A collection of poems by several hands; most of them written by persons of eminent quality.

OF THIS TRANSLATION, And of the Vſe of Poetry: BY Edmund Waller, Eſq; Rome was not better by her Horace taught, Than we are here, to comprehend his thought: The Poet writ to Noble Piſo, there, A Noble Piſo does inſtruct us here, Gives us a pattern in his flowing Stile, And with rich Precepts does oblige our Iſle, Britain, whoſe Genius is in Verſe expreſt Bold and ſublime, but negligently dreſt. Horace will our ſuperſluous Branches prune, Give us new rules, and ſet our Harp in tune, Direct us how to back the winged Horſe, Favour his flight, and moderate his Force; Though Poets may of Inſpiration boaſt, Their Rage ill govern'd, in the Clouds is loſt; He that proportion'd wonders can diſcloſe, At once his Fancy and his Judgment ſhows. Chaſt moral Writing we may learn from hence Neglect of which no wit can recompence; The Fountain which from Helicon proceeds, That ſacred Stream ſhould never water weeds, Nor make the Crop of Thorns and Thiſtles grow Which Envy or perverted Nature ſow. Well-ſounding Verſes are the Charm we uſe, Heroick thoughts, and vertue to infuſe; Things of deep ſenſe we may in Proſe unfold, But they move more, in loſty numbers told; By the loud Trumpet, which our Courage aids, We learn that ſound, as well as ſenſe perſwades. The Muſe's Friend, unto himſelf ſevere, With ſilent pity looks on all that Err; But where a brave, a publick Action ſhines, That he rewards with his Immortal Lines; Whether it be in Counſel or in Fight, His Countrey's Honour is his chief delight; Praiſe of great Acts, he ſcatters as a ſeed, Which may the like, in coming Ages breed: Here taught the fate of Verſes, always priz'd With admiration, or as much deſpis'd, Men will be leſs indulgent to their faults, And patience have to cultivate their thoughts; Poets loſe half the praiſe they ſhould have got, Could it be known, what they diſcreetly blot, Finding new words, that to the raviſh't Ear, May like the Language of the Gods appear, Such as of old, wiſe Bards employ'd, to make Unpoliſh't men their wild retreats forſake, Law-giving-Heroes, fam'd for taming Brutes, And raiſing Cities with their Charming Lutes, For rudeſt minds, with Harmony were caught: And civil Life was by the Muſes taught. So wandring Bees would periſh in the Air, Did not a ſound, proportion'd to their Ear, Appeaſe their rage, invite them to the Hive, Unite their force, and teach them how to thrive, To rob the Flowers, and to forbear the ſpoil, Preſerv'd in Winter by their Summers toyl, They give us food, which may with Nectar Vie, And Wax that does, the abſent Sun ſupply.

HORACE OF THE Art of Poetry. By the EARL of Roſcommon. IF in a Picture (Piſo) you ſhould ſee A handſome Woman with a Fiſhes Tail, Or a Man's Head upon a Horſe's Neck, Or Limbs of Beaſts of the moſt different kinds, Cover'd with Feathers of all ſorts of Birds, Wou'd you not laugh, and think the Painter mad? Truſt me that Book is as ridiculous, Whoſe incoherent Stile (like ſick Mens Dreams) Varies all Shapes, and mixes all Extreams. Painters and Poets have been ſtill allow'd, Their Pencils, and their Fancies unconfin'd, This priviledge we freely give and take; But Nature, and the Common Laws of Senſe, Forbid to reconcile Antipathies, Or make a Snake engender with a Dove, And hungry Tygers court the tender Lambs; Some that at firſt have promis'd mighty things, Applaud themſelves, when a few ſlorid Lines Shine through th' inſipid dulneſs of the reſt; Here they deſcribe a Temple, or a Wood, Or Streams that through delightful Medows run, And there the Rainbow, or the rapid Rhine, But they miſplace them all, and croud them in, And are as much to ſeek in other things, As he that only can deſign a Tree, Would be to draw a Shipwreck or a Storm. When you begin with ſo much Pomp and Show, Why is the end ſo little and ſo low? Be what you will, ſo you be ſtill the ſame. Moſt Poets fall into the groſſeſt faults, Deluded by a ſeeming Excellence: By ſtriving to be ſhort, they grow Obſcure, And when they would write ſmoothly they want ſtrength, Their Spirits ſink; while others that affect A lofty Stile, ſwell to a Tympany; Some timerous wretches ſtart at every blaſt, And fearing Tempeſts, dare not leave the Shore; Others in love with wild variety, Draw Boars in Waves, and Dolphins in a Wood; Thus fear of Erring, joyn'd with want of Skill, Is a moſt certain way of Erring ſtill. The meaneſt Workman in the Aemilian Square, May grave the Nails, or imitate the Hair, But cannot finiſh what he hath begun; What is there more ridiculous than he? For one or two good features in a Face Where all the reſt are ſcandalouſly ill, Make it but more remarkably deform'd. Let Poets match their Subject to their ſtrength, And often try what weight they can ſupport, And what their Shoulders are too weak to bear, After a ſerious and judicious choice, Method and Eloquence will never fail; As well the Force as Ornament of Verſe, Conſiſt in chooſing a fit time for things, And knowing when a Muſe ſhould be indulg'd In her full flight, and when ſhe ſhould be curb'd. Words muſt be choſen, and be plac'd with skill, You gain your point, if your induſtrious Art Can make unuſual words eaſie and plain, Bu • (if you write of things Abſtruſe or New) Some of your own inventing may be us'd, (So it be ſeldom and diſcreetly done) But he that hopes to have new Words allow'd, Muſt ſo derive them from the Graecian Spring, As they may ſeem to flow without conſtraint; Can an Impartial Reader diſcommend In Varus, or in Virgil what he likes? In Plautus or Caecilius? Why ſhould I Be envy'd for the little I invent, When Ennius and Cato's copious Style Have ſo enrich'd, and ſo adorn'd our Tongue? Men ever had, and ever will have leave, To coin new words well ſuited to the age: Words are like Leaves, ſome wither every year, And every year a younger Race ſucceeds; Death is a Tribute all things owe to Fate; The Lucrine Mole (Caeſar's ſtupendous Work) Protects our Navies from the raging North; And (ſince Cethegus drain'd the Pontin Lake) We Plow and Reap where former Ages row'd. See how the Tyber (whoſe licentious Waves So often overflow'd the neighbouring Fields,) Now runs a ſmooth and inoffenſive Courſe, Confin'd by our great Emperor's Command; Yet this and they, and all will be forgot; Why then ſhould Words challenge Eternity, When greateſt Men, and greateſt Actions dye? Uſe may revive the obſoleteſt Words, And baniſh thoſe that now are moſt in Vogue; Uſe is the Judge, the Law, and rule of Speech. Homer firſt taught the World in Epick Verſe (To write of great Commanders, and of Kings, Elegies were at firſt deſign'd for Grief, Though now we uſe them to expreſs our Joy) But to whoſe Muſe we owe that ſort of Verſe, Is undecided by the Men of Skill. Rage with Iambick's, arm'd Archilochus Numbers for Dialogue and action fit, And favourites of the Dramatick Muſe. Fierce, Lofty, Rapid, whoſe commanding ſound A wes the tumultuous noiſes of the Pit, And whoſe peculiar Province is the Stage. Gods, Heroes, Conquerors, Olympick Crowns Loves pleaſing Cares, and the free joys of Wine, Are proper ſubjects for the Lyrick Song. Why is he honour'd with a Poet's Name, Who neither knows, nor would obſerve a Rule? And chuſes to be Ignorant and Proud, Rather than own his Ignorance, and Learn, Let every thing have its due Place and Time. A Comick Subject loves an humble Verſe, Thyeſtes ſcorns a low and Comick Stile. Yet Comedy ſometimes may raiſe her Voice, And Chremes be allow'd to foam and rail: Tragedians too, lay by their State to grieve; Peleus and Telephus exil'd and poor, Forget their ſwelling, and Gygantick Words. He that would have Spectators ſhare his Grief, Muſt write not only well, but movingly, And raiſe Mens Paſſions to what height he will, We Weep and Laugh, as we ſee others do, He only makes me ſad who ſhews the way, And firſt is ſaid himſelf, then (Telephus) I feel the weight of your Calamities, And fancy all your miſeries my Own, But if you Act them ill, I ſleep or laugh: Your looks muſt needs alter. as your Subject does From kind to fierce, from wanton to ſevere, For Nature forms, and ſoftens us within; And writes our fortunes changes in our face. Pleaſure enchants, impetuous Rage tranſports, And grief dejects, and wrings the tortur'd Soul, And theſe are all interpreted by Speech; But he whoſe words and fortunes diſagree, Abſurd, unpitied, grows a publick Jeſt. Obſerve the Characters of thoſe that ſpeak, Whether an honeſt Servant, or a Cheat, Or one whoſe blood boils in his youthful Veins, Or a grave Matron, or a buſie Nurſe, Extorting Merchants, careful Husbandmen, Argives, or Thebans, Aſians or Greeks. Follow Report, or feign coherent things, Deſcribe Achilles, as Achilles was, Impatient, raſh, inexorable, proud, Scorning all Judges, and all Law but Arms; Medaea muſt be all Revenge and Blood, Ino all Tears, Ixion all Deceit, Io muſt wander, and Oreſtes mourn: If your bold Muſe dare tread unbeaten paths, And bring new Characters upon the ſtage, Be ſure you keep them up to their firſt height. New Subjects are not eaſily explain'd, And you had better chuſe a well known Theme, Than truſt to an Invention of your own; For what originally others writ, May be ſo well diſguis'd, and ſo improv'd, That with ſome Juſtice it may paſs for yours; But then you muſt not Copy trivial things, Nor word for word too faithfully Tranſlate, Nor (as ſome ſervile Imitators do) Preſcribe at firſt ſuch ſtrict uneaſie rules, As they muſt ever ſlaviſhly obſerve, Or all the Laws of decency renounce: Begin not as the' old Poetaſter did, (Troy's famous War, and Priam's Fate, I ſing) In what will all this Oſtentation end? The labouring Mountain ſcarce brings forth a Mouſe: How far is this from the Meonian Stile? Muſe, ſpeak the Man, who ſince the Siege of Troy, So many Towns, ſuch change of Manners ſaw. One with a flaſh begins, and ends in ſmoak, The other out of ſmoak brings glorious light, And (without raiſing expectation high) Surprizes us with darling Miracles, The Bloody Leſtrygons inhumane Feaſts, With all the Monſters of the Land and Sea; How Scylla bark'd, and Polyphemus roar'd: He doth not trouble Us with Leda's Eggs, When he begins to write the Trojan War; Nor writing the return of Diomed, Go back as far as Meleager's Death: Nothing is idle, each judicious Line Inſenſibly acquaints Us with the Plot; He chooſes only what he can improve, And Truth and Fiction are ſo aptly mix'd That all ſeems Uniform, and of a piece. Now hear what every Auditor expects; If you intend that he ſhould ſtay to hear The Epilogue, and ſee the Curtain fall; Mind how our tempers alter with our years, And by thoſe Rules form all your Characters. One that hath newly learn'd to ſpeak and go, Loves childiſhPlays, is ſoon provok'd and pleas'd, And changes every hour his wavering mind. A Youth that firſt caſts off his Tutor's Yoke, Loves Horſes, Hounds, and Sports, and Exerciſe, Prone to all Vice, impatient of Reproof, Proud, careleſs, fond, inconſtant, and profuſe. Gain and Ambition rule our riper years, And make us Slaves to intereſt and power. Old Men are only walking Hoſpitals, Where all Defects, and all Diſeaſes croud With reſtleſs pain, and more tormenting fear, Lazy, moroſe, full of delays and hopes, Oppreſt with Riches which they dare not uſe; Ill-natur'd Cenſors of the preſent Age, And fond of all the follies of the paſt. Thus all the treaſure of our flowing Years, Our ebb of Life for ever takes away. Boys muſt not have th' ambitious care of Men, Nor Men the weak Anxieties of Age. Some things are acted, others only told; But what we hear, moves leſs than what we ſee; Spectators only have their Eyes to truſt, But Auditors muſt truſt their Ears and you; Yet there are things improper for a Scene, Which Men of Judgment only will relate; Medaea muſt not draw her murthering Knife, And ſpill her Childrens blood upon the Stage, Nor Atreus there his horrid Feaſt prepare, Cadmus's, and Progne's Metamorphoſis, (She to a Swallow turn'd, he to a Snake) And whatſoever contradicts my Senſe, I hate to ſee, and never can believe. Five Acts are the juſt meaſure of a Play, Never preſume to make a God appear, But for a buſineſs worthy of a God, And in one Scene no more than three ſhould ſpeak. A Chorus ſhould ſupply what Action wants, And hath a generous and manly part; Bridles wild rage, loves rigid Honeſty, And ſtrict Obſervance of Impartial Laws, Sobriety, Security, and Peace, And begs the Gods to turn blind Fortunes wheel, To raiſe the Wretched, and pull down the Proud. (But nothing muſt be Sung between the Acts, But what ſome way conduces to the Plot.) Firſt the ſhrill ſound of a ſmall rural •… ipe, (Not loud like Trumpets, nor adorn'd as now) Was entertainment for the Infant Stage, And pleas'd the thin and baſhful Audience, Of our well-meaning, frugal Anceſtors. But when our Walls and Limits were enlarg'd, And Men (grown wanton by proſperity) Studied new Arts of Luxury and Eaſe, The Verſe, the Muſick, and the Scene's improv'd: For how ſhould Ignorance be judge of Wit, Or Men of Senſe applaud the Jeſts of Fools? Then came rich Cloths and graceful Action in, Then inſtruments were taught more moving notes And Eloquence with all her pomp and charms Foretold as uſeful and ſententious Truths, As thoſe deliver'd by the Delphick God. The firſt Tragedians found that ſerious Stile Too grave for their Uncultivated Age, And ſo brought wild and naked Satyrs in, (Whoſe motion, words, & ſhape were all a Farce) (As oft as decency would give them leave) Becauſe the mad ungovernable Rout, Full of confuſion, and the fumes of Wine, Lov'd ſuch variety and antick Tricks. But then they did not wrong themſelves ſo much, To make a God, a Hero, or a King, (Stripp'd of his golden Crown and purple Robe) Deſcend to a Mechanick Dialect, Nor (to avoid ſuch meanneſs) ſoaring high With empty ſound, and airy notions fly. For, Tragedy ſhould bluſh as much to ſtoop To the low Mimick follies of a Farce, As a grave Matron would to dance with Girls: You muſt not think that a Satyrick Stile Allows of ſcandalous and brutiſh Words, Or the confounding of your Characters. Begin with Truth, then give Invention ſcope, And if your Stile be natural and ſmooth, All men will trie, and hope to write as well; And (not without much pains) be undeceiv'd. So much good Method and Connexion may Improve the common and the plaineſt things. A Satyr that comes ſtaring from the Woods, Muſt not at firſt ſpeak like an Orator; But, though his language ſhould not be refin'd, It muſt not be Obſcene, and Impudent: The better ſort abhors ſcurrility, And often cenſures, what the Rabble likes. Unpoliſh'd Verſes paſs with many Men, And Rome is too Indulgent in that Point, But then, to write at a looſe rambling rate, In hope the World will wink at all our faults, Is ſuch a raſh, ill-grounded confidence, As Men may pardon, but will never praiſe. Conſider well the Greek Originals, Read them by Day, and think of them by Night; But Plautus was admir'd in former time. With too much patience (not to call it worſe) His harſh, unequal Verſe, was Muſick then, And Rudeneſs had the Privilege of Wit: When Theſpis firſt expos'd the Tragick Muſe, Rude were the Actors, and a Cart the Scene, Where ghaſtly Faces, ſtain'd with Lees of Wine, Frighted the Children, and amus'd the Croud; This Aeſchylus (with indignation) ſaw, And built a Stage, found out a decent dreſs, Brought Vizards in (a Civiler diſguiſe) And taught Men how to ſpeak, and how to act. Next Comedy appear'd with great applauſe, Till her licentious, and abuſive Tongue, Wakened the Magiſtrates Coercive power, And ſorc'd it to ſuppreſs her Inſolence. Our Writers have attempted every way, And they deſerve our praiſe, whoſe daring Muſe Diſdain'd to be beholden to the Greeks, And found fit Subjects for her Verſe at home. Nor ſhould we be leſs famous for our Wit, Than for the force of our Victorious Arms; But that the time and care, that are requir'd To overlook, and file, and poliſh well, Fright Poets from that neceſſary Toyl. Democritus was ſo in love with Wit, And ſome Mens Natural Impulſe to write; That he deſpis'd the help of Art and Rules, And thought none Poets, till their Brains were crack'd. And this hath ſo Intoxicated ſome, That (to appear incorrigibly mad) They Cleanlineſs and Company renounce: For Lunacy beyond the Cure of Art, With a long Beard, and Ten long dirty Nails, Paſs currant for Apollo's Livery. O my unhappy Stars! If in the Spring, Some Phyſick had not cur'd me of the Spleen, None would have writ with more ſucceſs than I; But I am ſatisfied to keep my ſenſe, And only ſerve to whet that Wit in you, To which I willingly reſign my claim. Yet without writing I may teach to write, Tell what the duty of a Poet is; Wherein his Wealth and Ornament conſiſt, And how he may be form'd, and how improv'd, What fit, what not, what excellent or ill, Sound judgment is the ground of Writing well: And when Philoſophy directs your choice To proper Subjects rightly underſtood, Words from your Pen will naturally flow, He only gives the proper Characters, Who knows the duty of all Ranks of Men, And what we owe to Country, Parents, Friends, How Judges, and how Senators ſhould act, And what becomes a General to do. Thoſe are the likeſt Copies which are drawn, By the Original of humane Life. Sometimes in rough and undigeſted Plays We meet with ſuch a lucky Character, As being humor'd right and well purſu'd, Succeeds much better, than the ſhallow Verſe, And chiming Trifles, of more ſtudious Pens. Greece had a Genius, Greece had Eloquence, For her ambition and her end was Fame. Our Roman Youth is bred another way, And taught no arts but thoſe of Uſury; And the glad Father glories in his Child, When he can ſubdivide a Fraction. Can Souls, who by their Parents from their birth Have been devoted thus to ruſt and gain, Be capable of high and generous thoughts? Can Verſes writ by ſuch an Author live? But you (brave Youth) wiſe Numa's worthy Heir, Remember of what weight your Judgment is, And never venture to commend a Book, That has not paſs'd all Judges and all Teſts. A Poet ſhould inſtruct, or pleaſe, or both; Let all your Precepts be ſuccinct and clear, That ready Wits may comprehend them ſoon, And faithful Memories retain them long; For ſuperfluities are ſoon forgot. Never be ſo conceited of your Parts, To think you may perſwade us what you pleaſe, Or venture to bring in a Child alive, That Canibals have murther'd and devour'd; Old Age explodes all but Morality; Auſterity offends aſpiring Youths: But he that joyns inſtructions with delight, Profit with pleaſure, carries all the Votes; Theſe are the Volumes that enrich the Shops, Theſe paſs with admiration through the World, And bring their Author an Eternal fame. Be not too rigidly Cenſorious, A ſtring may jar in the beſt Maſter's hand, And the moſt skilful Archer miſs his aim; But in a Poem elegantly writ, I will not quarrel with a ſlight miſtake, Such as our Natures frailty may excuſe. But he that hath been often told his fault, And ſtill perſiſts, is as impertinent, As a Muſician that will always play, And yet is always out at the ſame Note; When ſuch a poſitive abandon'd Fop, (Among his numerous Abſurdities) Stumbles upon ſome tolerable Line, I fret to ſee them in ſuch company, And wonder by what Magick they came there. But in long Works, Sleep will ſometimes ſurprize, Homer himſelf hath been obſerv'd to nod. Poems (like Pictures) are of different ſorts, Some better at a diſtance, others near, Some love the dark, ſome chuſe the cleareſt light, And boldly challenge the moſt piercing Eye: Some pleaſe for once, ſome will for ever pleaſe; But Piſo (tho' your own Experience, Joyn'd with your Fathers Precepts make you wiſe:) Remember this as an important truth. Some things admit of Mediocrity, A Counſellor, or Pleader at the Bar, May want Meſſala's powerful Eloquence, Or be leſs read than deep Caſſellius; Yet this indifferent Lawyer is eſteem'd. But no authority of Gods nor Men, Allow of any mean in Poeſie. As an ill Conſo •… , and a courſe Perfume, Diſgrace the Delicacy of a Feaſt, And might with more diſcretion have been ſpar'd. So Poeſie, whoſe end is to delight, Admits of no Degrees, but muſt be ſtill, Sublimely good, or deſpicably ill. In other things Men have ſome reaſon left; And one that cannot Dance, or Fence, or Run, Deſpairing of ſucceſs, for bears to Try. But all (without conſideration) write; Some thinking that th' omnipotence of Wealth Can turn them into Poets when they pleaſe. But, Piſo, you are of too quick a ſight Not to diſcern which way your Talent lies, Or vainly ſtruggle with your Genius; Yet if it ever be your fate to Write, Let your Productions paſs the ſtricteſt hands, Mine and your Fathers, and not ſee the light, Till time and care have rip'ned every Line. What you keep by you, you may change & mend; But words once ſpoke can never be recall'd. Orpheus inſpir'd by more than humane power, Did not (as Poets feign) tame ſavage Beaſts; But Men as lawleſs, and as wild as they, And firſt diſſwaded them from rage and blood. Thus when Amphion built the Theban Wall, They feign'd the Stones obey'd his Magick Lute. Poets the firſt Inſtructers of Mankind, Brought all things to their proper, native Uſe; Some they appropriated to the Gods, And ſome to publick, ſome to private ends: Promiſcuous Love by Marriage was reſtrain'd. Cities were built, and uſeful Laws were made; So ancient is the pedigree of Verſe, And ſo Divine a Poet's Function. Then Homer's and Tyrtaeus Martial Muſe, Waken'd the World, and ſounded loud Alarms. To Verſe we owe the Sacred Oracles, And our beſt Precepts of Morality; Some have by Verſe, obtain'd the love of Kings, (Who, with the Muſes, eaſe their wearied minds) Then bluſh not, Noble Piſo, to protect, What Gods inſpire, and Kings delight to hear. Some think that Poets may be form'd by Art, Others maintain, that Nature makes them ſo; I neither ſee what Art without a vein, Nor Wit without the help of Art can do, But mutually they need each others aid. He that intends to gain th' Olympick Prize, Muſt uſe himſelf to hunger, heat, and cold, Take leave of Wine, and the ſoft joys of Love; And no Muſician dares pretend to skill, Without a great Expence of time and pains: But every little buſie Scribler now Swells with the praiſes which he gives himſelf; And taking Sanctuary in the Croud, Brags of his Impudence, and ſcorns to mend. A wealthy Poet takes more pains to hire A flattering Audience, than poor Tradeſmen do To perſwade Cuſtomers to buy their Goods. 'Tis hard to find a Man of great Eſtate, That can diſtinguiſh Flatterers from Friends. Never delude your ſelf, nor read your Book Before a brib'd and fawning Auditor; For he'll commend and feign an Ecſtaſie, Grow pale, or weep, do any thing to pleaſe; True friends appear leſs mov'd than Counterfeit: As Men that truly grieve at Funerals, Are not ſo loud, as thoſe that cry for hire. Wiſe were the Kings, who never choſe a Friend, Till with full Cups they had unmask'd his Soul, And ſeen the bottom of his deepeſt thoughts. You cannot arm your ſelf with too much care Againſt the ſmiles of a deſigning Knave. Quintilius (if his advice were ask'd) Would freely tell you what you ſhould correct, Or (if you could not) bid you blot it out, And with more care ſupply the vacancy. But if he found you fond, and obſtinate, (And apter to defend than mend your faults) With ſilence leave you to admire your ſelf, And without Rival hug your darling Book, The prudent care of an Impartial Friend, Will give you notice of each idle Line, Shew what ſounds harſh, and what wants ornament, Or where it is too laviſhly beſtowed; Make you explain all that he finds Obſcure, And with a ſtrict Enquiry mark your faults; Nor for theſe trifles fear to loſe your love. Thoſe things, which now ſeem frivolous, and ſlight, Will be of ſerious conſequence to you, When they have made you once Ridiculous. A Mad Dog's foam, th' Infection of the Plague, And all the Judgments of the angry Gods, We are not all more heedfully to ſhun, Than Poetaſters in their raging fits; Follow'd and pointed at by Fools and Boys; But dreaded and proſcrib'd by Men of Senſe, If (in the Raving of a frantick Muſe) And minding more his Verſes than his Way, Any of theſe ſhould drop into a Well, Tho' he might burſt his Lungs to call for help, No Creature would aſſiſt, or pity him, But ſeem to think he fell on purpoſe in. Hear how an old Sicilian Poet died: Empedocles, mad to be thought a God, In a cold fit leap'd into Aetna's Flames. Give Poets leave to make themſelves away Why ſhould it be a greater ſin to kill, Than to keep Men alive againſt their will? Nor was this chance; But a deliberate choice; For if Empedocles were now reviv'd, He would be at his Frolick once again, And his protenſions to Divinity. 'Tis hard to ſay, whether for Sacrilege Or Inceſt, or ſome more unheard of Crime The Rhyming Fiend is ſent into theſe Men: But they are all moſt viſibly poſſeſt, And like a baited Bear, when he breaks looſe, Without diſtinction, ſeize on all they meet. None ever ſcap'd that came within their reach, Sticking like Leeches till they burſt with blood, Without remorſe inſatiably they read, And never leave till they have read Men dead.

