that he went ; But alass , Sir , she cry'd how soon he has done . Your Nag's a May-Colt and deserves no good thing , For I'faith he lies down in the middle of the Spring . The serious Thought . I. O Wretched state of helpless man ! Flatter'd with lofty sounds of sov'reign pow'r ; O're ev'ry Creature he is said to reign , Yet only drags a longer chain ; Ordain'd a slave to ev'ry fatal hour , And ev'ry cruel thought 's his Emperour . II. Reason , that golden Calf to which we fall , Form'd of those various toys despairing Souls And sullen Stoicks to their comforts call ; Our pleasure and our happiness controuls , To torments it directs an easie way ; But when delight with smiling looks , To soft intrancing bliss invokes . Virtue — we Virtue must obey , Virtue , that dull fantastick edgless tool , The stalking Horse of ev'ry Pedants School , The beggar's Tyrant , but the rich man's Fool , For Gold to any shape 't will move , And be what ever-Monarchs love : Yet this confines our hands and eyes , While ev'ry creature we despise , Freely injoys those sweets for which man dies . III. Why was I born a slave to Nature's law , Subject to frail desires of flesh and blood , Eager to ●ast each beautious pleasing good ▪ If other rigid rules my thoughts must awe ? A servant to one mighty — pow'r ordain'd , And to the dictates of another chain'd . Is 't justice to impose upon the heart Law less desires of love , and then To call that Passion sin , And for relief add torments to the smart ? Hear me , ye pow'rs divine , All hearts and pow'rs to yours their strength resign , Pardon my thoughts , or else my thoughts confine . IV. Thou glorious torment of my life , Too dear Francelia , with whose eyes alone The gods could in my heart raise Love a throne , And set my peaceful thoughts at strife . Despise my heart no more , for 't is the shrine , Where thy fair Image will for ever shine , Pardon the fierce complaints to which I 'm driv'n ; Or my loud Passion do not blame , If thy injustice it proclaim . Since it has rashly dar'd to question Heav'n , I can no more endure this lukewarm state , This Purgatory where I dwell Between Love's Paradise and Hell , Celia , I dare my fate , And am prepar'd to meet thy Love or Hate . V. Alas , I fain would be deceiv'd and find Some change in thy obdurate mind : Still like a desp'rate loosing gamester , I throw on , Urging ill fortune till my stock of hope is gone ; With gradual losses tyr'd , I now set all , O Love , be kind , or let me quickly fall . 'T is not , O Celia , 't is not well , To cheat your truest Lover with a smile , And to another give that heart for which I toil : Yet 't is more cruel far , Your final doom not to declare , But let me still love on and still despair . To Celia . LOve , with which I long have been possest , Does like an evil spirit haunt my brest , Sleeping or waking it allows no rest ; When with strong Reason I would drive it thence , It puts new tortures upon ev'ry sense . My Passion to the utmost height to raise , All Celia's Beauties in my sight it lays ; Beauties , which all admire and vainly strive to praise . But to destroy all budding hopes lays down My little merit and her constant frown ; Thus does it urge me to a just despair , Then whispers , only death can end my care ; Tempts me to drown my self in floods of tears , Or sigh away at once my griefs and fears ; Thus am I rack'd , this dismal life I lead , Till tyr'd with pain my heart seems cold and dead . And to the wretched 't is a sad relief , To be insensible of joys or grief . But when my murth'rers much lov'd name resounds , My heart bleeds out afresh and feels new wounds . Unless Francelia has my death decreed , Let me from this tormenting spright be freed , Or mine will haunt her when I 'm dead indeed : Show your great pow'r , remove this heavy rod , And by your kindness make this Dev'l a God. Song . WHen Celia my heart did surprise , In an Ocean of grief my fair Goddess did rise , And like Crystal dissolv'd the tears flow'd from her Eyes . From her Beautiful Cheeks all the Roses withdrew , And she look'd like a Lilly o'reladen with dew . How sweet did her sorrow appear ! How I trembl'd and sigh'd , and for ev'ry tear Made a Vow to the gods and a pray'r to her ! O how soft are the wounds we receive from the fair ! But the joys and the pleasures there 's none can declare . What panting and fainting I feel , When imbracing her feet , before Celia I kneel , O how dear are her smiles and how sweetly they kill ! Ev'ry minute I die with the thoughts of my bliss , And she breaths a new life in each languishing kiss . O Love let us still wear thy Chain , Let no Passion but Love in our fancies e're reign , Let us often be cur'd and ne'r freed from the pain . All the pleasures of Wine to the sense are confin'd , But 't is Love is the noblest delight of the mind . A Dialogue between Dorus and Amintor . Dorus. WHence does this solemn sadness rise , Which all thy spirits has opprest , And like a dull contagious mist , Hangs heavy on Amintor's Eyes ? Am. O Dorus ! — Dor. O Amintor ! speak — Passions conceal'd , like struggling wind In concaves of the Earth confind , Too oft their trembling Prison