Poems, chiefly consisting of satyrs and satyrical epistles by Robert Gould.

POEMS Chiefly consisting of SATYRS AND Satyrical Epistles.

By ROBERT GOULD.

LICENSED. Ian. 8th 1688/9.

LONDON, Printed, and are to be sold by most Booksellers in London and Westminster. MDCLXXXIX.

TO THE Right Honourable JAMES, EARL of ABINGDON, &c. My Lord,

IN all Ages the greatest and wisest of Mankind have been the Patrons of Poesie; They have taken the Authors into their Converse, and their Works into their Bosoms, and both in the one and the other have not fail'd of an agreeable, and, oft, a Divine Entertainment: But neither of these is to be expected from Me, or my Writings: These Poets might pretend their Merit to the Favour and Protection of their Patrons; Whereas, I must consider your Lordship's Condescension to me meerly as an effect of your Goodness, which, because it would have me do well, gave me Encouragement, though to do well was not really in my Power: However, when Vertue and Truth were my Subjects, I never fail'd to exert my Endeavours. You found me, my Lord, an Orphan, without Fortune or Friends, and have rais'd me to both; I have had the smiles of many Persons, because they knew I had your Lordship's; Your Approbation was the Stamp that made me pass almost Vnquestion'd, though, at the same time, you knew, or at least I was conscious to my self, the Metal was not right Sterling. Nor has your Lordship only rais'd me, and left me there, but setled upon me such a competence as has fixt my Ambition. Showing the World you are of the same mind of Timon in Shakespear, 'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, But to support him after.

But I am not the only proof, by many, of your Lordship's Bounty; 'tis of a more diffusive Nature than to be so narrowly confin'd: No Man that ever had the Honour of being a Retainer to your Lordship, but has known it in a high degree; To be admitted your Menial is, in effect, a Maintainance for Life: And what may the good Servant expect when even the bad (such as my self) meet with Rewards so unproportion'd to any Merit they can pretend by their Service? Neither are these Showres of Liberality rain'd only on your Domesticks; Strangers, as well as they, have their share. The Widow, the Fatherless, and the Poor, are the continual Objects of your Charity; amid'st affairs of the highest moment (in which y'are now employ'd) you have a thought that stoops to the Relief of the Wretched. Our Divine Herbert tells us, — All worldly Goods are less Than that one good of doing kindnesses.

This is a Principle you live up to in all its Latitude; for, certainly, your Lordship may pass under this general Character, that never any Man was known to you but to his Advantage. The Oath Pindar enjoins his Muse (in Praise of Theron Prince of Agrigentum) might with equal Justice be said of your Lordship: Swear in no City e'r before, A Better Man, or greater Soul was born; Swear that Theron, sure, has sworn No Man near him shou'd be poor; Swear that none e'r had such a graceful Art, Fortunes Free Gifts as freely to impart With an unenvious hand, and an unbounded Heart. Cowley.

The Respect I bear to Gratitude and Truth, and the unfeigned Duty I owe your Lordship, wou'd not suffer me to pass by making this Declaration, which possibly may be no derogation or lessening of your Fame, if what I have written happen to live to Posterity: They will then see (bad as this Age is) there was some Vertue extant, that there was one just Theme, at least, for Panegyrick amid'st our num'rous Subjects for Satyr. And, indeed, it must be a sublime Pen that does your Lordship Right; who were one of the very first that appear'd in the glorious Occasion of redeeming us from the Merciless Jaws of Popery and Slavery, and once more make the reform'd Religion flourish in its primitive Purity, as deliver'd to us by the holy Apostles, before Innovation and Superstition had crept in, and the grand Impostor trampled upon Crowns and Mitres. Piety and not Power is the Rock on which the Church shou'd be founded.

The Fisher to convert the World began, The Pride convincing of vain-glorious Man; But soon his Follower grew a Sovereign Lord, And Peter's Keys exchang'd for Peter's Sword, Which still maintains for his adopted Son Vast Patrimonies, though himself had none; Wresting the Text to the old Gyant's sense, That Heav'n, once more, must suffer violence. Denham.