THE TEMPLE OF DEATH. By the Earl of Mulgrave. A Tranſlation out of FRENCH. IN thoſe cold Climates, where the Sun appears Unwillingly, and hides his face in tears; A dreadful Vale lies in a Deſart Iſle, On which indulgent Heaven did never ſmile. There a thick Grove of Aged Cypreſs Trees, Which none without an awful horrour ſees, Into its wither'd Arms, depriv'd of Leaves, Whole Flocks of ill-preſaging Birds receives: Poyſons are all the Plants the Soyl will bear, And Winter is the only Seaſon there. Millions of Graves cover the ſpacious Field, And ſprings of blood a thouſand Rivers yield, Whoſe ſtreams oppreſt with Carcaſes and Bones, Inſtead of gentle Murmurs, pour forth Groans. Within this Vale, a famous Temple ſtands, Old as the World it ſelf, which it commands; Round is its figure, and four Iron-Gates Divide Mankind, by order of the Fates. There Come in Crouds, doom'd to one common Grave, The Young, the Old, the Monarch, and the Slave. Old Age, and Pains, which Mankind moſt deplores, Are faithful Keepers of thoſe ſacred Doors; All clad in mournful Blacks, which alſo Load The ſacred Walls of this obſcure Abode, And Tapers, of a pitchy ſubſtance made, With Clouds of ſmoak increaſe the diſmal Shade. A Monſter, void of Reaſon, and of Sight, The Goddeſs is, who ſways this Realm of Night. Her Power extends o'er all things that have breath, A Cruel Tyrant, and her Name is Death. The faireſt Object of our wond'ring Eyes Was newly offer'd up her Sacrifice; Th' adjoining places where the Altar ſtood, Yet bluſhing with the fair Almeria's Blood. When griev'd Orontes, whoſe unhappy flame Is known to all that e'er converſe with Fame; His mind poſſeſt by Fury and Deſpair, Within the Sacred Temple made this Prayer: Great Deity! Who in thy hands do'ſt bear That ruſty Scepter, which poor Mortals fear; Who wanting Eyes, thy ſelf reſpecteſt none, And neither ſpares the Laurel, nor the Crown! Oh, thou whom all Mankind in vain withſtands, Each of whoſe Blood muſt one day ſtain thy Hands! Oh, thou who every Eye, which ſees the Light, Cloſeſt again in an eternal Night! Open thy Ears, and hearken to my Grief, To which thy only Power can give Relief: I Come not hither to prolong my Fate, But wiſh my wretched Life a ſhorter date, And that the Earth would in its Bowels hide A Wretch, whom Heaven invades on every ſide: That from the ſight of Day I could remove, And might have nothing left me but my Love. Thou only Comforter of Minds oppreſt; The Port, where wearied Spirits are at reſt; Conducter to Elyzium! Take my Life; My Breaſt I offer to thy Sacred Knife: • o juſt a Grace refuſe not, nor deſpiſe A Willing, though a Worthleſs Sacrifice. Others, their frail and mortal State forgot, Before thy Altars are not to be brought Without conſtraint; the noiſe of dying rage, Heaps of the Slain, of every Sex and Age, The blade all reeking in the gore it ſhed, With ſever'd Heads and Arms confus'dly ſpread, The Rapid Flames of a perpetual fire, The Groans of Wretches ready to expire: This Tragick Scene makes them in Terrour Live, Till that is forc'd, which they ſhould freely give, Yielding unwillingly what Heaven will have, Their fears eclipſe the Glory of their Grave. Before thy Face they make undecent moan, And feel a hundred Deaths in fearing one; The flame becomes unhallow'd in their Breaſt, And he a Murtherer, who was a Prieſt; His Hands profan'd in breaking Nature's Chain, By which the Body does the Soul detain: But againſt me thy ſtrongeſt Forces call, And on my Head let all the Tempeſt fall; No ſhrinking back ſhall any weakneſs ſhew, And Calmly I'll expect the fatal blow; My Limb, not trembling, in my mind no fear, Plaints in my Mouth, nor in my Eyes a Tear. Think not that time, our wonted ſure relief, That univerſal Cure for every grief, Whoſe aid ſo many Lovers oft have found, With like ſucceſs can ever heal my wound; Too weak's the Power of Nature, or of Art; Nothing but Death can eaſe a broken heart. And that thou mayſt behold my helpleſs ſtate, Learn the extreameſt rigour of my Fate. Amidſt th' innumerable beauteous Train, Paris, the Queen of Cities, does contain, The faireſt Town, the largeſt, and the beſt, So fair Almeria ſhin'd above the reſt. From her bright Eyes to feel a hopeleſs flame, Was of our Youth the moſt ambitious aim; Her Chains were marks of Honour to the Brave, She made a Prince, when e'er ſhe made a Slave. Love, under whoſe Tyrannick Power I groan, Shew'd me this Beauty e'er 'twas fully blown; Her tim'rous Charms, and her unpractis'd Look, Their firſt aſſurance from my Conqueſt took; By wounding me, ſhe learnt the fatal Art, And the firſt ſigh ſhe had, was from my Heart; My Eyes with Tears moiſt'ning her ſnowy Arms, Render'd the Tribute owing to her Charms: But as I ſooneſt of all Mortals paid My Vows, and to her Beauty Altars made; So among all thoſe Slaves that ſigh'd in vain, She thought me only worthy of my Chain. Loves heavy burden, my Submiſſive Heart Endur'd not long, before ſhe bore her part; My violent flame melted her frozen Breaſt, And in ſoft Sighs her pity ſhe expreſt; Her gentle Voice allay'd my raging Pains, And her fair hands Suſtain'd me in my Chains; Even Tears of Pity waited on my moan, And tender Looks were caſt on me alone. My hopes and dangers were leſs mine, than hers, Thoſe filled her Soul with Joys, and theſe with Fears: Our hearts united, had the ſame deſires, And both alike, burn'd in Impatient Fires. Too Faithful Memory! I give thee Leave Thy wretched Maſter kindly to deceive; Make me not once poſſeſſor of her Charms; Let me not find her Languiſh in my Arms; Paſt Joys are now my Fancies mournful Theams; Make all my happy Nights appear but Dreams: Let not that Bliſs before my Eyes be brought; Oh! hide thoſe Scenes from my tormenting Thought; And in their place, Diſdainful Beauty ſhew, If thou would'ſt not be cruel, make her ſo; And ſomething to abate my deep Deſpair, Oh, let her ſeem leſs Gentle, or leſs Fair. But I in vain, flatter my wounded Mind, Never was Nymph ſo Lovely, or ſo Kind: No cold Repulſes, my Deſires ſuppreſt, I ſeldom ſigh'd but on Almeria's Breaſt; Of all the Paſſions which Mankind deſtroy, I only felt exceſs of Love and Joy: Numberleſs Pleaſures charm'd my Senſe, and they Were as my Love, without the leaſt Allay. As pure, alas, but not ſo ſure to laſt, For, like a pleaſing Dream, they all are paſt. From Heav'n her Beauty like fierce Light'ning came, Which breaks through Darkneſs with its Glorious Flame, A while it Shines, a while our Sight it chears, But ſoon the ſhort-liv'd Comfort diſappears, And Thunder follows, whoſe reſiſtleſs Rage, None can withſtand, and nothing can Aſſwage. So oft the Light, which thoſe bright flaſhes gave, Serves only to conduct us to our Grave. When I had juſt begun Love's Joys to taſte, (Thoſe full Rewards for Fears and Dangers paſt) A Fever ſeiz'd her, and to nothing brought The richeſt Work that ever Nature Wrought. All things below, alas, uncertain ſtand; The firmeſt Rocks are fix'd upon the Sand: Under this Law both Kings and Kingdoms bend, And no beginning is without an end. A Sacrifice to Time, Fate dooms us all, And at the Tyrant's Feet we daily fall: Time, whoſe bold hand alike does bring to duſt Mankind, and all thoſe Powers in which they truſt. Her waſted Spirits now begin to faint, Yet Patience ties her Tongue from all Complaint, And in her Heart, as in a Fort remains, But yields at laſt to her reſiſtleſs pains; Thus, while the Fever am'rous of his Prey, Through all her Veins makes his delightful way, Her Fate's, like Semile's, the Flames deſtroy That Beauty they too eagerly enjoy. Her charming Face is in its Spring decay'd, Pale grow the Roſes, and the Lilies fade; Her Skin has loſt that luſtre which ſurpaſt The Sun's, and did deſerve as long to laſt; Her Eyes, which us'd to pierce the firmeſt hearts, Are now diſarm'd of all their Flames and Darts, Thoſe Stars now heavily and ſlowly move, And Sickneſs triumphs in the Throne of Love. The Fever every moment more prevails, Its rage her Body feels, and Tongue bewails; She, whoſe diſdain ſo many Lovers prove, Sighs now for Torment, as they ſigh for Love, And with loud Crys which rend the neighb'ring Air, Wounds my ſad heart, and wakens my Deſpair. Both Gods and Men I charge now with my loſs, And wild with Grief, my Thoughts each other croſs; My Heart and Tongue labour in both extreams, That ſends up ſlighted Prayers, while this blaſphemes: I ask their help, whoſe malice I defie, And mingle Sacriledge with Piety. But that which does yet more perplex my mind, To Love her truly, I muſt ſeem unkind: So unconcern'd a Face my Sorrow wears, I muſt reſtrain unruly floods of Tears. My Eyes and Tongue put on diſſembling forms, I ſhew a Calmneſs in the midſt of Storms, I ſeem to hope, when all my hopes are gone, And almoſt dead with grief, diſcover none. But who can long deceive a Loving Eye, Or with dry Eyes behold his Miſtreſs die? When Paſſion had with all its terrours brought Th' approaching danger nearer to my Thought, Off on a ſudden, fell the forc'd diſguiſe, And ſhew'd a ſighing heart in weeping Eyes, My apprehenſions now no more confin'd, Expos'd my ſorrows, and betray'd my mind. The Fair Afflicted, Soon perceives my Tears, Explains my Sighs, and thence concludes my Fears; With ſad Preſages of her hopeleſs Caſe, She reads her Fate in my dejected Face; Then, feels my Torment, and neglects her own, While I am Senſible of hers alone; Each does the others burden kindly bear, I fear her Death, and ſhe bewails my Fear: Though we thus ſuffer under Fortune's Darts, 'Tis only thoſe of Love which reach our Hearts. Mean-while the Fever mocks at all our Fears, Grows by our Sighs, and rages at our Tears, Thoſe vain effects of our as vain deſire, Like Wind and Oyl increaſe the fatal fire. Almeria, then, feeling the Deſtinies About to ſhut her Lips, and cloſe her Eyes, Weeping, in mine fix'd her fair trembling Hand, And with theſe words, I ſcarce could underſtand; Her Paſſion in a dying Voice expreſs'd Half, and her Sighs, alas, made out the reſt. 'Tis paſt; this pang, Nature gives o'er the ſtrife; Thou muſt thy Miſtreſs Loſe, and I my Life; I die, but dying thine, the Fates may prove Their Conqueſt over me, but not my Love; Thy Memory, my Glory, and my Pain, In ſpight of Death it ſelf, ſhall ſtill remain: Ah! Dear Orontes, my hard Fate denys That hope is the laſt thing which in us dies: From my griev'd Breaſt all thoſe ſoft Thoughts are fled, And Love ſurvives, although my Hope is dead; I yield my Life, but keep my Paſſion yet, And can all thoughts but of Orontes quit; My flame increaſes as my ſtrength decays, Death, which puts out the light, the heat does raiſe; That ſtill remains, though I from hence remove, I loſe my Lover, but I keep my Love. The Sigh, which ſent forth that laſt tender word, Up towards the Heav'ns like a bright Meteor ſoar'd, And the Kind Nymph bereft of all her Charms, Fell cold and breathleſs in her Lover's Arms; Which ſhews, ſince Death could deny him relief, That 'tis in vain we hope to die with grief. Goddeſs, who now my Fate has underſtood, Spare but my Tears, and freely take my Blood; Here let me end the Story of my Cares, My Diſmal Grief enough the reſt declares. Judge thou by all this Miſery diſplay'd, Whether I ought not to implore thy aid: Thus to ſurvive, reproaches on me draws, And my ſad wiſhes have too Juſt a Cauſe. Come, then, my only hope; in every place Thou viſiteſt, Men tremble at thy Face, And fear thy Name; once let thy fatal hand Fall on a Swain, that does the blow demand. Vouchſafe thy Dart: I need not one of thoſe, With which thou doſt unwilling Kings depoſe; Thy weakeſt, my deſir'd releaſe can bring, And free my Soul already on her wing. But ſince all Prayers and Tears are vain, I'll try, If, ſpite of thee, 'tis poſſible to dy.