break . Grief entertain'd and fed with tears , With such insinuating Art , Deludes the easie thoughtful heart , It makes it love the pain it bears . Awake , Amintor , from this dream , This drowzy Lethargy that steeps Thy sense in death-resembling sleeps , And give thy thoughts a chearful theme . Am. Tell me , O Shepherd , in this spacious round Of Earth and Sea , what pleasure's to be found ; 'T is all but one large grave , one gloomy den , Where rav'nous time devours both things and men . On yonder shaded hill let 's sit a while , And mark how poor mistaken mortals toil ; Behold hard labour and laborions mirth , See how those Reapers court the teeming Earth , Look how they bend and with unweary'd pain , Adore the ground for ev'ry Sheaf they gain , These are the sweetest of the Rustick's days , This is the life which sinking Monarchs praise . Now to the neighb'ring Green thy sight transport , And there behold the drudgery of sport ; How many silly antick steps they tread , How ev'ry sweating Dancer toils to spread The restless arms , and shake the empty head . O endless toil ! O flatt'ring sordid noise ! Where can this World show true and solid joys ? Did not fore-knowledg tell us what they are , Who could know idle mirth from busie care ? Dor. That knowledg which has mirth and care exprest , Instructs the judgment to elect the best . Since mirth prolongs that life that care would kill , And life's concern makes all things good or ill , Reason should overcome the stubborn Will. Am. Knowledg and Reason's force men disavow , To Beauty's tyranny all hearts must bow . Dor. Beauty and Tyranny — Am. Yes Dorus , yes , Despised Love does all my joy suppress . Dor. To one that 's cruel who would be confin'd , When Beauties are so num'rous and kind ? Am. Hast thou observ'd the Infancy of day ? When from the Eastern Sea all fresh and gay , The rosie mornings glory fills our eyes , The Moon and ev'ry meaner lustre dyes . So when my daz'ling Shepherdess appears , All other Beauties fade and yield to hers . Her eyes such pleasure and such awe impart , As Monarchs smiles do to a Fav'rites heart ; The Rose and Purple Violet she stains , With her more blushing Cheek and clearer Veins , Those pow'rful charms which from her face are sent , Would make a Ravisher seem innocent . Nor polish'd Ivory nor falling Snow , The whiteness of her whiter neck can show ; No Down of Swans , no Lillies e'r exprest The charming softness of her swelling Breast , Those mounts of pleasure , where Loves Monarch lies Boasting the vict'ries purchas'd by her eyes . A shining Vale those panting Twins does sever , A Vale where murther'd Lovers hearts do bleed , Whose sweets all thought , all extasie exceed . O let Amintor's heart rest there forever . Now , Shepherd , an eternity of joys And hidden bliss my roving thought imploys . O let me die , Francelia , let me die , E'r from this Paradise of thought I 'm driv'n ; For to a Lover so unblest as I , There is no way but death to enter Heav'n . Dor. Pri'thee , Amintor , quench this raging fire ; From hopeless Love 't is prudence to retire . Am. Thou mayst as soon cast water in the Sea , And take it thence unmix'd , as set me free . Quench this raging fire — Sing to a Tempest till thou mak'st it kind , And with thy musick part the mingl'd wind : Sow Corn upon a stream that never stood , And hope a Harvest from the moving flood . When Poyson has invaded ev'ry part , And fix'd its deadly Venom in the heart , Bid the tormented patient quit his pain , But never hope I can my love restrain . Here Celia walk'd , and here was I undon , Viewing those glories which around her shon . Such Rays of Beauty as the Artist paints , To Crown the heads of Celebrated Saints . This Walk did , like a blest Elyzium yield , All that adorns the Garden or the Field . Hither did Nature all her treasure bring , And here expos'd the glories of the Spring . Enchanting Birds sate warbling on each Tree . Dor. Here such a Paradise could never be , Am. Where e're she is 't is Paradise to me . All the bright Beauties Nature ever made , When Winters stormy weather makes them fade , With her as in their store-house do remain , And ev'ry Spring are copy'd thence again . Dull Poets , praise no more the Thracian's String ; When Celia speaks a Quire of Angels sing . Here 't was I rob'd her of a balmy kiss , And eager to ensure a future bliss , I sighing ask'd her — Dear , won't you love — she sigh'd and whisper'd ; yes . Yes ! Yes ! O Cruelty ! For at that very time , She vow'd my death should expiate my crime . Was 't not enough to murther with disdain ? Must loss be added to compleat my pain ? Loss of the highest blessing Love could give , When you said yes , alass I did believe ; And after such a loss , who 'd wish to live ? Tell me , unkind and cruel as you are , Are you less beautiful , less chast or fair , If one poor kiss is wanting from your store ? I 'll freely pay you back ten thousand more . Did e'r my joys or suffrings find a tongue To boast your smiles , or do your honour wrong ? Was ever hopeless love preserv'd so long ? Dor. How vainly dost thou court the senseless Air , And to regardless Trees repeat thy pray'r ? Did