'Tis indisputable, Popery, for many Years, has been the source of all the Troubles and Divisions among us: And nothing less than we have felt, cou'd be expected from the restless Temper and diligent Malice of our Adversaries. We have now a new Example (though the old ones, methinks, might have serv'd) That Nature, Piety, Brotherly Love and Charity, with all the Sacred Ties that constitute Christianity, are of no more strength to them, than Sampson's Cords when his Harlot said, The Philistins are upon thee. Had things run on in that Chanel they had cut for 'em, we are not sure the Blood had till now been running in our Veins. But 'tis to be hoped our Fears of the introducing that Perswasion are over — It remains we should be thankful for our Deliverance, Honour our Deliverers; and endeavour, by the Living up to the Religion we profess, that Heav'n wou'd grant a Continuance of it to us. But to be signal upon this Account, is not the only glory of your Lordship; your Life is but one continued Series of Honourable Actions, which from the first, as well as at the late Crisis of Affairs, have been known to the Publick, and every where discours'd to your Advantage: Abingdon is a sound that has reacht every Ear: If Poets may presume so far, I cou'd methinks prophesy, that in after days no name will be more generally celebrated: They will ev'n then be secur'd by what has been done now; and seeing their Safety, Ease and Plenty, with a long Uninterruption of their Religion, Liberty and Property, sprung from such as your Lordship, who stood in the Breach when so bold a Blow was struck at the Fundamental Constitution of our happy Establisht Government, they must, consequently, reflect on your Memoires with double Veneration. The Poets, too, of those Times will not be ingrateful, but to your Issue describing the Gallantry of their great Progenitors, make 'em endeavour to tread in the same tract of Glory. Nor indeed should I pass by this subject my self, but that 'twill be discretion to decline it, since I know I am incapable of doing it Justice; and for that Reason waving it, will be as great a kindness as the little Modesty I have, ever did me; for I am, now at last, thoroughly satisfy'd of my inability of performing any thing well in Poesie: And if a hearty Protestation of leaving off Writing in that way, and betaking my self to those Studies that may make me more useful in the Station your Lordship has placed me, will give me a better Title to your Lordship's Protection than any I can yet boast of, I shall not doubt to approve my self,

My Lord, Your Lordship's Faithful, humble, And entirely Devoted Servant, Robert Gould.

PREFACE.

I Should say something, methinks, in relation to the Papers I here publish; and truly the first thing I shall say is, that I do not conceive they deserve that trouble: However, that the Reader may be enclin'd to forgive some of the many Faults he will be sure to meet with, I must inform him they were all writ in an Age that has some Pretence to a Pardon; as also without those advantages of Learning, necessary for the management of such studies; the Greek and Latine Poets being, in their Original Tongues, wholly unknown to me. This is a kind of Confession that wou'd have grated some Men to have publish't, but 'tis Truth, and that takes away a little from the reproach on't, though I hope 'twill be thought none, since the avoidless Circumstances I have been in deny'd me all access to the bettering my self by Letters, the necessary and daily Provision for an honest subsistence taking up my Time; and no Man can be Disposer of his Fate, a supreme hand governs. Notwithstanding, I must declare I found admittance into the best and most refin'd Conversation; But Conversation, 'tis allow'd, is not able to make a Poet, though, indeed, it may improve him: There shou'd be a Foundation laid in the University, which also shou'd be mellow'd and pollisht by Travel and Correspondence, for that gives us a clearer Inspection into Men, and their variety of Dispositions; without this, to speak plain, there will appear some of the Rust of the College in a Man's Manners and Intellect: A Man of general Knowledge is not to be made so there; meerly for a Divine it may do indifferent well, yet 'twere better they knew the World more, without which they cannot truly teach us to despise it. Beside all this, there shou'd be some skill in the Modern as well as Learned Languages, and a good Study of Books (some of all Authors) to resort to at Pleasure; for nothing but that which makes a truly accomplisht Gentleman, can make a good Poet: and to push the Parallel home; as one born a Gentleman, unless his Education illustrate his Extraction, is more contemptible than the vilest Peasant: so a Poet, though so by Nature, will prove himself to be little better, unless Art and Judgment are ready at hand, to give the last touch and gracefulness to his Writings, and make that a finisht Piece, which before was but a Sketch, or Rough-Draught of the Fancy. A Man must have an equal Portion of both, though of different Species they must be made one Individual, like the Hermaphrodite in Ovid, without which nothing can be produced that will bear the Test of Ages.