A PARAPHRASE On the CXLVIII. PSALM. By the Earl of Roſcommon. O Azure Vaults! O Cryſtal Sky! The World's tranſparent Canopy, Break your long ſilence, and let Mortals know, With what contempt you look on things below▪ Wing'd Squadrons of the God of War, Who Conquer whereſoe'er you are, Let Echoing Anthems make his Praiſes known On Earth, his Foot-ſtool, as in Heaven his Throne. Great Eye of All, whoſe Glorious Ray Rules the bright Empire of the Day. O praiſe his Name, without whoſe purer Light, Thou hadſt been hid in an Abyſs of Night: Ye Moon and Planets who diſpence, By God's Command, your Influence. Reſign to him, as your Creatour, due, That Veneration which Men pay to you; Faireſt, as well as firſt of things, From whom all Joy, all Beauty ſprings. O praiſe the Almighty Ruler of the Globe, Who uſeth thee for his Empyreal Robe: Praiſe him ye loud harmonious Sphaeres, Whoſe Sacred Stamp all Nature bears. Who did all Forms from the rude Chaos draw, And whoſe Command is th' univerſal Law: Ye wat'ry Mountains of the Sky, And you ſo far above our Eye. Vaſt ever-moving Orbs, Exalt his Name, Who gave its being to your Glorious Frame: Ye Dragons, whoſe Contagious Breath Peoples the dark Retreats of Death, Change your fierce hiſſing into joyful Song, And praiſe your Maker with your forked Tongue: Praiſe him ye Monſters of the Deep, That in the Seas vaſt Boſoms ſleep, At whoſe Command the foaming Billows roar, Yet know their Limits, Tremble, and Adore. Ye Miſts and Vapours, Hail and Snow, And you who through the Concave blow. Swift Executors of his holy Word, Whirlwinds and Tempeſt praiſe the Almighty Lord Mountains, who to your Maker's View Seem leſs than Mole-Hills do to you, Remember how, when firſt Jehovah ſpoke, All Heaven was Fire, and Sinai hid in Smoak: Praiſe him ſweet Off-ſpring of the Ground, With Heavenly Nectar yearly Crown'd. And ye tall Cedars, celebrate his Praiſe, That in his Temple Sacred Altars raiſe: Idle Muſicians of the Spring, Whoſe only cares to Love and Sing, Fly thro the World, and let your trembling Throat Praiſe your Creatour with the ſweeteſt Note. Praiſe him each Salvage Furious Beaſt, That on his Stores do daily feaſt. And you tame Slaves of the Laborious Plow, Your weary Knees to your Creatour bow: Majeſtick Monarchs, Mortal Gods, Whoſe Power hath here no Periods: May all Attempts againſt your Crown be vain, But ſtill remember by whoſe power you Raign: Let the wide World his Praiſes ſing, Where Tagus and Euphrates ſpring. And from the Danube froſty Banks, to thoſe, Where from an unknown head great Nilus flows: You that diſpoſe of all our Lives, Praiſe him from whom your power derives. Be True and Juſt, like him, and fear his Word, As much as Malefactors do your Sword. Praiſe him old Monuments of Time, O praiſe him in your Youthful prime. Praiſe him fair Idols of our greedy Sence, Exalt his Name, ſweet Age of Innocence: Jehovah's Name ſhall only laſt, When Heaven, Earth, and all is paſt. Nothing, Great God, is to be found in Thee, But Unconceivable Eternity: Exalt, O Jacob's Sacred Race, The God of Gods, the God of Grace, Who will above the Stars your Empire raiſe, And with His Glory, Recompence your Praiſe.

TO ORINDA: An Imitation of HORACE. By the Earl of Roſcommon. Integer vitae, &c. Carm. Lib. 1. Od. 22. I. VIrtue (dear Friend) needs no defence, No Arms, but its own Innocence; Quivers, and Bows, and poiſon'd Darts, Are only us'd by guilty Hearts. II. An honeſt mind, ſafely, alone May travel through the burning Zone, Or through the deepeſt Scythian Snows, Or where the fam'd Hydaſpes flows. III. While (rul'd by a reſiſtleſs fire) Our Great ORINDA I Admire. The hungry Wolves that ſee me ſtray Unarm'd and ſingle, run away. IV. Set me in the remoteſt place That ever Neptune did embrace, When there her Image fills my Breaſt, Helicon is not half ſo bleſt. V. Leave me upon ſome Libyan Plain, So ſhe my Fancy entertain, And when the thirſty Monſters meet, They'll all pay homage to my Feet. VI. The Magick of ORINDA's Name, Not only can their fierceneſs tame, But, if that mighty word I once rehearſe, They ſeem ſubmiſſively to roar in Verſe.

THE GROVE. By the ſame Author. AH happy Grove! Dark and ſecure retreat, Of Sacred ſilence, Reſt's Eternal Seat; How well your cool and unfrequented ſhade Suits with the chaſte retirements of a Maid. Oh! If kind Heav • n had been ſo much my friend, To make my Fate upon my choice depend; All my ambition I would here confine, And only this Elyzium ſhould be mine. Fond Men by Paſſion wilfully betray'd, Adore thoſe Idols which their fancy made; Purchaſing Riches, with our time and care, We loſe our freedom in a gilded Snare; And having all, all to our ſelves, refuſe, Oppreſt with Bleſſings which we fear to uſe. Fame is at beſt but an inconſtant good, Vain are the boaſted Titles of our Blood; We ſooneſt loſe what we moſt highly priſe, And with our Youth our ſhort-liv'd Beauty dies. In vain our Fields and Flocks increaſe our ſtore, If our abundance makes us wiſh for more. How happy is the harmleſs Country Maid, Who rich by Nature, ſcorns ſuperfluous aid! Whoſe modeſt Cloaths no wanton eyes invite, But like her Soul, preſerves the Native White; Whoſe little ſtore, her well-taught Mind does pleaſe, Not pinch'd with want, nor cloyd with wanton eaſe, Who free from Storms, which on the Great Ones fall, Makes but few Wiſhes, and enjoys them all; No care but Love can diſcompoſe her Breaſt, Love, of all Cares the ſweeteſt and the beſt. Whil'ſt on ſweet Graſs her bleating Charge does lie, Our happy Lover feeds upon her eye; Not one on whom or Gods or Men impoſe, But one whom Love has for this Lover choſe, Under ſome favourite Myrtle's ſhady Boughs, They ſpeak their Paſſions in repeated Vows: And whilſt a Bluſh confeſſes how ſhe burns, His faithful heart makes as ſincere returns. Thus in the Arms of Love and Peace they lie, And whilſt they Live, their flames can never die. 〈4 pages missing〉

THE DUEL OF THE STAGS. Written by the Honourable Sir ROBERT HOWARD. IN Windſor Foreſt, before War deſtroy'd The harmleſs Pleaſures which ſoft Peace injoy'd; A mighty Stag grew Monarch of the Heard, By all his Savage Slaves obey'd, and fear'd: And while the Troops about their Soveraign fed, They watch't the awful nodding of his Head. Still as he paſſeth by, they all remove, Proud in Dominion, Prouder in his Love: [And while with Pride and Appetite he ſwells;] He courts no choſen object, but compels: No Subject his lov'd Miſtreſs dares deny, But yields his hopes up to his Tyranny. Long had this Prince imperiouſly thus ſway'd, By no ſet Laws, but by his Will obey'd; His fearful Slaves, to full Obedience grown, Admire his ſtrength, and dare not uſe their own. One Subject moſt did his ſuſpicion move, That ſhow'd leaſt Fear, and counterfeited Love; In the beſt Paſtures by his ſide he fed, Arm'd with two large Militia's on his head: As if he practis'd Majeſty, he walk't, And at his Nod, he made not haſte, but ſtalk't. By his large ſhade, he ſaw how great he was, And his vaſt Layers on the bended Graſs. His thoughts as large as his proportion grew, And judg'd himſelf, as fit for Empire too. Thus to rebellious hopes he ſwell'd at length, Love and Ambition growing with his ſtrength. This hid Ambition his bold Paſſion ſhows, And from a Subject to a Rival grows. Sollicits all his Princes, fearful Dames, And in his ſight Courts with rebellious flames. The Prince ſees this with an inflamed Eye, But Looks are only ſigns of Majeſty: When once a Prince's Will meets a reſtraint, His Power is then eſteem'd but his Complaint. His Head then ſhakes, at which th' affrighted Heard Start to each ſide; his Rival not afear'd, Stands by his Miſtreſs ſide, and ſtirs not thence, But bids her own his Love, and his Defence. The Quarrel now to a vaſt height is grown, Both urg'd to fight by Paſſion, and a Throne; But Love has moſt excuſe, for all, we find, Have Paſſions, tho' not Thrones alike aſſign'd. The Soveraign Stag ſhaking his loaded head, On which hisScepters with his Arms were ſpread, Wiſely by Nature, there together fix't, Where with the Title, the Defence was mixt. The Pace which he advanc'd with to engage, Became at once his Majeſty, and Rage: T'other ſtands ſtill with as much confidence, To make his part ſeem only his defence. Their heads now meet, and at one blow each ſtrikes As many ſtrokes, as if a Rank of Pikes Grew on his Brows, as thick their Antlers ſtand, Which every Year kind Nature does disband. Wild Beaſts ſometimes in peace and quiet are, But Man no ſeaſon frees from Love or War. With equal ſtrength they met, as if two Oaks Had fell, and mingled with a thouſand ſtroaks. One by Ambition urg'd, t'other Diſdain, One to Preſerve, the other fought to Gain: The Subjects, and the Miſtreſſes ſtood by, With Love and Duty to crown Victory: For all Affections wait on proſperous Fame, Not he that climbs, but he that falls, meets ſhame. While thus with equal Courages they meet, The wounded Earth yields to their ſtrugling Feet; And while one ſlides, t'other purſues the Fight And thinks that forc't Retreat looks like a Flight: But then aſham'd of his Retreat, at length Drives his Foe back, his Rage renews his ſtrength. As even Weights into a motion thrown, By equal turns, drive themſelves up and down; So ſometimes one, then t'other Stag prevails, And Victory, yet doubtful, holds the Scales. The Prince aſham'd to be oppos'd ſo long, With all his ſtrength united ruſhes on; The Rebel weaker, than at firſt appears, And from his Courage ſinks unto his Fears. Not able longer to withſtand his might, From a Retreat at laſt ſteals to a Flight. The mighty Stag purſues his flying Foe, Till his own pride of Conqueſt made him ſlow; Thought it enough to ſcorn a thing that flies, And only now purſu'd him with his Eyes. The Vanquiſh'd as he fled, turn'd back his ſight, Aſham'd to flie, and yet afraid to fight: Sometimes his Wounds, as his excuſe ſurvay'd, Then fled again, and then look'd back and ſtay'd, Bluſh't that his Wounds ſo ſlight ſhould not deny Strength for a fight, that left him ſtrength to flie. Calls thoughts of Love and Empire to his aid, But fears more powerful than all thoſe perſwade, And yet in ſpight of them retains his ſhame, His Cool'd ambition, and his half-quench'd flame There's none from their own ſence of ſhame can flie, And dregs of Paſſions dwell with miſery. Now to the Shades he bends his feeble courſe, Deſpis'd by thoſe that once Admir'd his force: The Wretch that to a ſcorn'd Condition's thrown, With the World's favour, loſes too his own. While fawning Troops their Conquering Prince enclos'd, Now render'd abſolute by being oppos'd; Princes by Diſobedience get Command, And by new quench'd Rebellions firmer ſtand; Till by the boundleſs offers of ſucceſs, They meet their Fate in ill-us'd happineſs. The vanquiſh't Stag to thickeſt ſhades repairs, Where he finds ſafety puniſh't with his cares; Thorough the Woods he ruſhes not, but glides, And from all ſearches but his own he hides; Aſham'd to live, unwilling yet to loſe That wretched life he knew not how to uſe. In this Retirement thus he liv'd conceal'd, Till with his Wounds, his Fears were almoſt heal'd; His antient Paſſions now began to move, He thought again of Empire, and of Love: Then rouz'd himſelf, and ſtretch'd at his full length, Took the large meaſure of his mighty ſtrength; Then ſhook his loaded Head; the ſhadow too, Shook like a Tree, where leaveleſs Branches grew: Stooping to drink, he ſees it in the Streams, And in the Woods hears claſhing of his Beams; No accident but does alike proclaim His growing ſtrength, and his encreaſing ſhame. Now once again, reſolves to try his Fate, (For Envy always is importunate;) And in the Mind perpetually does move, A fit Companion for unquiet Love. He thinks upon his Mighty Enemy Circl'd about with Pow'r, and Luxury. And hop'd his ſtrength might ſink in his deſires, Remembring he had waſted in ſuch Fires. Yet while he hop'd by them to overcome, He wiſht the others fatal joys his own. Thus the unquiet Beaſt in ſafety lay, Where nothing was to fear, nor to obey; Where he alone Commanded, and was Lord Of every Bounty, Nature did afford, Chooſe Feaſts for every Arbitrary ſenſe, An Empire in the ſtate of Innocence. But all the Feaſts, Nature before him plac't, Had but faint reliſhes to his loſt taſte. Sick Minds, like Bodies in a Fever ſpent, Turn Food to the Diſeaſe, not Nouriſhment. Sometimes he ſtole abroad, and ſhrinking ſtood, Under the ſhelter of the friendly Wood; Caſting his envious Eyes towards thoſe Plains Where with Crown'd Joys, his Mighty Rival Reigns. He ſaw th' obeying Herd marching along, And weigh'd his Rival's Greatneſs by the Throng. Want takes falſe Meaſures, both of Power, and Joys, And envy'd Greatneſs is but Crowd, and Noiſe. Not able to endure this hated ſight, Back to the Shades he flies to ſeek out Night. Like Exiles from their Native Soils, though ſent To better Countreys, think it Baniſhment. Here he enjoy'd, what t'other could have there, The Woods as Shady, and the Streams as Clear, The Paſtures more untainted, where he fed, And every Night, choſe out an unpreſt Bed. But then his lab'ring Soul with Dreams was preſt, And found the greateſt wearineſs in Reſt; His dreadful Rival in his ſleep appears, And in his Dreams again, he fights, and fears: Shrinks at the ſtroaks of t'others Mighty Head, Feels every wound, and dreams how faſt he fled. At this he wakes, and with his fearful Eyes, Salutes the Light, that Fleet the Eaſtern Skies. Still half amaz'd, looks round, and held by fear, Scarce can Believe, no Enemy was near. But when he ſaw his heedleſs fears were brought, Not by a Subſtance, but a drowſie Thought, His ample ſides he ſhakes, from whence the Dew In ſcatter'd Showers, like driven Tempeſts flew. At which, through all his Breaſt new boldneſs ſpread, And with his Courage, rais'd his Mighty Head. Then by his Love inſpir'd, reſolves to try The Combat now, and overcome, or die. Every weak Paſſion ſometimes is above The fear of Death, much more the Nobleſt Love. By Hope 'tis ſcorn'd, and by deſpair 'tis ſought, Purſu'd by Honour, and by Sorrow brought. Reſolv'd the paths of danger now to tread, From his ſcorn'd ſhelter, and his fears, he fled. With a brave haſte now ſeeks a ſecond Fight, Redeems the baſe one by a Noble Flight. In the mean time, the Conqueror injoy'd That Power by which he was to be deſtroy'd. How hard 'tis for the Proſperous to ſee, That Fate which waits on Power, and Victory. Thus he ſecurely Raign'd, when in a Rout, He ſaw th' affrighted Heard flying about; As if ſome Huntſmen did their Chace Purſue, About themſelves in ſcatter'd Rings they flew. He like a careful Monarch, rais'd his Head, To ſee what Cauſe that ſtrange diſturbance bred. But when the ſearcht-out Cauſe appear'd no more, Then from a Slave, he had o'ercome before, A bold diſdain did in his Looks appear, And ſhook his Aweful Head to chide their Fear: The Herd afraid of Friend and Enemy, Shrink from the one, and from the other Fly; They ſcarce know which they ſhould Obey, or Truſt, Since Fortune only makes it Safe and Juſt. Yet in Deſpight of all his Pride, he ſtaid, And this unlook't for Chance with Trouble weigh'd. His Rage, and his Contempt alike, ſwell'd high, And only fear'd his Enemy ſhould Flie; He thought of former Conqueſt, and from thence Couzen'd himſelf into a Confidence. T'other that ſaw his Conqueror ſo near, Stood ſtill and liſt'ned to a whiſp'ring fear; From whence he heard his Conqueſt, and his Shame; But new-born Hopes his antient Fears o'recame. The Mighty Enemies now met at length, With equal Fury, though not equal Strength; For now, too late, the Conqueror did find, That all was waſted in him but his Mind. His Courage in his Weakneſs yet prevails. As a bold Pilot ſteers with tatter'd Sails, And Cordage crackt, directs no ſteddy Courſe, Carry'd by Reſolution, more than Force. Before his once ſcorn'd Enemy he reels, His Wounds encreaſing with his Shame, he feels The others Strenght, more from his Weakneſs grows, And with one furious puſh, his Rival throws. So a tall Oak, the pride of all the Wood, That long th' Aſſault of ſeveral Storms hath ſtood; Till by a Mighty Blaſt more pow'rfully puſh't, His Root's torn up, and to the Earth he ruſht. Yet then he rais'd his Head, on which there Grew Once, all his Power, and all his Title too; Unable now to riſe, and leſs to Fight; He rais'd thoſe Scepters to demand his Right. But ſuch weak Arguments prevail with none, To plead their Titles, when their Power is gone. His Head now ſinks, and with it all deſence, Not only rob'd of Power, but Pretence. Wounds upon Wounds, the Conqueror ſtill gives, And thinks himſelf unſafe, while t'other Lives: Unhappy State of ſuch as wear a Crown, Fortune does ſeldom lay'em gently down. Now to the moſt ſcorn'd Remedy he flies, And for ſome Pity ſeems to move his Eyes; Pity, by which the beſt of Virtue's try'd, To wretched Princes ever is deny'd. There is a Debt to Fortune, which they pay For all their Greatneſs, by no Common way. The flatt'ring Troops unto the Victor fly, And own his Title to his Victory; The faith of moſt, with Fortune does decline, Duty's but Fear, and Conſcience but Deſign. The Victor now, proud in his great ſucceſs, Haſtes to enjoy his fatal Happineſs; Forgot his Mighty Rival was deſtroy'd By that, which he ſo fondly now enjoy'd: In Paſſions, thus Nature her ſelf enjoys, Sometimes Preſerves, and then again deſtroys; Yet all Deſtruction which Revenge can move, Time or Ambition, is ſupply'd by Love.

TO CELIA. By Sir Charles Sedley. YOU tell me, Celia, you approve, Yet never muſt return my love; An anſwer that my hope deſtroys, And in the Cradle wounds our joys. To kill at once what needs muſt die, None would to Birds and Beaſts deny. How can you then ſo cruel prove, As to preſerve and torture Love? That Beauty Nature kindly meant For her own Pride, and our Content; Why ſhou'd the Tyrant Honour make Our greateſt torment? Let us break His Yoke, and that baſe power diſdain, Which only keeps the good in pain. In Love and War th' Impoſtor do's The beſt to greateſt harms expoſe. Come then, my Celia, let's no more This Devil, for a God adore. Like fooliſh Indians we have been, Whoſe whole Religion is a ſin. If we the Laws of Love had kept, And not in Dreams of Honour ſlept, He wou'd have ſurely, long ere this, Have Crown'd us with the higheſt Bliſs; Our Joy had then been as compleat, As now our Folly has been great. Let's loſe no time then, but repent, Love welcomes beſt a Penitent.

ANSWER. By the ſame Author. THyrſis, I wiſh, as well as you, To Honour there were nothing due; Then would I pay my Debt of Love In the ſame Coin that you approve; Which now you muſt in Friendſhip take, 'Tis all the Payment I can make; Friendſhip ſo high, that I muſt ſay, 'Tis rather Love with ſome allay. And reſt contented, ſince that I As well my ſelf as you deny. Learn then of me bravely to bear The want of what you hold moſt dear; And that which Honour does in me, Let my Example work on thee.

TO CELIA. By the ſame Author. PRinces make Laws, by which their Subjects live, And the high Gods, Rules for their Worſhip give. How ſhould poor Mortals elſe a Service find At all proportion'd to their mighty Mind? Had it been left to us, each one would bring, Of what he lik'd himſelf, an Offering; And with unwelcome Zeal, perhaps, diſpleaſe Th' offended Deity he would appeaſe. All powers but thine, this Mercy do allow, And how they wou'd be ſerv'd themſelves do ſhew. A rude Barbarian wou'd his Captiv'd Foe Fully inſtruct in what he'd have him do. And can it be, my Celia, that Love Leſs kind than War ſhou'd to the vanquiſh't prove. Say, cruel Fair, then, would you that my flame Shou'd for a while move under Friendſhip's Name; Or may it boldly, like it ſelf appear, And its own Tale deliver to your Ear? Or muſt it in my tortur'd Boſome live, Like Fire in quiet Elints, and no Light give: And only then humbly ſend forth a ſmall Spark, when your ſelf does on that Subject fall? My Paſſion can with any Laws comply, And for your ſake do any thing, but Die.