thy insulting cruel Goddess hear , Thou would'st as little pity get from her : Leave Love's ingrateful God , shake off his chain , Go where the God of Wine and Mirth does reign , He 'll see thy merit and relieve thy pain . Am. She loves me not — forbids my Tongue and Quill . Dor. Dost thou love her , and disobey her Will ? To harden'd hearts insensible of Love , Courtship does horrid Persecution prove . Thy Love 's best shown by serving her desire . Am. I can't suppress , but I 'll conceal my fire ; And by my suff'rings raise my merit higher . Never had Lover such hard fate as I , To show my Love I must my Love deny , And to be blest , all hope of blessings fly . So when destroying Plagues did threaten Rome , The noble Curtius did prevent its doom ; All love of life and safety he o'recame , And by his death immortaliz'd his name . Song . THy rigour , O Celia , has shorten'd thy reign , And made my bright Goddess a Mortal again . How faint are they glories , how dully they move , That us'd to inflame me with raptures of Love ! Chorus . Tyrannical Beauties , prevent your sad state , 'T is kindness alone can support your high throne , But cruelty hastens your fate . I paid my devotion each day to thy eyes ; I thought it no morning till Celia did rise . With Celia the Court and the Theatres rung , Her praise was the subject of every song . Chorus . Tyrannical Beauty , lament thy lost state , My Passion is gone and thy Empire is done , Thy cruelty hasten'd thy fate . Love heightens our joy , he 's the ease of our care , A Spur to the Valiant and Crown to the Fair ; O seize his soft wings and enjoy while you may , For pleasures of Love will like Empire decay . Chorus . Tyrannical Beauties , prevent your sad state , 'T is kindness alone can support your high throne , But cruelty hastens your fate . The Pavier's Song . Set by Mr. Marsh junior . Master , YE tough brawny Lads , that can live upon stone , And skin the hard Flint for good Liquor , Let Love to the idle and wealthy be gone , And let Preaching alone to the Vicar . Let all be made plain with your strikers and thumpers , And when the work 's done we 'll about with the bumpers . The little blind God of which Lovers so prate , Makes all that adore him grow lazy ; For counterfeit blessings he long makes you wait , And with Sighs and Diseases he pays ye : But he you serve now with your strikers and thumpers , When your work 's done will about with the bumpers . 1. Pa. The Walks are all gravel'd , and the Bower shall be Prepar'd for the Bear and Psyche . 2. But e'r we go in let the drinking begin , And then we will thump it agen . Chorus . With full double Pots Let us liquor our throats , And then we 'll to work with a hoh ho ho , But let 's drink e'r we go , let us drink e'r we go . 1. Here Harry . 2. Here Will. Chorus . Old true-penny still , While one is drinking , another should fill . 3. Here 's to thee Stephen , 4. Thanks honest Phil. Chorus . Old true-penny still , While one is drinking , another should fill . Chorus . With full double Pots We 'll liquor , &c. Master , Dispatch , or the Bear and the Princess will childe , For Love can no hindrance abide ▪ 1. Pav . We have more need of drinking then loving by odds ; We 'll bouze it in spight of the gods . Chorus . With full double Pots We 'll liquor our throats , And then we 'll to work with a hoh ho ho , But let 's drink e'r we go , but let 's drink e'r we go . Marina sitting for her Picture . POor barren Art , how vainly dost thou strive , To Rival Natures greater excellence ! While the admir'd Marina does survive , Whose Beauty dazles the most daring sense . See how the captiv'd Painters trembling hand Wanders at large , while his amazed eyes Dart looks of envy that he can't command Colours so fair as on her cheeks arise . Lay by thy Pencil , Ned , and think with me , If in her face such glorious things we find , Who can resist those charms thou dost not see ; The brighter Beauties of her heav'nly mind ? There 's sacred Virtue , and each pow'rful grace , Which cannot be surpris'd by feeble Art : When creeping Age drives Lovers from the face , Those will for ever hold the conquer'd heart . Thou Tyrant , Love , that hast my Soul possest , Give me this treasure or my heart again : Were I with wealth and mighty Empire blest , Without Marina , all the rest were vain . Uncertain Love. THe lab'ring man that Plants or Sows , His certain times of Profit knows . Seamen the roughest tempest scorn , Hoping at last a rich return . But my too much lov'd Celia's mind Is more inconstant and unkind Than stormy weather , Sea or Wind. Now with assured Hope rais'd high , I think no man so blest as I ; Hope , that a dying Saint may own , To see and hear her speak alone . What if I snatch one kiss or more ? Were Heaven gives a wealthy store , 'T is to be bounteous to the poor . But e'r my swiftest thought can thence Convey a blessing to my sense , My hope like Fairy treasure 's gone , Although I never made it known . From all untruth my heart is clean , No other Love can enter in , Yet Celia's ne'r will come agen . FINIS . Notes, typically marginal, from the original text Notes for div A36760-e810 * Poel . † Coysh .