'Twas this the Ancients meant; Nature and Skill Are the two Tops of their Parnassus Hill.

Thus Sir John Denham (who, indeed, in his Cooper's Hill has reacht those Two Tops he there speaks of; and if the most Excellent things deserve most Imitation, certainly no Man ought to write in English without laying down that Poem as his Pattern; there we see of what our Language is capable, Life, Sweetness, Strength and Majesty.) And Mr Waller, whose Works claim the same Veneration, tells us, 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 Iudgment shows.

And in the late Admirable Essay upon Poetry by the Earl of Mulgrave.

As all is dullness when the Fancy's bad, So, without Iudgment, Fancy is but mad. — —Reason is that substantial useful part That gains the Head, while tother wins the Heart.

Ben Johnson, too, lets us know in his Elegie upon Divine Shakespear, That, though the Poet's Matter Nature be, His Art must give the Fashion; and that He That means to write a Living Line must sweat, And (without tiring) strike the second Heat Upon the Muses Anvil,— Or for the Lawrel he may purchase scorn; For a good Poet's made as well as born.

And, in short, the difficulty of being a good one is so very great, 'tis scarce attainable ev'n by the well Learned; for an Excellent Scholar may be a bad Poet; how hard is it then for one that is no Scholar to be a Good Poet? And indeed the Consideration of the Disadvantages I labour'd under, which made it impossible for me to be so, ought, in Discretion, to have made me lain down my Pretensions to that Art, as soon as taken up, and not have follow'd the Violence of an Inclination, which though pleasing to my self, might make me Obnoxious to the just and sharp Rallery of the Criticks; as the late Famous Earl of Rochester naturally expresses it: Your Muse diverts you, makes the Reader sad, You fancy y'are inspir'd, he thinks you mad; Consider, too, 'twill be discreetly done To make your self the Fiddle of the Town.

And certainly there is no worse Fate upon Earth than being laught at. — But if the Reader will forgive what is amiss, I will never give him any fresh Occasion for that Favour; for here I renew my Promise (made to two great Men) of yielding up all my Engagements to that Study, together, if the Criticks please, with the very Name of a Poet, which I confess I do not deserve; Resolving seriously never more to write a line, unless in command to those I dare not disobey; though ev'n there I am so far secur'd, that no man of sense will think it worth the while to lay such an Injunction upon me, and I pay no observance to Fools. Yet, methinks, I comfort my self with this, that by leaving off scribling betimes, the most malicious can but say I have thrown away the spare Intervals of five or six youthful years, which is in some sort aton'd, in that I shew the World 'tis possible for a Poet to lay aside Versifying, and encline to Business. However, thus far I may justly boast, that I am the first that ever, under thirty Years of Age, took a voluntary leave of the Muses.

THE TABLE.

POEMS chiefly consisting of Satyrs and Satyrical Epistles. SONG I. FAtal Constancy Page 1 SONG II. No Life if no Love 3 SONG III. Pity, if you'll be pitied 4 SONG IV. The reasonable Request 5 SONG V. The Hopeless Comfort 6 SONG VI. The fruitless Caution 7 SONG VII. The Wanderer fixt 8 SONG VIII. The unwilling Inconstant 9 SONG IX. Nothing wanting to Love 10 SONG X. The Result of Loving 11 SONG XI. Prescription for Falshood 12

Love-Verses. The Captive 13 To Caelia desiring his Absence 14 The Prayer ibid. An Expostulation for discover'd Love; which yet could not be conceal'd 15 The vain Pursuit. To a Lady that desir'd him to write to her in Verse 17 Love and Despair 18 The Hopeless Lover▪ In a Vision to Caelia 19 Sylvia in the Country, 1682. 25 Sylvia, luke-warm 26 Sylvia perjur'd 27