TO CHLORIS. By the ſame Author. CHloris, I juſtly am betray'd By a Deſign my ſelf had laid; Like an old Rook, whom in his Cheat, A Run of Fortune does defeat. I thought at firſt with a ſmall Sum Of Love, thy heap to overcome; Preſuming on thy want of Art, Thy gentle and upractis'd Heart. But naked Beauty can prevail, Like open force, when Plots do fail. Inſtead of that thou haſt all mine, And I have not one Stake of thine: And, like all Winners, do'ſt diſcover A willingneſs to give me over. And though I beg, thou wilt not now; 'Twere better thou ſhould'ſt do ſo too: For I ſo far in Debt ſhall run, Even thee I ſhall be forc't to ſhun. My Hand, alas, is no more mine, Elſe it had long ago been thine: My Heart I give thee, and we call No Man unjuſt that parts with all. What a Prieſt ſays, moves not the mind, Souls are by Love, not Words, combin'd. 〈1 page duplicate〉〈1 page duplicate〉

To a Lady, who told him he could not Love. By the ſame Author. MAdam, though meaner Beauties might, Perhaps, have need of ſome ſuch ſlight; Who to excuſe their Rigour, muſt Say they our Paſſions do miſtruſt, And that they wou'd more pity ſhew, Were they but ſure our Loves were true. You ſhou'd thoſe petty Arts deſpiſe, Secure of what is once your Prize. We to our Slaves no Frauds addreſs, But as they are, our Minds expreſs. Tell me not then I cannot Love, Say, rather, you it ne'er can move; Who can no more doubt of your Charms, Than I reſiſt ſuch pow'rful Arms: Whoſe numerous force that I withſtood So long, was not through any hope I cou'd Eſcape their pow'r; but through deſpair, Which oft makes Courage out of fear. I trembling ſaw how you us'd thoſe Who tamely yielded without blows: Had you but one of all them ſpar'd, I might, perhaps, have been enſnar'd, And not have thus, e're I did yield, Call'd Love's whole Force into the Field. Yet now I'm Conquer'd, I will prove Faithful as they that never ſtrove. All flames in matter, where too faſt They do not ſeize, the longer laſt. Then blame not mine for moving ſlow, Since all things durable are ſo. The Oak that's for three hundred Years Deſign'd in growing, one out-wears. Whilſt Flowers for a Seaſon made Quickly ſpring up, and quickly fade.

TO CHLORIS. By the ſame Author. CHloris, you live ador'd by all, And yet on none your Favours fall. A ſtranger Miſtreſs ne'er was known, You pay us all in Paying none. We him of Avarice accuſe, Who what he has, does fear to uſe: But what Diſeaſe of Mind ſhall I Call this, thy hated Penury? Thou wilt not give out of a ſtore, Which no Profuſeneſs can make poor. Miſers, when Dead, may make amends; And in their Wills enrich their Friends. But when thou Dy'ſt, thy Treaſure dies, And thou canſt leave no Legacies. What madneſs is it then to ſpare, When we want power to make an Heir? Live, Chloris, then at the full rate, Of thy great Beauty; and ſince Fate To Love, and Youth, is ſo ſevere, Enjoy'm freely while th'art here. Some caution yet I'de have thee uſe, Whene're thou doſt a Servant chuſe. We are not all for Lovers fit, No more than Arms or Arts of Wit. For Wiſdom ſome reſpected are, Some we ſee po'wrful at the Bar; Some for Preferment waſte their time, And the ſteep Hill of Honour climb; Others of Love their buſineſs make, In Love their whole Diverſion take. Take one of thoſe, for in one Breaſt Two Paſſions live but ill at reſt: And even, of them, I'd have thee fly All that take flame at every Eye. All thoſe that light and faithleſs are, All that dare more than think thee fair. Take one of Love who nothing ſays, And yet whom every word betrays. Love in the Cradle pretty ſhews, And when't can ſpeak, unruly grows.

THE PICTURE. In Imitation of ANACREON's BATHILLUS. By the Earl of Mulgrave. THou Flatterer of all the Fair, Come, with all your skill, and care, Draw me ſuch a Shape, and Face, As your Flatt'ry would diſgrace. Wiſh not that ſhe would appear, 'Tis well for you ſhe is not here; Scarce can you with ſafety ſee All her Charms deſcrib'd by me, Who, alas, have found too well What a power does in them dwell; I, alas, the danger know, I, alas, have felt the Blow; Mourn, as loſt, my former Days, That did not ſing of Celia's praiſe; And thoſe few that are behind I ſhall bleſt, or wretched find, Only juſt as ſhe is kind. With her tempting Eyes begin, Eyes that might draw Angels in To a ſecond ſweeter ſin. Oh, thoſe wanton rowling Eyes! At each glance a Lover dies: Make them bright, yet make them willing, Let them look both kind and killing. Next, draw her Forehead, then her Noſe, And Lips juſt opening, which diſcloſe Teeth ſo white, and Breath ſo ſweet, So much Beauty, ſo much Wit, To our very Soul they ſtrike, All our Senſes pleas'd alike; But ſo pure a white and red Never never can be ſaid; What are words in ſuch a caſe? What is paint to ſuch a Face? How ſhould either Art avail us? Fancy here it ſelf will fail us. In her Looks, and in her Meen Such a graceful Air is ſeen, That if you with all your Art Can but reach the ſmalleſt part, Next to her, the Matchleſs She, We ſhall wonder moſt at Thee. Then, her Neck, and Breaſts, and Hair, And her—but my Charming Fair Does in a thouſand things excel, Which I muſt not, dare not tell. How go on then? Oh, I ſee A Lovely Venus drawn by Thee; Oh how fair ſhe does appear! Touch it only here and there; Make her yet ſeem more Divine, Your Venus then may look like mine, Whoſe bright form, if once you ſaw, You by her would Venus draw.

TO A Coquet Beauty. By the ſame Author. FRom Wars and Plagues come no ſuch harms, As from a Nymph ſo full of Charms, So much ſweetneſs in her Face, In her Motions ſuch a Grace, In her kind inviting Eyes Such a ſoft Enchantment lies, That we pleaſe our ſelves too ſoon, And are with vain hopes undone. After all her ſoftneſs, we Are but Slaves, while ſhe is free; Free, alas, from all deſire, Except to ſet the World on fire. Thou, fair Diſſembler, doſt but thus Deceive thy ſelf as well as us; Like Ambitious Monarchs, thou Would'ſt rather force Mankind to bow, And venture o'er the World to roam, Than govern with content at home. But truſt me, Celia, truſt me when Apollo's ſelf inſpires my Pen, One hour of Love's Delights out-weighs Whole Years of Univerſal Praiſe, And one Adorer kindly uſed, Is of more uſe, than Crowds refuſed. For what does Youth and Beauty ſerve? Why more than all your Sex deſerve? Why ſuch ſoft alluring Arts To charm our Eyes, and melt our Hearts? By our loſs, you nothing gain; Unleſs you love, you pleaſe in vain.

SONG. By the ſame Author. FRom all Uneaſie Paſſions Free, Revenge, Ambition, Jealouſie, Contented I had been too bleſt, If Love and You would let me Reſt. Yet that Dull Life I now Deſpite; Safe from your Eyes, I fear'd no Griefs, but, Oh, I found no Joys. Amidſt a thouſand ſoft Deſires, Which Beauty moves, and Love inſpires; I feel ſuch pangs of Jealous Fear, No heart ſo kind as mine can bear. Yet I'll defie the worſt of harms; Such are thoſe Charms, 'Tis worth a Life, to Die within your Arms.

The Parting of Hector with his Princeſs Andromache, and only Son Aſtyanax, when he went upon his laſt Expedition, in which he was Slain by Achilles. Done out of the Greek of Homer, Iliad. 6. By Knightly Chetwood. HEctor, though warn'd by an approaching Cry, That to Troy Walls the Conqu'ring Greeks drew nigh; T' his Princeſs one ſhort Viſit pays in haſte, Some Daemon told him this would be his laſt: Her (ſwiftly paſſing through the ſpacious Streets) He nor at home, nor in the Circle meets, Nor at Note, The Temple of Minerva. Minerva's, where the Beauteous Train Made Prayers and Vows to angry Powers in vain. She, half diſtracted with the loud Alarms, (The Prince was carry'd in his Nurſe's Arms) Runs to a Turret, whoſe commanding height Preſented all the Battel to her fight, Advancing Grecians, and the Trojans flight. Here Hector finds her, with a Lover's Pace She ſpeeds, and breathleſs ſinks in his Embrace: The Nurſe came after with her Princely care, As Heſperus freſh, promiſing, and fair, Hector in little, with paternal Joy He bleſt in ſilent Smiles the Lovely Boy. The Princeſs, at his ſight compos'd again, Preſſing his Hand, do's gently thus complain: My Deareſt Lord, believe a careful Wife, You are too laviſh of your precious Life: You formoſt into every danger ran; Of me regardleſs; and your little Son. Shortly the Greeks, what none can ſingly do, Will compaſs, pointing all the War, at you. But before that day comes (Heavens) may I have The mournful Privilege of an early Grave! For I, of your dear Company bereft, Have no Reſerve, no ſecond Comfort left. My Father, who did in Cilicia Reign, By fierce Achilles was in Battel Slain: His Arms that Savage Conquerour durſt not ſpoil, But paid juſt Honours to his Funeral Pile: Wood-Nymphs about his Grave have planted ſince A rural Monument to a mighty Prince: Seven Brothers, who ſeven Legions did Command, Had the ſame Fate, from the ſame murdering hand. My Mother too, who their ſad Heir did reign, With a vaſt Treaſure was Redeem'd in vain; For ſhe ſoon clos'd her Empire, and her Breath, By Wretches laſt good fortune—Sudden Death. Thus Father, Mother, Brethren, all is gone, But they ſeem all alive in you alone. To gain you, thoſe Endearments I have ſold, And like the Purchace—if the Title hold. Have pity then, here in this Tower abide, And round the Walls and Works your Troops divide. But now the Greeks, by both their Generals led, Ajax, Idomeneus, Diomede, With all their moſt experienc'd Chiefs, and brave, Three fierce Attacks upon the Out-works gave; Some God their Courage to this pitch did raiſe, Or this is one of Troy's unlucky Days. Hector reply'd, This you have ſaid, and more, I have revolv'd in ſerious Thoughts before. But I not half ſo much thoſe Grecians fear, As Carpet-Knights, State-Dames, and Flatterers here. For they, if ever I decline the Fight, Miſcall wiſe Conduct Cowardiſe and Flight; Others may methods chuſe the moſt ſecure, My Life no middle Courſes can endure. Ʋrg'd by my own, and my great Father's Name, I muſt add ſomething to our ancient Fame. Embarqu'd in Ilium's Cauſe, I cannot fly, Will Conquer with it, or muſt for it die: But ſtill ſome boding Genius does portend To all my Toils an unſucceſsful end, For how can Man with heavenly Powers contend? The Day advances with the ſwifteſt pace, Which Troy, and all her Glories, ſhall deface, Which Aſia's ſacred Empire ſhall confound, And theſe proud Towers lay level with the ground: But all compar'd with you does ſcare appear, When I preſage your caſe, I learn to fear: When you by ſome proud Conqu'rour ſhall be led A mournful Captive to a Maſter's Bed. Perhaps ſome haughty Dame your hands ſhall doom, To Weave Troy's Downfal, in a Grecian Loom. Or lower yet, you may be forc'd to bring Water to Argos, from Hiperia's Spring; And as you meaſure out the tedious way, Some one ſhall, pointing to his Neighbour, ſay; See to what Fortune Hector's Wife is brought; That famous General, that for Ilium fought. This will renew your ſorrows without end, Depriv'd in ſuch a Day, of ſuch a Friend. But this is Fancy, or before it I Low in the Duſt will with my Country lie. Then to his Infant he his Arms addreſt, The Child clung, crying, to his Nurſe's Breaſt, Scar'd at the burniſh'd Arms, and threat'ning Creſt. This made them ſmile, whilſt Hector doth unbrace His ſhining Helmet, and diſclos'd his Face: Then dancing the pleas'd Infant in the Air, Kiſs'd him, and to the Gods conceiv'd this Pray'r: Jove, and you Heavenly Powers, whoever hear Hector's Requeſt with a Propitious Ear, Grant, this my Child in Honour and Renown May equal me, wear, and deſerve the Crown: And when from ſome great Action he ſhall come Laden with Hoſtile Spoils in Triumph home, May Trojans ſay, Hector great things hath done, But is ſurpaſs'd by his Illuſtrious Son. This will rejoyce his tender Mothers Heart, And ſenſe of Joy to my pale Ghoſt impart. Then in the Mothers Arms he puts the Child, With troubl'd Joy, in flowing Tears ſhe ſmil'd. Beauty and Grief ſhew'd all their Pompand Pride, Whilſt thoſe ſoft Paſſions did her Looks divide. This Scene even Hector's Courage melted down, But ſoon recovering, with a Lover's Frown, Madam (ſays he) theſe Fancies put away, I cannot Die before my fatal Day. Heaven, when we firſt take in our vital Breath, Decrees the way, and moment of our Death. Women ſhould fill their Heads with Womens Cares, And leave to Men (unqueſtion'd) Mens Affairs. A Truncheon ſutes not with a Ladies Hand, War is my Province that in chief Command. The Beauteous Princeſs ſilently withdrew, Turns oft, and with ſad, wiſhing Eyes, does her Lords Steps purſue. Penſive to her Apartment ſhe returns, And with Prophetick Tears approaching Evils mourns. Then tells all to her Maids, officious they His Funeral Rites to living Hector pay, Whilſt forth he ruſhes through the The Left Gate, accounted Ominous. Scoean Gate, Does his own part, and leaves the reſt to Fate.

ON A POET Who Writ in the Praiſe of SATYR. By the Earl of Rocheſter. TO vex and torture thy unmeaning Brain In Satyr's praiſe, to a low untun'd ſtrain, In thee, was moſt impertinent and vain. When in thy Perſon we more plainly ſee That Satyr's of Divine Authority; For God made one on Man, when he made thee: In whom are all thoſe Contradictions joyn'd, That make a Fop prodigious, and refin'd; A Lump deform'd and ſhapeleſs, wert thou born, Begot in Love's deſpight, and Nature's ſcorn, And art grown up the moſt ungainly Wight, Harſh to the Ear, and hideous to the Sight: Yet Love's thy Buſineſs, Beauty thy Delight. Curſe on that ſilly hour that firſt inſpir'd Thy Longing to Admire, and be Admir'd, To paint thy Grizly Face, to Dance, to Dreſs, And all thoſe awkard Motions that expreſs Thy Loathſome Love, and Filthy Daintineſs. Who needs will be an Ugly Beau, Garſoon, Spit at, and ſcorn'd by every Girl in Town; Where dreadfully Love's Scare-crow thou art plac'd To fright the tender Flock, who long to taſte. For none ſo Lewd and Silly yet have prov'd, Where thou mad'ſt Love, t' endure to be Belov'd. 'Twere Counſel loſt, or elſe I would adviſe; But thy half Wit will ne'er let thee be Wiſe: Half Witty, and half Mad, and ſcarce half Brave, Half Honeſt, which is very much; a Knave, Made up of All thoſe Halves, thou canſt not paſs For any thing intirely but an Aſs.

A FAREWEL TO LOVE. ONce more Love's mighty Chains are broke, His Strength and Cunning I defie: Once more I have thrown off his Yoke, And am a Man, and do deſpiſe the Boy. Thanks to her Pride, and her Diſdain, And all the Follies of a ſcornful Mind: I had ne'er poſſeſt my Heart again, If Fair Miranda had been kind. Welcome, Fond Wanderer, as Eaſe And Plenty to a Wretch in pain, That worn with Want and a Diſeaſe, Enjoys his Health, and all his Friends again. Let others waſte their Time and Youth, Watch and look pale, to gain a peeviſh Maid, And learn too late this dear-bought Truth, At length they're ſure to be betray'd.

By a Perſon of HONOƲR. * THough, Phillis, your prevailing Charms Have forc'd me from my Celia's Arms, That kind defence againſt all Powers, But thoſe reſiſtleſs Eyes of yours: Think not your Conqueſt to maintain, By Rigour and unjuſt diſdain. In vain, fair Nymph, in vain you ſtrive, For Love does ſeldom Hope ſurvive. My Heart may Languiſh for a time, Whilſt all your Glories in their prime, Can juſtifie ſuch Cruelty, By the ſame force that Conquer'd me. When Age ſhall come, at whoſe command Thoſe Troops of Beauties muſt disband; A Tyrant's ſtrength once took away, What Slave ſo dull as to Obey?

EPILOGUE TO Every Man in his Humor. By the ſame Author. * INtreaty ſhall not ſerve, nor Violence, To make me ſpeak in ſuch a Play's defence: A Play, where Wit and Humour do agree To break all practis'd Laws of Comedy: The Scene (what more abſurd) in England lies, No Gods deſcend, nor dancing Devils riſe; No Captive Prince, from nameleſs Countrey brought, No Battel, nay, there's not a Duel fought. And ſomething yet more ſharply might be ſaid. But I conſider the poor Author's Dead: Let that be his Excuſe—Now for our own, Why—Faith, in my Opinion, we need none. The parts were fitted well; but ſome will ſay, Pox on 'em Rogues, What made 'em chuſe this Play? I do not doubt but you will credit me, It was not Choice, but meer Neceſſity. To all our writing Friends, in Town, we ſent, But not a Wit durſt venture out in Lent. Have patience but till Eaſter-Term, and then You ſhall have Jigg and Hobby-horſe again. Here's Mr. Matthew, or Domeſtick Wit, Does promiſe one of the ten Plays h'as writ: But ſince great Bribes weigh nothing with the Juſt, Know, we have Merits, and in them we truſt; When any Faſts, or Holy-days, defer The publick Labours of the Theatre. We ride not forth, although the Day be fair, On Ambling Tit, to take the Suburb-air: But with our Authors meet, and ſpend that time To make up Quarrels between Senſe and Rhyme. Wedneſdays and Fridays, conſtantly we fate, Till after many a long and free debate, For divers weighty Reaſons, 'twas thought fit, Unruly Senſe ſhou'd ſtill to Rhyme ſubmit. This the moſt wholeſome Law we ever made, So ſtrictly in this Epilogue obey'd: Sure, no Man here will ever dare to break. Enter Johnſon's Ghoſt. Hold, and give way, for I my ſelf will ſpeak, Can you encourage ſo much Inſolence, And add new faults ſtill to the great Offence Your Anceſtors ſo raſhly did commit Againſt the mighty Powers of Art and Wit? When they condemn'd thoſe noble works of mine Sejanus, and my beſt-lov'd Cataline: Repent, or on your guilty Heads ſhall fall The Curſe of many a Rhyming Paſtoral: The three bold Beauchamps ſhall revive again, And with the London Prentice conquer Spain. All the dull Follies of the former Age Shall riſe and find applauſe upon this Stage. But if you pay the great Arrears of Praiſe, So long ſince due to my much injur'd Plays: From all paſt Crimes I firſt will ſet you free, And then inſpire ſome one to write like me.

UPON THE DEATH Of His GRACE the Late Duke of ORMOND, Anno 1687. By Knightly Chetwood. REligious Diſcord, Fury of this Iſle, A little Truce, ceaſe your harſh Notes a while! Honour, Religion, Vertue, Learning, all Demand our Tears at their Great Patron's fall. Whilſt ſlight Court-Meteors, ſoon advancing high, Short-liv'd too long, once ſeen neglected die; At Eighty Years Ormond's Propitious Light Seems immaturely raviſh'd from our ſight. Some Proſperom Star torn from his Native Sphere, Would cauſe ſuch Wonder and Confuſion there, The Vertues of four Reigns he kept intire Fin'd from the Droſs, as Gold by Chymick fire, Exalted Vertues, which here want a Name, Too weighty for the labouring Wings of Fame! Of Ancient Honour, Loyalty, and Truth, The Nobleſt Standard for our wand'ring Youth. Thus whilst the Patriarch liv'd, who paſs'd the Flood, The Jewiſh State by Ancient Maxims ſtood; But He once gone, the Baſe, Degenerate Age, Sunk to its old Apoſtaſie, and Rage. Some have in Courts, others in Camps been great, In Buſineſs ſome, ſome in a Wiſe Retreat, Ormond in all, his vaſt Imperious Mind Excell'd in each, as if to one confin'd: All times of Life, all Stations he could grace, The diſtant Poles of goodneſs did embrace, With crowding Lights, fill'd all the glorious Space. Thro' ſeveral Climes he a bright Courſe did run, Kind, as the enliv'ning Progreſs of the Sun. Warm'd by his Beams, even ſad Hybernia's Iſle Look'd up, and chear'd her Viſage with a Smile; Mov'd Britain's Envy, but, her Patron dead, Deep in his Fens, her Genius ſinks his Head. O—rd, which, during this Apollo's Reign, Rival'd your Siſter, and improv'd your Vein, If you juſt Tribute to his Hearſe deny, Your Swans fall Speechleſs, and your Streams be dry. Some grateful Voice his Glorious Life ſhall ſing, More above Subjects, than beneath a King.

To His Grace the preſent DUKE. THis Atlas gone, what Hero do's remain, The ponderous Maſs of Honours to ſuſtain? 'Tis You, Great Sir, his Rights, his Vertue too, (That beſt Succeſſion!) are devolv'd on You. Your Mind, well-ballaſs'd, bears the proſperous Gales, They cannot over-ſet, ſcarce fill your Sails. What a fair, ſteddy Courſe you ſteer along Thro' Scylla's Barkings, and falſe Syrens Song! Your Friendſhip not debas'd by Treacherous Art, Your Actions ſpeak the Language of your Heart. Fortune deſpairs, or Flattering, or Unkind, To daunt your Courage, or corrupt your Mind. Some plac'd in fooliſh Pride's new tottering Seat, Grow leſs from little, labouring to look Great: Such do not riſe, but weigh great Titles down, Their Miſplac'd Coronets but eclipſe the Crown: Whilst your digeſted Honour eaſie lies, Came as a Debt, not taken by Surprize. Thus Torrents, Creatures of the Winter Sky, O'erflow whilſt hurtful, in the heats grow dry: But Sacred Nile warm'd by the Riſing Sun, With him a thouſand Leagues from his high Source do's run; With a rich Deluge all the Plains do's bleſs: Aegypt were ruin'd, if his Streams were leſs.

The Earl of ROCHESTER's Anſwer, to a Paper of Verſes, ſent him by L. B. Felton, and taken out of the Tranſlation of Ovid's Epiſtles, 1680. WHat ſtrange Surpriſe to meet ſuch Words as theſe? Such Terms of Horrour were ne'er choſe to pleaſe: To meet, midſt Pleaſures of a Jovial Night, Words that can only give amaze and fright, No gentle thought that does to Love invite. Were it not better for your Arms t' employ, Graſping a Lover in purſuit of Joy, Than handling Sword, and Pen, Weapons unfit: Your Sex gains Conqueſt, by their Charms and Wit. Of Writers ſlain I could with pleaſure hear, Approve of Fights, o'er-joy'd to cauſe a Tear; So ſlain, I mean, that ſhe ſhould ſoon revive, Pleas'd in my Arms to find her ſelf Alive.

TO A Very Young LADY. By Sir George Etherege. SWeeteſt Bud of Beauty, may No untimely Froſt decay Th' early glories which we trace, Blooming in thy matchleſs Face; But kindly opening, like the Roſe, Freſh Beauties every day diſcloſe, Such as by Nature are not ſhewn In all the Bloſſoms ſhe has blown: And then what conqueſt ſhall you make, Who hearts already daily take; Scorcht in the Morning with thy beams, How ſhall we bear thoſe ſad extreams Which muſt attend thy threatning Eyes, When thou ſhalt to thy Noon ariſe.

THE Forſaken Miſtreſs. By the ſame Author. DIALOGUE. Phil. TELL me, gentle Strephon, why You from my Embraces fly? Does my Love thy Love deſtroy? Tell me, I will yet be coy. Stay, O ſtay, and I will feign (Though I break my Heart) diſdain; But leſt I too unkind appear, For ev'ry Frown I'll ſhed a Tear. And if in vain, I court thy Love, Let mine, at leaſt, thy pity move: Ah while I ſcorn, vouchſafe to woo, Methinks you may diſſemble too. Streph. Ah Phillis, that you wou'd contrive A way to keep my Love alive, But all your other Charms muſt fail, When Kindneſs ceaſes to prevail. Alas! No leſs than you, I grieve, My dying flame has no reprieve, For I can never hope to find, Shou'd all the Nymphs, I Court, be kind, One Beauty able to renew Thoſe Pleaſures I enjoy in you, When Love and Youth did both conſpire To fill our Breaſts and Veins with fire. 'Tis true, ſome other Nymph may gain That Heart which merits your Diſdain, But ſecond Love has ſtill allay, The Joys grow aged, and decay. Then blame me not for loſing more Than Love and Beauty can reſtore: And let this truth thy comfort prove, I wou'd, but can no longer Love.

THE DIVIDED HEART. By the ſame Author. AH! Celia, that I were but ſure, Thy Love, like mine, cou'd ſtill endure; That Time and Abſence, which deſtroy The Cares of Lovers, and their Joy, Cou'd never rob me of that part Which you have giv'n me of your Heart; Others unenvy'd might poſſeſs Whole Hearts, and boaſt that Happineſs. 'Twas Nobler Fortune to divide The Roman Empire in her Pride, Than on ſome low and barb'rous Throne, Obſcurely plac'd, to rule alone. Love only from thy Heart exacts The ſeveral Debts thy Face contracts, And by that new and juſter way, Secures thy Empire and his ſway; Fav'ring but one, he might compel The hopeleſs Lover to rebel. But ſhou'd he other Hearts thus ſhare, That in the whole ſo worthleſs are, Shou'd into ſeveral Squadrons draw That ſtrength, which kept entire cou'd awe, Men would his ſcatter'd Powers deride, And conqu'ring Him thoſe ſpoils divide.

To Mr. J. N. on his Tranſlations out of French and Italian. By the ſame Author. WHile others toil, our Country to ſupply With what we need only for Luxury, Spices, and Silk, in the rich Eaſt provide, To glut our Avarice, and feed our Pride. You Foreign Learning proſperouſly tranſmit, To raiſe our Virtue, and provoke our Wit. Such brave Deſigns your Gen'rous Soul inflame To be a bold Adventurer for Fame; How much oblig'd are Italy and France, While with your Voice their Muſick you advance? Your growing Fame with Envy can oppoſe, Who ſing with no leſs Art than they Compoſe; In theſe Attempts, ſo few have had ſucceſs, Their Beauties ſuffer in our Engliſh Dreſs: By Artleſs Hands, ſpoil'd of their Native Ayr, They ſeldom paſs from moderately fair: As if you meant theſe Injuries to atone, You give them Charms, more Conqu'ring than their own. Not like the dull laborious Flatterer, With ſecret Art thoſe Graces you confer. The skilful Painters, with ſlight ſtroaks impart, That ſubtil Beauty which affects the Heart. There are, who publickly profeſs they hate Tranſlations, and yet all they Write, Tranſlate: So proud, they ſcorn to drive a Lawful Trade, Yet by their Wants, are ſhameleſs Pirates made: Theſe you incenſe, while you their Thefts reveal, Or elſe prevent in what they meant to ſteal From all beſides; you are ſecure of praiſe, But you ſo high our Expectation raiſe, A gen'ral Diſcontent we ſhall declare, If ſuch a Workman only ſhould repair. You to the Dead, your Piety have ſhewn, Adorn'd their Monuments, now build your own: Drawn in the Eaſt, we in your Lines may trace That Genius which of old inſpir'd the place: The baniſh'd Muſes back to Greece you bring, Where their beſt Airs you ſo Divinely ſing; The World muſt own they are by you reſtor'd To ſacred ſhades, where they were firſt ador'd.

Virtue's Urania. By the ſame Author. HOpeleſs I languiſh out my Days, Struck with Ʋrania's Conqu'ring Eyes: The Wretch at whom ſhe darts theſe rays, Muſt feel the Wound until he dies. Though endleſs be her Cruelty, Calling her Beauties to my Mind, I bow beneath her Tyranny, And dare not murmur ſhe's unkind. Reaſon this tameneſs does upbraid, Proff'ring to arm in my defence; But when I call her to my aid, She's more a Traytor than my ſenſe. No ſooner I the War declare, But ſtrait her ſuccour ſhe denies, And joyning Forces with the Fair, Confirms the Conqueſt of her Eyes.

SYLVIA. By the ſame Author. THe Nymph that undoes me, is Fair and Unkind, No leſs than a Wonder by Nature deſign'd; She's the Grief of my Heart, the Joy of my Eye, And the cauſe of a Flame that never can die. Her Mouth, from whence Wit ſtill obligingly flows, Has the Beautiful Bluſh, and the Smell of the Roſe; Love and Deſtiny both attend on her Will, She wounds with a Look, with a Frown ſhe can kill. The Deſperate Lover can hope no redreſs, Where Beauty and Rigour are both in exceſs; In Sylvia they meet, ſo unhappy am I, Who ſees her muſt Love, and who Loves her muſt die.

TO CELIA. By Sir Charles Sedley. AS in thoſe Nations where they yet adore Marble and Cedar, and their aid implore, 'Tis not the Workman, nor the precious Wood, But 'tis the Worſhipper that makes the God: So, cruel Fair, tho Heaven has giv'n thee all We Mortals (Virtue, or can Beauty) call, 'Tis we that give the Thunder to your Frowns, Darts to your Eyes, and to our ſelves the Wounds. Without our Love, which proudly you deride, Vain were your Beauty, and more vain your Pride, All envy'd Beings that the World can ſhew, Still to ſome meaner thing their greatneſs owe. Subjects make Kings, and we (the numerous Train Of Humble Lovers) Conſtitute thy Reign. This difference only Beauties Realm may boaſt, Where moſt it favours, it enſlaves the moſt. And they to whom it is indulgent found, Are ever in the rudeſt Fetters bound. What Tyrant yet, but thee, was ever known Cruel to thoſe that ſerv'd to make him one? Valour's a Vice, if not with Honour joyn'd, And Beauty a Diſeaſe, when 'tis not kind.

THE SUBMISSION. By the ſame Author. AH! Pardon, Madam, if I ever thought Your ſmalleſt Favours could too dear be bought; And the juſt greatneſs of your Servant's Flame, I did the poorneſs of their Spirits Name; Calling their due attendance, Slavery, Your power of Life and Death, flat Tyranny; Since now I yield, and do confeſs, there is No way too hard that leads to ſuch a bliſs. So when Hippomanes beheld the Race, Where Loſs was Death, and Conqueſt but a Face, He ſtood amazed at the fatal ſtrife, Wondring that Love ſhou'd dearer be than Life, But when he ſaw the Prize, no longer ſtaid, But through thoſe very dangers ſought the Maid, And won her too: O may his Conqueſt prove A happy Omen to my purer Love; Which, if the honour of all Victory In the reſiſtance of the Vanquiſht lie, Though, it may be, the leaſt regarded Prize, Is not the ſmalleſt Trophy of your Eyes.

CONSTANCY. By the ſame Author. FEar not, My Dear, a Flame can never die, That is once kindled by ſo bright an Eye: Look on thy ſelf, and meaſure thence my Love, Think what a Paſſion ſuch a Form muſt move; For though thy Beauty firſt allur'd my Sight, Yet now I look on it but as the Light That led me to the Treaſury of thy Mind, Whoſe inward Virtue in that Feature ſhin'd. That knot (be confident) will ever laſt, Which Fancy ty'd, and Reaſon has made faſt; So faſt, that time (although it may diſarm Thy Lovely Face) my Faith can never harm; And Age, deluded when it comes, will find My Love remov'd, and to thy Soul aſſign'd. The Paſſion I have now, ſhall ne'er grow leſs: No, though thy own Fair Self ſhould it oppre: I could e'en hazard my Eternity, Love but again, and 'twill a Heaven be.

THE INDIFFERENCE. By the ſame Author. THanks, Fair Ʋrania, to your ſcorn, I now am free as I was born; Of all the Pain that I endur'd, By your late Coldneſs, I am Cur'd. In loſing me, proud Nymph, you loſe The Humbleſt Slave your Beauty knows; In loſing you, I but throw down A Cruel Tyrant from her Throne. I muſt confeſs, I ne'er could find Your equal, or in Shape, or Mind. Y'ave Beauty, Wit, and all things know, But where you ſhou'd your Love beſtow. I unawares, my Freedom gave, And to thoſe Tyrants grew a Slave; But would y'ave kept what you have won, You ſhould have more Compaſſion ſhewn. Love is a burthen, which two Hearts, When equally they bear their parts; With pleaſure carry, but no one, Alas, can bear it long alone. I'm not of thoſe, who Court their Pain, And make an Idol of Diſdain; My hope in Love, does ne'er expire, But I loſe alſo the Deſire. Nor yet of thoſe, who ill receiv'd, Would gladly have ſtrange things believ'd, And if your Heart you do defend, Their Force againſt your Honour bend. Whoe'er does make his Victor leſs, His own low weakneſs does confeſs; And whiles her pow'r he does defame, He poorly doubles his own ſhame. Even that Malice does betray, And ſpeak concern another way: And all ſuch ſcorn in Men is but The Smoak of Fires ill put out. He's ſtill in Torment, whom the Rage To Detraction does engage; In Love, Indifference is ſure The only ſign of perfect Cure. Yet, Cruel Fair, if thou canſt prove As happy in ſome other Love, As I could once have done in thine, The Sun on Happier does not ſhine.

A Paſtoral Dialogue. By the ſame Author. Thyrſis. STrephon! O Strephon! Once the Jollieſt Lad, That with ſhrill Pipe did ever Mountain glad, While'ome the formoſt at our Rural Plays, The Pride and Glory of our Holy-days: Why doſt thou now ſit muſing all alone, Teaching the Turtles yet a ſadder Groan? Well'd with thy Tears, why does the Neighb'ring Brook Bear to the Ocean what ſhe never took? Why do our Woods, ſo us'd to hear thee Sing, With nothing now but with thy Sorrows ring? Thy Flocks are well and fruitful, and no Swain Than thee more welcome to the Hill or Plain. Strephon. No loſs of theſe, or care of thoſe are left, Hath wretched Strephon of his Peace bereft; I could invite the Wolf, my Cruel Gueſt, And play unmov'd, while he on all did Feaſt; I could endure that every Swain out-run, Out-threw, Out-wreſtl'd, and each Nymph ſhou'd ſhun The hapleſs Strephon: But the Gods, I find, To no ſuch trifles have this Heart deſign'd; A feller grief, and ſadder loſs, I plain, Than ever Shepherd, or did Prince, ſuſtain; Bright Galatea, in whoſe matchleſs Face Sate Rural Innocence with Heavenly Grace, In whoſe no leſs to be adored mind, With equal light, even diſtant Virtues ſhin'd, Chaſte, without pride; though gentle, yet not ſoft; Not always cruel, nor yet kind too oft: Fair Goddeſs of theſe Fields, who for our ſports, Though ſhe might well become deſpiſed Courts, Belov'd of all, and loving one alone, Is from my fight, I fear, for ever gone; Now I am ſure thou wondreſt not, I grieve: But rather art amazed that I Live. Thyrſis. Thy Caſe indeed is pitiful, but yet Thou on thy loſs too great a price doſt ſet; Women, like Days are, Strephon, ſome be far More bright and glorious than others are; Yet none ſo wonderful were ever ſeen, But by as Fair they have ſucceeded been. Strephon. Others as Fair, and may as worthy prove, But ſure I never ſhall another Love; Her bright Idea wanders in my Thought, At once my Poyſon, and my Antidote; The Stag ſhall ſooner with the Eagle ſoar: Seas leave their Fiſhes naked on the ſhoar; The Wolf ſhall ſooner by the Lambkin die, And from the Kid the hungry Lyon flie; Than I forget her Face; what once I Love, May from my Eyes, but not my Heart remove.

To a Lady, who fled the Sight of him. By Sir George Etherege. IF I my Celia cou'd perſwade To ſee thoſe Wounds her Eyes have made, And hear, whilſt I that Paſſion tell, Which, like her ſelf, does ſo excel, How ſoon we might be freed from Care! She need not fear, nor I deſpair. Such Beauty does the Nymph protect, That all approach her with reſpect; And can I offer Violence Where Love does joyn in her defence? This Guard might all her Fears diſperſe, Did ſhe with Savages Converſe. Then my Celia wou'd ſurprize With what's produc'd by her own Eyes; Thoſe matchleſs Flames which they inſpire In her own Breaſt, ſhou'd raiſe a fire For Love, but with more ſubtil Art, As well as Beauty charms the Heart.

To a Lady, asking him how long he would Love her. By the ſame Author. IT is not, Celia, in our power To ſay how long our Love will laſt, It may be we within this Hour May loſe thoſe Joys we now do taſte: The Bleſſed, that Immortal be, From Change in Love are only free. Then, ſince we Mortal Lovers are, Ask not how long our Love will laſt; But while it does, let us take care Each Minute be with Pleaſure paſt; Were it not madneſs to deny To Live, becauſe w'are ſure to Die.

TO Mr. G. Granville, ON HIS VERSES TO THE KING. By Mr. Edmund Waller. AN Early Plant, which ſuch a Bloſſom bears, And ſhows a Genius ſo beyond his Years; A Judgment which could make ſo fair a Choice, So high a Subject to employ his Voice, Still as it grows, How ſweetly will it ſing, The growing Greatneſs of our Matchleſs King?

TO Mr. WALLER. By Mr. G. Granville. WHen into Lybia, the Young Grecian came, To Talk with Hammon, and Conſult for Fame; When from the Sacred Tripod where he ſtood, The Prieſt inſpir'd, Saluted him, a God; So own'd by Heaven, leſs glorious far was he, Great God of Verſe, than I, thus Prais'd by Thee; Whoe'er their Names, can in thy Numbers ſhow, Have more than Empire, and Immortal grow: Ages to come, ſhall ſcorn the Pow'rs of Old, When in thy Verſe, of Greater Gods they're told. Our Beauteous Queen, and Martial Monarch's Name, For Jove and Juno, ſhall be plac'd by Fame; Thy Charles, for Neptune, ſhall the Seas Command, And Sachariſſa ſhall for Venus ſtand: Greece ſhall no longer Boaſt, nor Haughty Rome, But think from Britain, all the Gods did come.

ON MYRA's Singing. By the ſame Author. THE Syrens, once Deluded, Vainly Charm'd, Ty'd to the Maſt, Ʋlyſſes Sail'd un-harm'd: Had Myra's Voice Entic'd his Liſt'ning Ear, The Greek had ſtop't, and wou'd have Dy'd to hear: When Myra Sings, we ſeek th' Enchanting Sound, And Bleſs the Notes which do ſo ſweetly Wound. What Muſick needs muſt dwell upon that Tongue, Whoſe Speech is Tune-full, as another's Song; Such Harmony, ſuch Wit, a Face ſo fair, So many pointed Arrows, who can bear? The Slave that from her Wit, or Beauty flies, If ſhe but reach him with her Voice, he Dies. Like Soldiers, ſo in Battle we ſucceed, One Peril ſcaping, by another Bleed: In vain the Dart, or glittering Sword we ſhun, Condemn'd to Periſh by the Slaughtering Gun.