Miscellanies. To my Lord E. Eldest Son to the Marquess of H. upon his Marriage and Return 31 To the Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, &c. upon his Marriage with the Lady Mary Compton 33 To Sir Edward Nevil Baronet, upon his Marriage 35 To my unknown Brother, Mr R. R. hearing he was happily married 36 To G. G. C. Esq upon the Report of his being dead 37 To P. A. Esq on his Poems and Translations, &c. 38 To Mr. G. F. then in the Country. Writ in 1681. 39 To the Countess of Abingdon 41 To my Lady Anne Bainton, on the 28th of April, 1688. 43 To Mrs. H. Key 47 Absence 50 Prologue design'd for a Play of mine 53 On the new Edition of Godfrey of Bulloign, 1687. The true Fast. A Paraphrase on the 58th of Isaiah. 56 The Harlot. A Paraphrase on the 7th of Proverbs 60 To Madam G. with Mrs. Phillips's Poems 65 To Madam Beaw. Occasioned by a Copy of Verses of my Lady Ann Bainton's 66 Instructions to a young Lady (66)

Funeral Elegies To the Memory of Mr. John Oldham 67 To the Memory of Edmund Waller Esq 69 To the Memory of Colonel Edw. Cooke 71 To the Memory of Mrs. M. Peachley 73 Urania. A Funeral Eclogue, to the pious Memory of the Incomparable Mrs. Wharton 75 Alcander. A Funeral Eclogue, sacred to the Memory of Sir G. G. Baronet 82

Pindarick Poems. To the Society of the Beaux Esprits 101 To the Earl of Abingdon, &c. 121 To the Memory of our late Sovereign Lord King Charles II. 125

Satyrs. Prologue to the following Satyrs and Epistles 131 Love given over; or a Satyr against the Pride, Lust, and Inconstancy, &c. of Woman 141 A Satyr against the Playhouse 161 A Satyr upon Man 195 A Satyr upon the Laureat 227 A Consolatory Epistle to a Friend made unhappy by Marriage; or, A Scourge for ill Wives 237 Jack Pavy, aliàs Jack Adams 255 To Julian Secretary to the Muses, a Consolatory Epistle in his Confinement 279 To the much honoured D. D. Esq sent him with the Satyr against Woman 282 To the Ingenious Mr. J. Knight 287 To my Lord of Abingdon, &c. 293 To the Reverend Mr. Francis Henry Cary, &c. upon my fixing in the Country 301

POEMS Chiefly consisting of SATYRS AND Satyrical Epistles.

SONG I. Fatal Constancy. (1.) CIara charming without Art, The wonder of the Plain, Wounded by Love's resistless Dart, Had over-fondly giv'n her Heart To a regardless Swain: Who, though he well knew Her Passion was true, Her Truth and her Beauty disdain'd; While thus the fair Maid, By her Folly betray'd, To the rest of the Virgins complain'd. (2.) Take heed of Man, and, while you may, Shun Love's Deceitful Snare; For though at first it looks all Gay, 'Tis ten to one y'are made a Prey To Sorrow, Pain and Care: But if you love first Y'are certainly Curst, Despair will insult in your Breast: The Nature of Men Is to slight who love them, And love those that slight 'em, the best. (3.) Yet, let the Conq'rour know my mind, Ingrateful Celadon, That he will never, never find One half so true, or half so kind, When I am dead and gone: But, as she thus spoke, Her tender Heart broke; Death spares not the fair nor the Young: So Swans when they dy Make their own Elegy, And breath out their Life in a Song.

SONG II. No Life if no Love. (1.) CAelia is Chast, yet her bright Eyes Are Motives to desire, Each Look, each Motion does surprize, And lasting Love inspire: Her smiles wou'd make the Wretch rejoyce, That ne're rejoyc't before; And O! to hear her charming Voice, Is Heav'n, or something more! (2.) And thus adorn'd, where e're she turns, Fresh Conquests on her wait; The trembling, Restless Lover burns, Nor can resist his Fate. Ah! Caelia, as thou'rt fair, be kind, Nor this small Grace deny; Though Love for Love I never find, Yet let me Love, or Dy!

SONG III. Pity, if you'd be pity'd. (1.) WHY, Caelia, with that coy Behaviour Do you meet Amintor's Flame? Why deny him ev'ry Favour, That so much adores your Name? Adores it, too, with such a Passion, Fervent, lasting and Divine, That wou'd from all Hearts draw Compassion, All, but that hard Heart of thine. (2.) Gods! Why thus d'ye wast your Graces? Why thus Bountiful in vain? Why give Devils Angels Faces, First to please, and then disdain? Where ever was a Beauteous Creature That bore lightning in her Eye, But to her Lover shew'd ill Nature, And cou'd smile to see him dy? (3.) 'Tis true, at last, Heav'ns Indignation, Causeless hatred to Reprove, Makes her doat with equal Passion On some Youth, averse to Love; One that, regardless, sees her languish, Like a withering Lily pine — O pity then Amintor's anguish, Or that Fate may soon be thine!