IN Praiſe of MYRA. By the ſame Author. I. TUNE thy Harmonious Lyre: Begin my Muſe, What Nymph? What Queen? What Goddeſs ſhall we chuſe? Whoſe Praiſes ſhall we Sing? What Charmer's Name Tranſmit Immortal down to Fame? Strike, ſtrike thy Strings; let Echo take the Sound, And bear it far, to all the Mountains round: Pyndus again ſhall hear, again rejoyce, And Haemus too, as when th' Enchanting Voice Of Tuneful Orpheus Charm'd the Grove, Taught Oaks to Dance, and made the Cedars move. II. Nor Venus, nor Diana will we Name, Myra is Venus and Diana too, All that was feign'd of them, apply'd to her, is true: Then Sing, my Muſe; let Myra be our Theam. As when the Shepherds do their Garland make, They ſearch, with pains, the Fragrant Meadows round, Plucking but here and there, and only take The Choiceſt Flow'rs, with which ſome Nymph is Crown'd. In Framing Myra ſo Divinely Fair, Nature has taken the ſame care; All that is Lovely, Noble, Good, we ſee, All-beauteous Myra, all bound up in Thee. III. Where Myra is, there is the Queen of Love, Th' Arcadian Paſtures, and the Cyprian Grove. When Myra Walks, ſo Charming is her Meen, In every Movement, every Grace is ſeen. When Myra ſpeaks, ſo juſt's the ſenſe and ſtrong, So Sweet the Voice, 'tis like the Muſe's Song. Place me on Mountains of Eternal Snow, Where all is Ice, all Winter Winds that blow; Or caſt me underneath the Burning Line,. Where everlaſting Sun do's ſhine, Where all is ſcorcht—Whatever you decree, Ye Gods, whereever I ſhall be, Myra ſhall ſtill be Lov'd, and ſtill Ador'd by Me.

SONG. By the ſame Author. PRepar'd to Rail, Reſolv'd to Part, When I approach the Perjur'd Maid; What is it awes my Timorous Heart? Why is my Tongue afraid? With the leaſt Glance a little kind, Such wondrous Pow'r have Myra's Charms! She drives my Doubts, Enſlaves my Mind, And all my Rage diſarms. Forgetful of her broken Vows, when gazing on that Form Divine, Her Injur'd Vaſſal, trembling bows, Nor dares the Slave Repine.

SONG. By the ſame Author. SO Smooth, and ſo Serene but now, What means this Change on Myra's Brow? Her Aguiſh Love now glows and burns, Then chills, and ſhakes, and the Cold Fit returns. Mockt with deluding Vows and Smiles, When on her Pity I depend, My airy hope ſhe ſoon beguiles, And Laughs to ſee my Labours never end. So up the Steepy Hill with pain, The weighty Stone is rowl'd in vain; Which having toucht the top, recoils, And leaves the Labourer Siſyphus. to renew his Toils.

VERSES Sent from an Unknown Hand, To Mr. G. GRANVILLE, In the Countrey. WHY, G—lle, is thy Life confin'd, To Shades, Thou whom the Gods deſign'd In publick, to do credit to Mankind? Why ſleeps the Noble Ardour of thy Bloud, Which from thy Anceſtors, ſo many Ages paſt, From Rollo, down to Bevil Floud, And then appear'd again at laſt, In Thee, whom thy Victorious Lance Bore the Diſputed Prize, from all the Youth of France. In the firſt Tryals, which are made for Fame, Thoſe to whom Fate Succeſs denies, If taking Counſel from their Shame, They modeſtly Retreat, they're Wiſe: But, why ſhould you, who ſtill ſucceed In all you do, whether with Graceful Art you lead The fiery Barb, or with as Graceful Motion tread At ſhining Balls, where all agree, To give the higheſt Praiſe, and the firſt Place to Thee. So Lov'd and Prais'd, whom all Admire, Why, why ſhould you from Courts, or Camps retire? If Celia is unkind, (if it can be, That any Nymph can be unkind to Thee?) If Penſive made by Love, you thus retire, A wake your Muſe, and ſtring your Lyre; Thy tender Song, and thy Melodious Strain, Can never be addreſt in vain: She needs will Love, and we ſhall have Thee back again.

SONG. By Sir George Etherege. TEll me no more you Love; in vain, Fair Celia, You this Paſſion feign; Can they pretend to Love, who do Reſuſe what Love perſwades them to? Who once has felt his Active Flame, Dull Laws of Honour will diſdain; You wou'd be thougth his Slave, and yet You will not to his Pow'r ſubmit. More Cruel then thoſe Beauties are, Whoſe Coyneſs wounds us to deſpair; For all the kindneſs which you ſhew, Each Smile and Kiſs which you beſtow, Are like thoſe Cordials which we give To Dying Men, to make them Live, And Languiſh out an Hour in pain; Be Kinder, Celia, or Diſdain.

To Her EXCELLENCE, the MARCHIONESS OF NEW-CASTLE, After the Reading of Her Incomparable POEMS. By the ſame Author. Madam, WIth ſo much Wonder we are ſtruck When we begin to Read your matchleſs Book; A while your own exceſs of Merit ſtays Our forward Pens, and does ſuſpend your Praiſe, Till Time our Minds does gently recompoſe, Allays this Wonder, and our Duty ſhews, Inſtructs us how your Virtues to proclaim, And what we ought to pay to your Great Fame; Your Fame, which in your Countrey has no Bounds, But whereſoever Learning's known, reſounds. Thoſe Graces Nature did till now divide; Your Sexes Glory, and our Sexes Pride, Are joyn'd in you, and all to you ſubmit, The brighteſt Beauty, and the ſharpeſt Wit. No Faction here, or fiery Envy ſways, They give you Myrtle, while we offer Bays. What Mortal dares diſpute thoſe Wreaths with You, Arm'd thus with Light'ning, and with Thunder too? This made the Great New-Castle's Heart your Prize, Your Charming Soul, and your Victorious Eyes, Had only pow'r his Martial Mind to tame, And raiſe in his Heroick Breaſt a Flame: A Flame, which with his Courage ſtill aſpires, As if Immortal Fuel fed thoſe Fires: This Mighty Chief, and your Great Self made One, Together the ſame Race of Glory run; Together in the Wings of Fame you move, Like yours, his Vertue: And like yours, his Love. While we your Praiſe endeav'ring to rehearſe, Pay that great Duty in our Humble Verſe; Such as may juſtly move your Anger, You, Like Heaven, forgive them, and accept them too. But what we cannot, your brave Hero pays, He builds thoſe Monuments we ſtrive to raiſe: Such as to after Ages ſhall make known, While he records your Deathleſs Fame, his own. So when an Artiſt ſome rare Beauty draws, Both in our wonder ſhare, and our applauſe: His skill from Time ſecures the Glorious Dame, And makes himſelf Immortal in her Fame.

EPILOGUE TO TARTUFF, Spoken by Himſelf. By a Perſon of Honour. * MAny have been the vain attempts of Wit Againſt the ſtill-prevailing Hypocrite: Once, and but once, a Poet got the day, And vanquiſh'd Buſie in a Puppet-play: But Buſie rallying, arm'd with zeal, and rage, Poſſeſt the Pulpit, and pull'd down the Stage. To laugh at Engliſh Knaves is dang'rous then, While Engliſh Fools will think them Honeſt Men; But ſure no Zealous Brother can deny us Free leave with this our Monſieur Ananias. A Man may ſay, without being call'd an Atheiſt, There are Damn'd Rogues among the French and Papiſt, That fix Salvation to ſhort Band and Hair, That belch and ſnuffle to prolong a Pray'r? That uſe t' enjoy the Creature, to expreſs Plain Whoring, Gluttony, and Drunkenneſs? And in a decent way perform them too, As well, nay, better far, alas, than you; Whoſe Fleſhly Failings are but Fornication, We Godly pharſe it, Goſpel-Propagation, Juſt as Rebellion was call'd Reformation. Zeal ſtands but Cent'ry at the Gate of Sin, Whilſt all that have the Word paſs freely in Silent, and in the dark, for fear of Spies, You march, and take Damnation by ſurprize: There's not a Roaring Blade in all this Town, Can go ſo far tow'rds Hell for Half a Crown, As I for Six Pence, for we know the way; For want of Guides, Men often go aſtray: Therefore give ear to what I ſhall adviſe, Let every Married Man, that's Grave and Wiſe, Take a Tartuff, of known Ability, To teach and to inſtruct his Family, Who may ſo ſettle laſting Reformation, Firſt get his Son, then give him Education.

THE Imperfect Enjoyment. By Sir George Etherege. AFter a Pretty, Amorous Diſcourſe, She does reſiſt my Love with a pleaſing force; Mov'd not with Anger, but with Modeſty, Againſt her will ſhe is my Enemy. Her Eyes the rudeneſs of her Arms excuſe, Whilſt thoſe accept what theſe ſeem to refuſe; To eaſe my Paſſion, and to make me bleſt, Th' obliging Smock falls from her whiter Breaſt; Then with her lovely Hands ſhe does conceal Thoſe Wonders Chance ſo kindly did reveal; In vain, alas, her nimble Fingers ſtrove To ſhield her Beauties from my greedy Love; Guarding her Breaſts, her Lips ſhe did expoſe, To ſave a Lilly ſhe muſt loſe a Roſe; So many Charms ſhe has in ev'ry place, A hundred Hands cannot defend each Grace. Sighing, at length her force ſhe does recal, For ſince I muſt have Part, ſhe'll give me All. Her Arms the joyful Conqueror embrace, And ſeem to guide me to the ſought-for place. Her Love is in her ſparkling Eyes expreſt, She falls o'th' Bed for Pleaſure, more than reſt. But Oh, ſtrange Paſſion! Oh, Abortive Joy! My Zeal does my Devotion quite deſtroy, Come to the Temple, where I ſhou'd Adore My Saint, I Worſhip at the ſacred Door; Oh, cruel Chance! The Town which did oppoſe My Strength ſo long, now yields to my Diſpoſe; When, overjoy'd with Victory, I fall Dead at the foot of the ſurrender'd Wall, Without the uſual Ceremony, we Have both fulfill'd the Am'rous Myſtery, The Action which we ſhou'd have joyntly done, Each has unluckily perform'd alone; The Union which our Bodies ſhou'd enjoy, The Union of our eager Souls deſtroy. Our Flames are puniſh'd by their own exceſs, W'd had more Pleaſure had our Loves been leſs; She Bluſh'd and Frown'd, perceiving we had done The Sport, ſhe thought, we ſcarce had yet begun. Alas, ſaid I, Condemn your Self, not Me; This is th' effect of too much Modeſty. Hence with that peeviſh Virtue, the Delight Of both our Victories was loſt i'th' Fight; Yet from my Shame, your Glory does ariſe, My Weakneſs proves the Vigour of your Eyes: They did conſume the Victim, e're it came Unto the Altar, with a purer Flame: Phillis, let then this Comfort eaſe your Care, Y'd been more Happy, had you been leſs Fair.

A PROLOGUE Spoken at the Opening of the Duke's New Play-Houſe. By the ſame Author. 'TIS not in this, as in the former Age, When Wit alone ſuffic'd t' Adorn the Stage, When things well ſaid, an Audience cou'd Invite, Without the hope of ſuch a Gaudy Sight: What with your Fathers took, wou'd take with you, If Wit had ſtill the Charm of being New; Had not Enjoyment dull'd your Appetite, She in her homely Dreſs wou'd yet delight; Such ſtately Theatres we need not raiſe, Our Old Houſe wou'd put off our dulleſt Plays. You Gallants know, a freſh Wench of Sixteen, May drive the Trade in Honeſt Bombarine, And never want good Cuſtom, ſhou'd ſhe lie In a Back-Room, two or three Stories high: But ſuch a Beauty as has long been known, Though not decay'd, but to Perfection grown, Muſt, if ſhe mean to thrive in this lewd Town, Wear Points, Lac'd-Petticoats, and a rich Gown; Her Lodgings too, muſt with her Dreſs agree, Be hung with Damask, or with Tapeſtry; Have China, Cabinets, and a great Glaſs, To ſtrike reſpect into an Am'rous Aſs. Without the help of Stratagems and Arts, An old Acquaintance cannot touch your Hearts. Methinks 'tis hard our Authors ſhou'd ſubmit So tamely to their Predeceſſors wit, Since, I am ſure, among you there are few Wou'd grant your Grandfathers had more than you: But hold! I in this buſineſs may proceed too far, And raiſe a ſtorm againſt our Theatre; And then what wou'd the wiſe Adventurers ſay, Who were in a much greater Fright to day Than ever Poet was about his Play? Our apprehenſions none can juſtly blame, Money is dearer much to us than Fame: This thought on, let our Poets juſtifie The Reputation of their Poetry; We are reſolv'd we will not have to do With what's between thoſe Gentlemen and you. Be kind, and let our Houſe have but your praiſe, You're welcome every to damn their Plays.

Falling in Love with a Stranger at a Play. By Sir Charles Sedley. FAir Amarillis, on the Stage, whilſt you Behold a feigned Love, you gave a true; I like a Coward in the Amorous War, Came only to look on, yet got a Scar; Fixt by your Eyes, I had no power to flie, They held me whil'ſt you gain'd the Victory: I thought I ſafely might my ſight content, To which the power to like (not Love) I lent; And if I ventur'd on ſome ſlight Diſcourſe, It ſhould be ſuch as could no Paſſion nurſe: Led by the treacherous luſtre of your Eyes, At laſt I plaid too near the Precipice: Love came diſguis'd in Wonder and Delight; And I was Conquer'd e're I knew him right; Your words fell on my Paſſion, like thoſe ſhowers Which ſwell and multiply the riſing Flowers; Like Cupid's ſelf, a God, and yet a Child, Your Looks at once were awful, and yet mild: Methoughts you Bluſh'd, as Conſcious of my Flame, Whil'ſt your ſtrict Vertue did your Beauty blame: But reſt ſecure; y'are from the guilts as free, As Saints Ador'd from our Idolatry; And Love, a Torment, does for me prepare, Beyond your Rigour in my own Deſpair.

Indifference Excuſed. By the ſame Author. LOve, when 'tis true, needs not the aid Of Sighs nor Tears to make it known; And to convince the Cruel'ſt Maid, Lovers ſhould uſe their Love alone: Into their very Looks 'twill ſteal; And he that moſt will hide his Flame, Does in that Care his Pains reveal, Silence it ſelf can Love proclaim. This, Aurelia, made me ſhun The Paths that common Lovers tread, Whoſe guilty paſſions are begun, Not in their Hearts, but in their Head. I cou'd not ſigh, and with croſs'd Arms Lament your Rigour and my Fate, Nor tax your Beauty with ſuch Charms As Men Adore, and Women Hate: But Careleſs Live, and without Art, Knowing my Love you muſt have ſp'ide, And thinking it a fooliſh part, To ſtrive to ſhew what none can hide.

To my Honoured Friend Sir ROBERT HOWARD, On His Excellent Poems. By Mr. John Dryden. AS there is Muſick uninform'd by Art In thoſe wild Notes, which with a merry Heart The Birds in unfrequented Shades expreſs, Who better taught at home, yet pleaſe us leſs: So in your Verſe, a native ſweetneſs dwells, Which ſhames Compoſure, and its Art excells. Singing, no more can your ſoft numbers grace, Than Paint adds Charms unto a Beauteous Face. Yet as when mighty Rivers gently creep, Their even calmneſs does ſuppoſe them deep; Such is your Muſe: No Metaphor ſwell'd high With dangerous boldneſs lifts her to the Sky; Thoſe mounting Fancies, when they fall again, Shew Sand and Dirt at bottom do remain. So firm a ſtrength, and yet withal ſo ſweet, Did never but in Sampſon's Riddle meet. 'Tis ſtrange each Line ſo great a weight ſhould bear, And yet no ſign of toil, no ſweat appear. Either your Art hides Art, as Stoicks feign, Then leaſt to feel, when moſt they ſuffer pain; And we, dull Souls, admire, but cannot ſee What hidden Springs within the Engine be: Or 'tis ſome happineſs that ſtill purſues Each Act and Motion of your Graceful Muſe. Or is it Fortune's Work, that in your Head The curious Rete Mirabile. Net that is for Fancies ſpread, Lets through its Meſhes every meaner Thought, While rich Idea's there are only caught. Sure that's not all; this is a piece too fair To be the Child of Chance, and not of Care. No Atoms caſually together hurl'd Could e'er produce ſo beautiful a World. Nor dare I ſuch a Doctrine here admit, As would deſtroy the Providence of Wit. 'Tis your ſtrong Genius then which does not feel Thoſe weights would make a weaker Spirit reel: To carry weight, and run ſo lightly too, Is what alone your Pegaſus can do. Great Hercules himſelf cou'd ne'er do more, Than not to feel thoſe Heav'ns and Gods he bore. Your eaſier Odes, which for Delight were penn'd, Yet our Inſtruction make their ſecond end: We're both enrich'd and pleas'd, like them that Wooe, At once a Beauty, and a Fortune too. Of Moral Knowledge Poeſie was Queen, And ſtill ſhe might, had wanton Wits not been; Who like ill Guardians liv'd themſelves at large, And not content with that, debauch'd their Charge: Like ſome brave Captain, your ſucceſsful Pen Reſtores the Exil'd to her Crown again; And gives us hope, that having ſeen the Days When nothing flouriſh'd but Fanatick Bays, All will at length in this Opinion reſt, "A Sober Prince's Government is beſt. This is not all; your Art the way has found To make improvement of the richeſt ground, That Soil which thoſe Immortal Laurels bore, That once the Sacred Maro's Temples wore Eliſa's Griefs, are ſo expreſt by you, They are too Eloquent to have been true. Had ſhe ſo ſpoke, Aeneas had obey'd What Dido rather than what Jove had ſaid. If Funeral Rites can give a Ghoſt repoſe, Your Muſe ſo juſtly has diſcharged thoſe. Eliſa's ſhade may now its wandring ceaſe, And claim a Title to the Fields of Peace. But if Aeneas be oblig'd, no leſs Your kindneſs great Achilles doth confeſs, Who dreſs'd by Statius in too bold a look, Did ill become thoſe Virgin's Robes he took. To underſtand how much we owe to you, We muſt your Numbers, with your Authors view; Then we ſhall ſee his work was lamely rough, Each figure ſtiff as if deſign'd in Buff; His Colours laid ſo thick on every place, As only ſhew'd the Paint, but hid the Face. But as in Perſpective we Beauties ſee, Which in the Glaſs, not in the Picture be; So here our ſight obligingly miſtakes That Wealth which his your Bounty only makes. Thus vulgar Diſhes are by Cooks diſguis'd, More for their dreſſing than their ſubſtance priz'd. Your curious Annotations on Statius. Notes ſo ſearch into that Age, When all was Fable but the Sacred Page, That ſince in that dark Night we needs muſt ſtray, We are at leaſt miſled in pleaſant way. But what we moſt admire, your Verſe no leſs The Prophet than the Poet doth confeſs. E're our weak Eyes diſcern'd the doubtful ſtreak Of Light, you ſaw Great Charles his Morning break. So skilful Sea-men ken the Land from far, Which ſhews like Miſts to the dull Paſſenger. To Charles your Muſe firſt pays her dutious Love, As ſtill the Antients did begin from Jove. With Monck you end, whoſe Name preſerv'd ſhall be, As Rome recorded Hic ſitus eſt Rufus qui pulſo vindice quondam. Imperiam aſſeruit non ſibi ſed Patriae. Rufus Memory, Who thought it greater honour to obey His Countrey's Intereſt, than the World to ſway. But to Write Worthy Things, of Worthy Men, Is the peculiar Talent of your Pen: Yet let me take your Mantle up, and I Will venture in your right to Propheſie. "This Work by Merit, firſt of Fame ſecure, "Is likewiſe happy in its Geniture: "For ſince 'tis born when Charles aſcends the Throne, "It ſhares, at once, his Fortune and its own.

AN ODE In Imitation of —Quid Bellicoſus Cantabor, &c. Hor. Od. 11. Lib. 2. By Mr. John How. WHAT is't to us, who guides the State, Who's out of Favour, or who Great, Who are the Miniſters and Spies, Who votes for Places, or who buys. The World will ſtil be rul'd by Knaves And Fools contending to be Slaves; Small Things, my Friend, ſerve to ſupport Life, troubleſom at beſt, and ſhort: Our youth runs back, occaſion flies, Grey Hairs come on, and Pleaſure dies: Who would the preſent Bleſſings loſe For Empires which he cannot uſe. Kind Providence has us ſupply'd With what to others is deny'd, Virtue which teaches to condemn And ſcorn ill Actions and ill Men. Beneath this Lime-Tree's fragrant ſhade, On Beds of Flowers ſupinely laid, Let's then all other Cares remove, And Drink and Sing to thoſe we Love: Here's to Neaera, Heaven deſign'd Perfection of the Charming kind, Whoſe Beauty, Voice, and wondrous Wit Lays all Adoring at her Feet, Makes Angels envy, Nature vain, And me delight in hopeleſs pain. May ſhe be Bleſt, as ſhe is Fair, And Pity me as I Love her; The reſt let's leave to the unſeen Powers, This Moment and this Glaſs is ours.

THE PLATONICK. By Sir Charles Sedley. FAIR Octavia, you are much to blame, To blow the fire, and wonder at the flame. I did converſe, 'tis true, ſo far was mine; But that I Lov'd, and hop'd, was wholly thine; Not hop'd, as others do, for a return, But that I might without offending burn. I thought thoſe Eyes which every hour enſlave, Could not remember all the Wounds they gave: Forgotten in the Crowd, I wiſht to lie, And of your Coldneſs, not your Anger, die; Yet ſince you know I Love, 'tis now no time Longer to hide, let me excuſe the Crime; Seeing what Laws I to my Paſſion give, Perphaps you may conſent that it ſhould live: Firſt, It never ſhall a hope advance Of waiting on you, but by ſeeming chance, I at a diſtance will Adore your Eyes, As awful Perſians do the Eaſtern Skies: I never will preſume to think of Sex, Nor with groſs Thoughts my Deathleſs Love perplex: I tread a pleaſant path without deſign; And to thy care my Happineſs reſign, From Heaven it ſelf thy Beauty cannot be A freer Gift than is my Love to Thee.

TO A Devout Young Woman. By the ſame Author. PHillis, this mighty Zeal aſſwage, You over-act your part; The Martyrs at your tender Age, Gave Heaven but half their Heart. Old Men (till paſt the Pleaſure) ne'er Declaim againſt the Sin, 'Tis early to begin to fear The Devil at Fifteen. The World, to Youth, is too ſevere, And like a Treacherous Light, Beauty the Actions of the Fair Expoſes to their ſight. And yet this World, as old as 'tis, Is oft deceiv'd by't too; Wiſe Combinations ſeldom miſs, Let's try what we can do.

SONG. By the ſame Author. WHEN Aurelia firſt became The Miſtreſs of his Heart, So mild and gentle was her Reign, Thyrſis, in hers, had part. Reſerves and Care he laid aſide, And gave his Love the Reins; The headlong courſe he now muſt bide, No other way remains. At firſt her Cruelty he fear'd, But that being overcome, No ſecond for a while appear'd, And he thought all his own: He call'd himſelf a happier Man Than ever Lov'd before; Her Favours ſtill his Hopes out-ran, What Mortal can have more? Love ſmil'd at firſt, then looking grave, Said, Thyrſis, leave to boaſt; More joy than all her kindneſs gave, Her Fickleneſs will coſt. He ſpoke, and from that fatal time, All Thyrſis did, or ſaid, Appear'd unwelcome, or a Crime, To the Ungrateful Maid. Then he diſpairing of her Heart, Would fain have had his own. Love anſwered, ſuch a Nymph could part With nothing ſhe had won.

On the Lamented DEATH Of the Late Counteſs of DORSET. By N. Tate, Servant to Their Majeſties. HOME, Shepherds, to your Cottages retire, Your Dorſet Mourns; no more the Pipe inſpire. Your Mirth is done, your Care is vain; what need To Tend thoſe Flocks, that will no longer Feed? Nature her ſelf concern'd for Him appears, Sables for his and her loſt Darling wears, She Sighs in Storms, and Weeps in Seas of Tears. Ev'n Earth that does the precious Relicks ſhround, Laments the Treaſure that ſhou'd make her Pround: Alone exempted from the gen'ral Care, The Skies rejoyce to have regain'd their Star. Profane Diſeaſe; The Crime had been too great, In only Batt'ring of ſo fair a Seat! Which ſpightfully thou quite haſt undermin'd, Becauſe the bright Remains would ſtill have ſhin'd: So Envious Rome no Method cou'd employ Fair Carthage to Subdue, but to Deſtroy. Mute are the Groves, where Happy Shepherds ſung, And Philomel once more has loſt her Tongue; The Palm and Myrtle Glades no longer pleaſe: Cypreſs and Yew are now the only Trees. The ruthfull'ſt Objects, moſt Endearments have, The Uncouth Vale Delights, and gloomy Cave Can pleaſe, becauſe it repreſents the Grave. Tears our Refreſhment are, our ſole Relief, To give Deſpair free ſcope, To ſet the Sluces ope, And Rowl with the Impetuous Tide of Grief. Let the next Age the coſtly Tomb prepare, To her ſhrin'd Image come, and ſeek her there; The Preſent rears, beyond the Pow'r of Art, A breathing Monument in ev'ry Heart. What Rhet'rick can divorce, what Charms of Verſe, The Sighing Mother from her Darling's Hearſe? To trace her Features, and her Virtues paint, In Form an Angel, as in Life a Saint; Are Themes ill ſuited to a Parent's Grief, The Food of Sorrow, an unkind Relief: One only Sov'raign Balm ſick Nature bears, A Sympathizing Royal Mourners Tears: Though Gods, nor Goddeſſes, may Fate reverſe, Our Goddeſs Weeping Conſecrates the Hearſe. Behold, forlorn the Muſes Patron laid, With Mourning Cupids in the Cypreſs ſhade; Of Fate, nor cruel Skies, he once complains, But inwardly the Conflict deep ſuſtains, The ſtrugling Tumult in his Breaſt reſtrains. O DORSET, cou'd our Worthleſs Live presented (Whoſe Comforts only on thy Smiles depend) To Bribe thy Griefs, how pleas'd cou'd we reſign Our Breaths, compounding for one Pang of thine. Our Uſeleſs Breaths are tender'd now in vain, Science Tuneful Notes no more muſt chear the Plain, Let Numbers ceaſe; for whom ſhou'd they relieve, That can no Comfort to their Patron give? Yet, DORSET, Live in pity to the Age, That to Condole thy Loſs forgets its Rage; The Impious Age ſtill from one Crime is Free, Mad with Inteſtine Strife, we all agree, As in Admired in Lamenting Thee! Let thoſe dear Pledges Intercede at leaſt, The Living Relicks of of Fair Deceas'd; Till Infant Beauty to full Bloom arrives, The Mother's Virtues, and her Charms receives: Till Dawing Buckhurſt to his Zenith riſe, And gild (like you) and warm our Northern Skies. Till then Indulge our deareſt Wiſhes ſcope, Next Age's DORSET, Britain's ſecond Hope.

To CHLORIS. By Sir Charles Sedley. CHloris, I cannot ſay, your Eyes Did my unwary Heart ſurprize, Nor will I ſwear it was your Face, Your Shape, or any nameleſs Grace; For you are ſo entirely Fair, To Love a part, injuſtice were; No drowning Man can know which drop Of water his laſt breath did ſtop; So when the Stars in Heaven appear, And join to make the Night look clear; The Light we no one's Bounty call, But the united work of all; He that both Lips, or Hands adore, Deſerves them only, and no more; But I Love all, and every part, And nothing leſs can eaſe my Heart. Cupid that Lover weakly ſtrikes, Who can expreſs what 'tis he likes.

SONG. By the ſame Author. AƲrelia, Art thou mad To let the World in me Envy Joys I never had, And cenſure them in Thee. Fill'd with grief for what is paſt, Let us at length be wiſe, And the Banquet boldly taſte, Since we have paid the price. Love does eaſie Souls deſpiſe, Who loſe themſelves for Toys, And Eſcape for thoſe deviſe, Who taſte his utmoſt Joys. To be thus for Trifles blam'd, Like theirs a Folly is, Who are for vain Swearing Damn'd, And knew no higher Bliſs. Love ſhould like the Year be Crown'd, With ſweet variety; Hope ſhould in the Spring be found Kind Fears, and Jealouſie. In the Summer Flowers ſhould rife, And in the Autumn Fruit; His Spring doth elſe but mock our Eyes, And in a Scoff Salute.

SONG. By the ſame Author. LOVE ſtill has ſomething of the Sea, From whence his Mother roſe; No time his Slaves from doubt can free, Nor give their Thoughts repoſe: They are becalm'd in cleareſt Days, And in rough weather toſt; They wither under cold delays, Or are in Tempeſts loſt. One while they ſeem to touch the Port, Then ſtraight into the Main, Some angry Wind, in cruel ſport, Their Veſſel drives again. At firſt, Diſdain and Pride they fear, Which if they chance to ſcape, Rivals and falſhood ſoon appear In a more dreadful Shape. By ſuch degrees to Joy they come, And are ſo long withſtood, So ſlowly they receive the Sum, It hardly does them good. 'Tis Cruel to prolong a Pain; And to defer a Bliſs: Believe me, gentle Hermione No leſs Inhumane is. And Hundred Thouſand Oaths your Fears Perhaps would not remove; And if I gaz'd a Thouſand Years, I could no deeper Love, 'Tis fitter much for you to gueſs, Than for me to explain; But grant, O grant that Happineſs Which only does remain.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN AMINTAS and CELIA. By the ſame Author. Celia. AMintas, I am come alone, According as I ſaid; But whither is thy Honour flown? I fear I am betray'd: The Looks are chang'd, and in the place Of Innocent Deſires, Methinks I ſee thy Eyes and Face Burn with unuſual Fires. Amintas. Sees not my Celia Nature wear One Countenance in the Spring, And yet another Shape prepare, To bring the Harveſt in? Look on the Eagle, how unlike He to the Egg is found, When he prepares his Pownce to ſtrike His Prey againſt the ground. Fears might my Infant Love become; 'Twere want of kindneſs now, Should Modeſty my Hope benum, Or check what you allow. Celia. Amintas, hold, What could you worſe To worſt of Women do? Ah! How could you a Paſſion nurſe So much my Honour's Foe? Amintas. Make not an Idol of a Toy, Which every breath can ſhake, Which all muſt have, or none enjoy, What courſe ſo e'er we take: Whil'ſt Women hate, or Men are vain, You cannot be ſecure; What makes my Celia then a pain So fruitleſs to endure? Celia. Could I the World neglect for Thee. Thy Love, though dear it coſt, In ſome unkind Conceit of me, Would be untimely loſt: Thou would'ſt thy own Example fear, And every heedleſs word I chance let fall beyond thy Care, Would ſome new doubt afford. Amintas. If I am Jealous, 'tis becauſe I know not where you Love; With me fulfil Love's gentle Laws, And all my Fears remove. Celia. Women, like things, at ſecond hand, Do half their Value loſe; But whilſt all Courtſhip they withſtand, May at their Pleaſure chooſe. Amintas. This were a fine Diſcourſe, my Dear, If we were not alone; But now Love whiſpers in my Ear, There's ſomewhat to be done. She ſaid, ſhe never would forgive: He Kiſſing, ſwore ſhe ſhould; And told her ſhe was mad to ſtrive Againſt their Mutual Good. What farther paſt, I cannot tell, But ſure not much amiſs; He vow'd he Lov'd her dearly well, She anſwered with a Kiſs.

THE LAMENTATIONS OF JEREMIAH. By Mrs. Wharton. CHAP. I. The ARGUMENT.

Verſe 1. The Miſerable Eſtate of Jeruſalem, by reaſon of her Sin. 12. She Complaineth of her Grief. 18. And confeſſeth God's Judgments to be Righteous.

1. HOW doth the Mournful Widow'd City bow? She that was once ſo great: Alas, how low? Once fill'd with Joy, with Deſolation now. 2. Tears on her Cheeks, and Sables on her Head; She mourns her Lover's loſt, and Comfort's Dead. Alas, alas, loſt City, where are thoſe, So proud once to be Friends, now turn'd her Foes? 3. Judah is gone; alas, to Bondage gone, Amongſt the Heathen Judah mourns alone, Griev'd, and in Servitude, ſhe finds no reſt, Follow'd by none but thoſe by whom oppreſt. 4. The Feaſts of Zion, no one now attends, Unhappy Zion, deſtitute of Friends: Her Prieſts ſtill Sigh, and all her Virgins Mourn, Becauſe her Gladneſs now finds no return. 5. Her Enemies are great, and ever nigh: Still Fortunate, becauſe her Crimes were high. Her Captiv'd Children, ſtill her guilt upbraid, Who Mourn whilſt their Inſulting Foes Invade. 6. Her Beauty which excell'd, is now no more That brightneſs which all Nations did Adore; Here Princes are like hunted Harts become, Breathleſs and Faint, whilſt the Purſuit goes on: Alas for Zion, all their Strength is gone. 7. Jeruſalem then thought upon the Hour When ſhe was Crown'd with Peace, Delight, and Power; Thoughts once ſo Joyful, Mournful now and Vain, The Foe Inſults, whilſt ſhe no help ſuſtains, Mocking both at her Sabbaths and her Pains. 8. Her Crimes have caus'd her to be far remov'd, Jeruſalem, who was ſo well belov'd. All thoſe who in her Pride admir'd her Fame, Deſpiſe her now, becauſe they've ſeen her Shame: Sighing ſhe turns away, with Shame diſtreſt, Amaz'd, Deſpis'd, Deſerted and Oppreſt. 9. Circl'd with Guilt and Shame, ſhe cannot fly, Her Comforts far remov'd, her End too nigh; She vainly think, on that 'tis now too late, Behold thoſe Griefs, which no one can repeat, Her Fall is ſteep, and all her Foes are great. 10. Her Sanctuary is by them betray'd, All her Delights they careleſly invade, Even the Heathen, of whom God had ſaid, They ſhould not in her Holy Temple tread. 11. Her hungry People ſigh, and give away For Bread, their Treaſures, leſt their Lives decay, Conſider, Lord, ſee her with Cares bow'd down, For I am Vile, and Zion left alone. 12. All you who paſs this way behold and ſee, Are my Griefs ſmall? Do others grieve like me? Are not theſe Sorrows, under which I bow, With which the Lord hath brought my Soul ſo low? Turn back and Mourn with me, becauſe my Lord In his fierce Anger doth no Peace afford. 13. He from above hath Flames and Horrour ſent, Circling my Soul with Pain and Diſcontent; His Snares, alas, my weary Feet betray, Whilſt Deſolate and Faint, I Mourn all Day For Zion loſt, her Glory thrown away. 14. Our Sins have brought thoſe Chains which his Command Hath faſtn'd now (who can his Power withſtand?) Now they are link'd by his Almighty Hand. The Lord forſakes, and I am now the ſcorn Of Enemies, becauſe of God forlorn: He was my Strength, and now, alas, 'tis gone. 15. My Mighty Men are all by him caſt down, They're cruſh'd by numbers, and I'm left alone; Whilſt ſilently thy Virgin Daughters Mourn, Unhappy Mournful Judah left Forlorn. 16. For this I Weep, and waſte my ſelf in Tears, Becauſe her Help's far off, and Sorrow's near: Ah, wretched Judah, where is now thy hope? Thy Foes ſtill triumph whilſt thy Children droop. 17. Zion ſpreads forth her Arms to be reliev'd, But who can Comfort whom the Lord hath Griev'd? Her Enemies increaſe and flouriſh ſtill, By his Command, by his all-powerful Will. Ah, wretched City, ſcorn'd and ſham'd by all, Who can enough lament thy dreadful Fall? 18. Yet he is Juſt, for I am Guilty found, The Lord, with Righteouſneſs is always Crown'd. Ye that paſs by, ſee me with Sorrows Drown'd, My weight of Sin hath preſs'd me to the Ground. Who is it now my Freedom can reſtore? My Youth and Captive Virgins are no more. 19. I call'd for all my Friends, but they were gone, Friendſhip grows cold, when Miſery comes on: With Hunger pin'd, my Prieſts and Rulers Dy'd, Within my Walls periſh'd my Strength and Guide. 20. My Crimes were great, ſo are my Sorrows now, Behold my Lord, ſee the Afflicted bow; Abroad th' unwearied Sword bereaves of Breath, And Grief at Home, is a more Cruel Death. 21. All round me hear my Sighs, and ſee my Tears, Whilſt there is none that can relieve my Cares: My Foes hear, and rejoyce at what is done: But thou wilt ſurely, Lord, at laſt return, And then the Enemy, like me, will Mourn. 22. Their Crimes are great, turn, Mighty Lord, and ſee, Afflict 'em then, as thou Afflicteſt me. My Griefs are great, turn therefore and Relent; My Sighs are many, and my Heart is Faint.

TO CELIA. By an Ʋnknown Hand. ALL things ſubmit themſelves to your Command, Fair Celia, when it does not Love withſtand; The power it borrowed from your Eyes alone, All but himſelf would yield to who has none; Were he not blind, ſuch are the Charms you have, He'd quit his Godhead to become your Slave. Be proud to act a Mortal Hero's part, And throw himſelf, for Fame, on his own Dart? But Fate hath otherwiſe diſpos'd of things, In different Bonds Subjecting Slaves, and Kings. That Fate (like you, reſiſtleſs) does ordain That Love alone ſhould over Beauty Reign. By Harmony the Univerſe does move; And what is Harmony, but Mutual Love? See gentle Brooks, how quietly they glide, Kiſſing the rugged Banks on either ſide, Whil'ſt in their Cryſtal Stream at once they ſhow, And with them feed the Flowers which they beſtow; Though preſt upon by their too rude Imbrace, In gentle Murmurs they keep on their pace To their Lov'd Sea; for even Streams have Deſires, Cool as they are, they feel Love's Pow'rful Fires, And with ſuch Paſſion, that if any force Stop, or moleſt 'em in their Am'rous Courſe, They ſwell with Rage, break down, and Ravage o'er The Banks they Kiſs'd, the Flowers they fed before. Who would reſiſt an Empire ſo Divine, Which Univerſal Nature does enjoyn? Submit then Celia e're you be reduc'd: For Rebels Vanquiſht once, are vilely us'd. And ſuch are you, when e're you dare obey Another Paſſion, and your Love betray. You are Love's Citadels, by you he reigns, And his proud Empire o'er the World maintains; He truſts you with his Stratagems and Arms, His Frowns, his Smiles, and all his Conquering Charms. Beauty's no more but the dead Soil which Love Manures, and does by wiſe Commerce improve; Sailing by Sighs, through Seas of Tears, he ſends Courtſhip from Foreign Hearts: For your own Ends Cheriſh a Trade; for as with Indians we Get Gold and Jewels for our Trumpery; So to each other, for their uſeleſs Toys, Lovers afford Ineſtimable Joys: But if you're fond of Trifles, be, and Starve, Your Gugaw Reputation preſerve; Live upon Modeſty and empty Fame, Foregoing Senſe, for a Fantaſtick Name.

SONG. By a Perſon of Honour. * AS he lay in the Plain, his Arm under his Head, And his Flock feeding by, the fond Celadon ſaid, If Love's a Sweet Paſſion, why does it Torment? If a Bitter (ſaid he) whence are Lovers Content? Since I ſuffer with Pleaſure, why ſhould I complain, Or grieve at my Fate, when I know, 'tis in vain? Yet ſo pleaſing the Pain is, ſo ſoft is the Dart, That at once it both Wounds me, and Tickles my Heart. To my ſelf I ſigh often, without knowing why; And when Abſent from Phillis, methinks I could Die; But Oh! what a Pleaſure ſtill follows my Pain; When kind Fortune do's help me to ſee her again. In her Eyes (the bright Stars that foretel what's to come,) By ſoft ſtealth now and then I examine my Doom. I preſs her Hand gently, look languiſhing down, And by Paſſionate Silence I make my Love known. But Oh! how I'm Bleſt, when ſo kind ſhe do's prove, By ſome willing Miſtake to diſcover her Love; When in ſtriving to hide, ſhe reveals all her Flame, And our Eyes tell each other what neither dare name.