SONG IV. The reāsonable Request. (1.) FOR pity, Caelia, ease my care; The scorn your Eye does dart, Swifter than Lightning pierces Air, Runs to my trembling Heart, The Pangs of Death are less severe When Souls and Bodies part: But Death I've oft invok't, and shall again; For what fond wretch wou'd on the Rack remain, And have no use of Life but still to live in pain? (2.) I not presume to beg a Kiss, Twou'd heighten my Desire; And a kind look's a happiness That wou'd but mount it higher; Nor yet your Love, for that's a Bliss Where I must ne're aspire: No, this is all that I request, and sure A smaller Boon was never beg'd before, Do but believe I love you, and I ask no more.

SONG V. The Hopeless Comfort. (1.) NOT though I know she, fondly, lies Claspt in my Rival's Arms, Can free my Heart, or keep my Eyes From fixing on her Charms! (2.) Tell me, ye Pow'rs that rule our Fate; Why are frail men so vain, With so much Zeal to wish for that They never can attain? (3.) Some Comfort 'tis I'me not alone, All are like me undone; And that which does, like Death, spare none, Why shou'd I hope to shun?

SONG VI. The Fruitless Caution. Amintor. Caelia. Am. TAke heed, fair Caelia, how you slight The Youth that courts you now; For though fresh Charms, like dawning Light, Still flourish on your Brow, Yet fairest Days must know a Night, And so, alas! must Thou: In vain, in vain You'l then complain, In vain your Scorn and Cruelty bemone; For none can prove So dull, to love, When Age approaches, or when Beauty's gone. Caelia. Cease, Fond Amintor, cease your Suit, For 'tis but urg'd in vain; Who'd sow where they can reap no Fruit But Anguish and Disdain? Your whining Passion I despise, And hearken to't no more Than the deaf Winds to Seamen's cries When all the Billows roar: For if when Youth and Beauty's gone I must be scorn'd of Men, I'le now revenge, e're Age come on, My Persecution then.

SONG VII. The Wanderer fixt. (1.) E'Re I saw Silvia, I, with ease, Cou'd find out many that cou'd please; With Beauty fraught and free from Pride; To gain their Loves I cou'd have dy'd! But when I first your Eyes did view, Streight to my Heart swift Magick flew: Before your sweet obliging Air, So fine your Shape, and Face so fair, All others Charms did disappear, And were no longer what they were! (2.) So of the Stars that gild the Sky, They've Rev'rence paid from ev'ry Eye; Not one but does deserve our Praise, Not one but does our wonder raise, Not one but what is gay and bright, Able, alone, to Rule the Night; Yet, though so bright and glorious, they All, in a Moment's time, decay, Grow dim and seem to dy away, When once Aurora opens day!

SONG VIII. The unwilling Inconstant. (1.) THough She's so much by all admir'd, That ev'n cold Age is with her presence fir'd; Yet, by some more Resistless Art, You raze her Image from my heart, Which nothing, nothing else but Death could part! (2.) Say quickly (O enchanting Maid!) By what strange witchcraft I am thus betray'd? Since She to whom I've sworn is true, I shou'd a high Injustice do, To place what only she deserves, on you. (3.) O try, thou who, without controul, Hast shot thy glorious Form into my Soul, Whose Eyes as soon as seen subdue, O try to make me hate thee too; But that, alas! is what you cannot do.

SONG IX. Nothing wanting to Love. (1.) YES, Silvia, I was told but now, While on your Breast I lay My Head, and thus obsequious bow, I fool my Fame away; That Glory while I thus do join My Lips and glowing Cheeks to thine, Starts wide, and cries, She'l ne're be mine. (2.) Let the false World true Passion blame, And Heav'ns best Gift despise; I'de rather be the Fool I am, Than, without Love, be wise: Fame, Glory, and what e're we find That captivates th' Ambitious mind, I have 'em all, if thou art kind!