A SONG. By Mrs. Wharton. HOW hardly I conceal'd my Tears? How oft did I complain? When many tedious Days my Fears Told me I Lov'd in vain. But now my Joys as wild are grown, And hard to be conceal'd: Sorrow may make a ſilent Moan, But Joy will be reveal'd. I tell it to the Bleating Flocks, To every Stream and Tree, And Bleſs the Hollow Murmuring Rocks, For Echoing back to me. Thus you may ſee with how much Joy We Want, we Wiſh, Believe; 'Tis hard ſuch Paſſion to Deſtroy, But eaſie to Deceive.

ON THE STORM BETWEEN Graveſend and Diepe; Made at that Time. By the ſame Author. WHen the Tempeſtuous Sea did foam and roar, Toſſing the Bark from the long-wiſh'd for Shore; With falſe affected fondneſs it betray'd, Striving to keep what Periſh'd, if it ſtay'd. Such is the Love of Impious Men, where e're Their cruel Kindneſs lights, 'tis to enſnare: I, toſs'd in tedious Storms of troubled Thought, Was careleſs of the Waves the Ocean brought. My Anchor Hope was loſt, and too too near On either hand were Rocks of ſad Deſpair. Miſtaken Seamen prais'd my fearleſs Mind, Which, ſunk in Seas of Grief, could dare the Wind. In Life, tempeſtuous Life is dread and harm, Approaching Death had no unpleaſing Form; Approaching Death appeaſes ev'ry Storm.

TO Mrs. A. BEHN, On what ſhe Writ of The Earl of Rocheſter. By the ſame Author. IN pleaſing Tranſport rap't, my Thoughts aſpire With humble Verſe to Praiſe what you Admire: Few living Poets may the Laurel claim, Moſt paſs thro' Death, to reach at Living Fame. Fame, Phoenix like, ſtill riſes from a Tomb; But bravely you this Cuſtom have o'ercome. You force an Homage from each Generous Heart, Such as you always pay to juſt Deſert. You prais'd him Living, whom you Dead bemoan, And now your Tears afreſh his Laurel crown. It is this Flight of yours excites my Art, Weak as it is, to take your Muſe's part, And pay loud Thanks back from my bleeding Heart. May you in every pleaſing Grace excel, May Bright Apollo in your Boſome dwell; May yours excel the Matchleſs Sappho's Name; May you have all her Wit, without her Shame: Tho' ſhe to Honour gave a fatal Wound, Employ your Hand to raiſe it from the ground. Right its wrong'd Cauſe with your Inticing Strain, Its ruin'd Temples try to build again. Scorn meaner Theams, declining low deſire, And bid your Muſe maintain a Veſtal Fire. If you do this, what Glory will inſue, To all our Sex, to Poeſie, and you? Write on, and may your Numbers ever flow, Soft as the Wiſhes that I make for you.

TO MELPOMENE AGAINST COMPLAINT. By the ſame Author. IN ſoft Complaints no longer eaſe I find, That lateſt refuge of a Tortur'd Mind; Romantick Heros may their Fancy pleaſe In telling of their Griefs to ſenceleſs Trees. 'Tis now to me no pleaſure to rehearſe A doleful Tale in Melancholy Verſe! Men are more Deaf than Trees, more Wild than Seas: Complaints and Tears will ſooner Storms appeaſe, Than draw ſoft pity from an Humane Breaſt. All Sooth the Happy, and Deſpiſe the Oppreſt. Each Man who lives, of ſorrow hath his ſhare, Or elſe of Pride, and cannot pity ſpare, For thoſe whoſe weight is more than one can bear. All who are happy, do their Merit boaſt, Think Heaven ows'em more, and Heav'n is Juſt. Still they obſerve the Oppreſt with Partial Eyes, And think their Crimes draw Vengeance from the Skies. But were they gentle, pitiful, and mild, Not (as they are) rough, unconcern'd and wild. What Joy can pity bring on other's Grief? For what I feel, affords me no relief; To ſee another's Eyes with pity melt, For wretched me, would add to what I felt. Since in Complaints there can no eaſe be found, For ſuch an Heart as mine in ſorrow drown'd. Sleep, ſleep, Melpomene, thou, mournful Muſe: For of my Torments, I will thee accuſe. I'll ſay thou keep'ſt 'em waking with thy Charms, And drives ſoft ſlumbers from my Longing Arms. Sleep, ſleep, my Muſe, and let my Cares alone; But if thou wilt not, ſince thy Harp is ſtrung, Attend a while, and, like a dying Swan, My lateſt Accents ſhall be ſweetly ſung.

WIT's ABUSE. By the ſame Author. I Ask not why Aſtraea fled away, But wonder more, why any Vertues ſtay; In ſuch a World, where they are made a ſcorn, Oppreſs'd by numerous Vice, mangled and torn, Wounded by Laughter, and by Wit forlorn. I mean not here by Wit, what's truly ſo, But that falſe Coin which does for Current go. 'Tis certain but a few can Judgment make Of ſuch a gift, which but a few partake. Ignorant Judges may decide a Cauſe, Sooner againſt, than for Concealed Laws. This is Wit's Pledge, but few thoſe Preoepts know, Which many falſe Pretenders over-throw. And yet amongſt thoſe very few, there are Some who betray that Glorious Character; Whilſt low-born Falſhood goes for Heavenly Wit; How many aim at what ſo few can hit? The Trade of Hell was never hard to get. Thus theſe Intruders double ends purſue, Rooting out Wit, they root out Vertue too. Soft pity paſſes now for Servile Fear, A generous ſcorn of Life for mean deſpair. Truth and Sincerity the Fools proclaim, Which witty falſhood always load with ſhame. An Active Soul affected Notions prove, Out-flying common Thoughts, or private Love. Thus tho' each Vertue in it ſelf they hate, They love to make it add to a Deceit. Undreſs'd 'tis ſcorn'd; but favour'd and allow'd, When to the Neighbouring Vice it lends a Cloud. Thus the Inconſtant Empreſs of the Night, Tho' foul, and ſpotted, cloaths her ſelf with Light, And can with borrow'd Beams be always bright.

MY FATE. By the ſame Author. RAiſing my drooping Head, o'er charg'd with Thought, Having each Scene of Life before me brought; I chid my ſelf becauſe I durſt repine At Nature's Laws, or thoſe that were Divine Throughout the whole Creation 'tis the ſame, The Fuel is devoured by the Flame; Each peaceful, harmleſs, unoffending thing Is to the Offender made an Offering: Even God himſelf. Hold, my aſpiring Thought; Deſcend, my Muſe, thy flight too high is wrought; Tell not, how He, all peaceful, and all kind, Was offer'd for the vileſt of Mankind; A Victim for the vileſt was deſign'd. Deſcend, I ſay, my Muſe; low things afford Theams high enough for thee: Touch not the Word, Till he hath touch'd thy Wings with Grace Divine, Then, only his, thou ſhalt the World decline. The harmleſs Dove the Faloon doth betray▪ The Lamb is to the Wolf become a Prey; And Men to whom free will Heaven doth impart, To follow ſtill the Counſels of his Heart, If wrack'd with doubt; if harmleſs, he deſigns Peace to his Heart, and ſtill his Wiſh confines Juſtice to Peace, and Love to Quiet joyns. Why then the Dove-like Fate will ſure be his; Short is his Life, unſettled is his Bliſs: Hard Fate; that choice we eagerly purſuo, Is, or to be undone, or to undo.

ON THE DEATH OF Mr. Abraham Cowley, AND HIS BURIAL IN Weſtminſter-Abbey. By the Earl of Orrery. OUR Wit, till Cowley did its luſtre raiſe, May be reſembled to the firſt Three Days, In which did ſhine only ſuch ſtreaks of Light As ſerv'd but to diſtinguiſh Day from Night: But Wit breaks forth, in all that he has done, Like Light when 'twas united in the Sun. The Poets formerly did lie in wait To rifle thoſe whom they would imitate: We Watch'd to rob all ſtrangers when they writ, And learnt their Language but to ſteal their Wit. He from that need his Country does redeem, Since thoſe who want may be ſupply'd from him; And Foreign Nations now may borrow more From Cowley, than we could from them before: Who though he condeſcended to admit The Greeks and Romans for his Guides in Wit; Yet he thoſe Ancient Poets does purſue, But as the Spaniards great Columbus do; He taught them firſt to the New World to ſteer, But they poſſeſs all that is precious there. When firſt his Spring of Wit began to flow, It rais'd in ſome, Wonder and Sorrow too, That God had ſo much Wit and Knowledge lent, And that they were not in his Praiſes ſpent. But thoſe who in his Davideis look, Find they his Bloſſoms for his Fruit miſtook: In diff'ring Ages diff'rent Muſes ſhin'd, His Green did Charm the Senſe, his Ripe the Mind. Writing for Heaven, he was inſpir'd from thence, And from his Theam deriv'd his Influence. The Scripture will no more the Wicked fright; His Muſe does make Religion a Delight. Oh how ſeverely Man is us'd by Fate! The Covetous toil long for an Eſtate; And having got more than their Life can ſpend, They may bequeath it to a Son, or Friend▪ But learning (in which none can have a ſhare, Unleſs they climb to it by Time and Care, Learning, the trueſt Wealth which Man can have) Does, with his Body, periſh in his Grave: To Tenements of Clay it is confin'd, Tho' 'tis the Nobleſt Purchace of the Mind: Oh, why can we thus leave our Friends poſſeſt Of all our Acquiſitions but the beſt? Still when we ſtudy Cowley we lament, That to the World he was no longer lent; Who, like a Lightning, to our Eyes was ſhown, So bright he ſhin'd, and was ſo quickly gone. Sure he rejoyc'd to ſee his flame expire, Since he himſelf could not have rais'd it higher; For when wiſe Poets can no higher flie, They would, like Saints, in their perfection die. Though Beauty ſome Affection in him bred, Yet only Sacred Learning he would wed; By which th' Illuſtrious Off-ſpring of his Brain, Shall over Wit's great Empire ever Reign: His Works ſhall Live, when Pyramids of Pride Shrink to ſuch Aſhes as they long did hide. That Sacrilegious Fire (which did laſt Year Level thoſe Piles which Piety did rear) Dreaded near that Majeſtick Church to flie, Where Engliſh Kings, and Engliſh Poets lie: It at an awful diſtance did expire, Such pow'r had Sacred Aſhes o'er that Fire; Such as it durſt not near that Structure come Which Fate had order'd to be Cowley's Tomb; And 'twill be ſtill preſerv'd, by being ſo, From what the rage of future Flames can do. Material Fire dares not that place infeſt, Where he who had immortal Flame does reſt. There let his Urn romain; for it was fit Amongſt our Kings to lay the King of Wit: By which the Structure more renown'd will prove For that part bury'd, than for all above.

ON THE DEATH OF King CHARLES II. Writ at that Time, By the Honourable Charles Montague. FArewel, Great Charles, Monarch of bleſt Renown, The beſt Good Man, that ever fill'd a Throne: Whom Nature, as her higheſt Pattern, wrought, And mixt both Sex's Vertues in one Draught. Wiſdom for Councils, Bravery in War, With all the mild Good-nature of the Fair. The Womans ſweetneſs temper'd Manly Wit, And Loving Power did Crown'd with Meekneſs ſit; His awful Perſon Reverence engag'd, Which mild Addreſs and Tenderneſs aſſwag'd: Thus the Almighty Gracious King above, Does both command our Fear, and win our Love. With Wonders born, by Miracles preſerv'd, A Heavenly Hoſt the Infants Cradle ſerv'd. And Men His healing Empire's Omen read, When Sun with Stars, and Day with Night, agreed. His Youth for valorous Patience was renown'd, Like David, perſecuted firſt, then Crown'd. Lov'd in all Courts, admir'd, where e'er he came, At once our Nation's Glory, and its Shame: They bleſt the Iſle, where ſuch great Spirits dwell, Abhorr'd the Men, that could ſuch worth expel. To ſpare our Lives, He meekly did defeat Thoſe Sauls, whom wand'ring Aſſes made ſo great; Waiting, till Heaven's Election ſhould be ſhown, And the Almighty ſhould His Ʋnction own, And own He did—His powerful Arm diſplay'd And Iſrael, the Belov'd of God, obey'd, Call'd by His Peoples Tears, He came, He eas'd The groaning Nation, the black Storms appeas'd: Did greater Bleſſings, than He took, afford, England it Self, was more, than He, Reſtor'd. Unhappy Albion, by ſtrange Ills oppreſt, In various Feavers toſt, could find no reſt: Quite ſpent and wearied, to His Arms She fled, And reſted on His Shoulders, her fair bending Head. In Conqueſts Mild, He came from Exile kind, No Climes, no Provocations, chang'd His Mind: No Malice ſhow'd, no Hate, Revenge, or Pride, But Rul'd as Meekly, as His rather Dy'd; Eas'd us from endleſs Wars, made Diſcords ceaſe, Reſtor'd to Quiet, and maintain'd in Peace: A mighty Series of new Time began, And rowling Years in joyful Circles ran. Then Wealth the City, buſineſs fill'd the Port, To Mirth our Tumults turn'd, our Wars to Sport: Then Learning flouriſh'd, blooming Arts did ſpring, And the glad Muſes prun'd their drooping wing. Then did our flying Towers improvement know, Who now command as far, as Winds can blow. With Canvaſs Wings round all the Globe they fly, And, built by Charles His Art, all Storms defie: To ev'ry Coaſt with ready Sails are hurl'd, Fill Us with Wealth, and with our Fame the World: From whoſe Diſtractions Seas do us divide; Their Riches here in floating Caſtles ride. We reap the ſwarthy Indian's Sweat and Toil, Their Fruit, without the miſchiefs of their Soil. Here in cool Shades their Gold, and Pearls receive, Free from the heat, which does their luſtre give. In Perſian Silks, eat Eaſtern Spice; ſecure From burning Fluxes, and their Calenture. Under our Vines upon the peaceful Shore, We ſee all Europe toſt, hear Tempeſts roar: Rapine, Sword, Wars, and Famine rage abroad, While Charles their Hoſt, like Jove from Ida, aw'd; Us from our Foes, and from our ſelves did ſhield, Our Towns from Tumults, and from Arms the Field. For, when bold Factions Goodneſs could diſdain, Unwillingly He us'd a ſtraiter Rein: In the still gentle Voice He lov'd to ſpeak, But could with Thunder harden'd Rebels break. Yet though they wake't the Laws, His tender Mind Was undiſturb'd, in Wrath ſeverely Kind. Tempting His Power, and urging to aſſume; Thus Jove in Love did Semele conſume. As the Stout Oak, when round his Trunk the Vine Does in ſoft wreaths, and amorous foldings twine, Eaſie and ſlight appears: The Winds from far Summon their noiſie Forces to the War, But though ſo gentle ſeems his outward form, His hidden ſtrength outbraves the loudeſt ſtorm: Firmer he ſtands, and boldly keeps the Field, Showing ſtout Minds, when unprovok'd, are mild. So when the Good Man made the Crowd preſume, He ſhow'd himſelf, and did the King Aſſume: For Goodneſs in Exceſs may be a ſin, Juſtice muſt tame, whom Mercy cannot win. Thus Winter fixes the unſtable Sea, And teaches reſtleſs Water conſtancy, Which under the warm influence of bright days, The fickle motion of each Blaſt obeys. To bridle Factions, ſtop Rebellion's courſe, By eaſie Methods, vanquiſh without force, Relieve the Good, bold ſtubborn Foes ſubdue, Mildneſs in Wrath, Meekneſs in Anger ſhew, Were Arts, Great Charles His Prudence only knew. To fright the Bad thus awful Thunder rolls; While the bright Bow ſecures the Faithful Souls. Such is thy Glory, Charles, thy laſting Name, Brighter than our proud Neighbour's guilty Fame: More noble than the Spoils, that Battles yield, Or all the empty Triumphs of the Field. 'Tis leſs to Conquer, than to make Wars ceaſe, And without fighting, awe the World to Peace; For proudeſt Triumphs from Contempt ariſe, The vanquiſht firſt the Conquerours Arms deſpiſe, Won Enſigns are the gaudy marks of ſcorn, They brave the Victor firſt and then adorn. But peaceful Monarchs Reign like Gods; while none Diſpute, all Love, bleſs, Reverence their Throne. Tigers, and Bears, with all the Savage Hoſt, May Boldneſs, Strength, and daring Conqueſt boaſt: But the ſweet Paſſions of a Generous Mind, Are the Prerogative of Humane kind, The God-like Image, on our Clay impreſt, The Darling Attribute, which Heaven loves beſt. In Charles, ſo Good a Man and King, we ſee A double Image of the Deity. Oh! Had He more reſembled It! Oh why Was He not ſtill more like; and could not die? Now do our Thoughts alone enjoy His Name, And faint Ideas of our Bleſſing frame! In Thames, the Ocean's Darling, England's Pride, The pleaſing Emblem of his Reign does glide. Thames the ſupport, and Glory of our Iſle, Richer, than Tagus, or Aegyptian Nile. Though no rich Sand in him, no Pearls are found, Yet Fields rejoyce, his Meadows laugh around; Leſs Wealth his Boſom holds, leſs guilty ſtores, For he Exhauſts himſelf, t'enrich the Shores: Mild, and Serene, the peaceful Current flows, No angry foam, no raging Surges knows. No dreadful Wreck upon his Banks appears, His Cryſtal Stream unſtain'd by Widow's Tears, His Chanel ſtrong and eaſie, deep and clear. No Arbitrary Inundations ſweep The Plowman's Hopes, and Life into the deep, The Even Waters the old Limits keep. But oh! He Ebbs, the ſmiling Waves decay, (For ever, Lovely Stream, for ever ſtay!) To the black Sea his ſilent courſe does bend, Where the beſt Streams, the longeſt Rivers, end. His ſpotleſs Waves there undiſtinguiſht paſs, None ſee, how Clear, how Bounteous, Sweet, he was. No difference, now, (though late ſo much) is ſeen, 'Twixt Him, fierce Rhine, and the Impetuous Seyne. But lo! The Joyful Tide our Hopes reſtores, And dancing Waves extend the wid'ning Shores. JAMES is our CHARLES in all things but in Name: Thus Thames is daily loſt, yet ſtill the ſame.

ON THE MARRIAGE Of the LADY MARY WITH THE Prince of ORANGE. By Edmond Waller, in the Year 1677. AS once the Lyon Honey gave, Out of the Strong ſuch Sweetneſs came: A Royal Hero, no leſs brave, Produc'd this Sweet, this Lovely Dame. To her the Prince, that did oppoſe Such mighty Armies in the Field, And Holland from prevailing Foes Could ſo well free, himſelf does yield. Not Belgia's Fleet (his high Command) Which Triumphs where the Sun does riſe, Nor all the force he leads by Land, Could guard him from her Conquering Eyes. Orange with Youth Experience has, In Action Young, in Counſel Old: Orange is what Auguſtus was, Brave, Wary, Provident and Bold. On that fair Tree, which bears his Name, Bloſſoms and Fruit at once are found: In him we all admire the ſame, His Flowery Youth with Wiſdom Crown'd. Empire and Freedom Reconcil'd, In Holland are, by Great Naſſaw, Like thoſe he ſprung from, Juſt and Mild, To willing People he gives Law. Thrice happy Pair, ſo near Ally'd In Royal Blood, and Virtue too; Now Love has you together ty'd, Let none this Triple Knot undoe. The Church ſhall be the happy place, Where Streams which from the ſame Source run, (Tho' divers Lands awhile they grace) United there again make one. A thouſand Thanks the Nation owes To him that does protect us all, For while he thus his Niece beſtows, About our Iſle he builds a Wall. A Wall like that, which Athens had, By th' Oracle's Advice, of Wood: Had theirs been ſuch, as Charles has made, That Mighty State till now had ſtood.

FINIS.