SONG X. The Result of Loving. (1.) CAeli • is cruel; Silvia, Thou, I must confess, art kind; But in her Cruelty, I vow, I more repose can find: For O thy Fancy at all Game does fly, Fond of Address, and willing to comply. (2.) Thus he that loves must be undone; Each way on Rocks we fall: Either you will be kind to none, Or worse, be kind to all. Vain are our Hopes, and endless is our Care; We must be Jealous, or we must despair.

SONG XI. Prescription for Falshood. YOU that have lov'd, and too soon believ'd, You that have lov'd, and been deceiv'd, No more complain, For Grief is vain, But make Musick with your Chain, A sort of Melancholy Joy; Nor rashly blame The perjur'd Dame That did your Peace destroy: Though they the Paths to Falshood tread, They yet but follow as they're led, They do but as their Mothers did; Flatter, smile, deceive, betray, By certain Instinct go astray: But e're since Eve, We may perceive 'Twas those that bore 'em shew'd the way: Then blame 'em not; but mourn with me That Females, fair As Angels are, Shou'd so destructive be, And have so old a claim to Infidelity. The end of the Songs.

LOVE-VERSES.

The Captive. LOng I had laught at the vain name of Love, Too weak to charm me, and too dull to move; It ne're cou'd make a Conquest of my heart, Freedom and that were one, and were too fond to part; Freedom, without whose aid ev'n Life wou'd tire, And, e're it reach't th' allotted Goal, expire: But ah! too soon I found that Blessing gone, Whose Loss, I fear, I must for ever mone • I saw her and no more, one pointed view Softn'd my flinty Breast, and pierc't it through and through. O who can love's resistless Darts, controul, That, through our Eyes, so soon can reach the Soul! Yet Liberty, I'll not thy Loss deplore; I lov'd my Freedom well, but love this Slav'ry more: For though stern Caelia's Captive I remain, And stoop my Neck to Love's Imperial Chain, There's a strange nameless Joy incorporate with the pain.

To Caelia desiring his Absence. YES, now you have your Wish, but Ah! be kind To the poor Captive Heart I leave behind; For though I go, yet that with Thee remains, Proud that 'tis Thine, and triumphs in its Chains: For all the Beauties that are now unblown, When in their gaudiest prime they shal be shown And kneeling to be lov'd, I'de not my Flame disown; Though by that time perhaps thy charms might wast, And the gay bloom of smiling Youth be past. Yet you inflexible, obdurate prove, And • y, 'Tis false, 'tis feign'd, not real love: O cease those thoughts, and cease to be severe; For by thy self, thy awful self, I swear, I love too well, and must with grief confess, Those Men much happier that can love thee less.

The Prayer. HEar me, O pow'rful Charmer! e're my Breath Is stopt by the ungentle hand of Death; E're my quick Pulse has ever ceas'd to beat, And from my Heart drain'd all the vital heat; E're on my Tomb you stand and drop a Tear, And cry, The hapless Youth had not lain here, If I had been less rigid and severe; 'Twas my cold Frowns that wing'd his timeless Fate; Too soon he lov'd, and I believe too late! Hear me, I beg (if truth may beg for Grace) Let not thy Heart bely thy Angel's Face: Thy Face is with Compassion cloath'd around, With mildness and with smiling mercy crown'd; If not there, where is Pity to be found? Kind Glances from thy Eyes for ever move, And kindle all Beholders into Love O let me, then, beseech your gentle Ear, For once, to stoop to your low Vassal's Prayer. Which is no more, but that you would not hate That Passion which your Beauty did create. I do not ask your Love, or, if I do, He does but ask your Love that will be true.

An Expostulation for discover'd Love; which yet could not be conceal'd. CUrst be the time when first my Soul inclin'd To say, 'twas Love of her opprest my mind. Curst too, the Wretch that did the Message bear, That made her tender Nature grow severe, And plung'd me, hopeless, deeper in Despair, And curst my Self (if there a Curse remain, If yet there be a Plague beyond disdain) That did the Inauspicious lines indite, That banisht me for ever from her sight, When, were I to see Heav'n it self, 'twou'd be with less delight! O Slave! O wretch, hopeless, forlorn, undone! I graspt at Joy and pull'd my ruin on. Did I not hear her talk and see her move? Her negligence it self was fuel to my Love: She sung, she danc't, conquer'd without controul▪ And every motion flasht upon the Soul, Forc't it, with Charms o'er-power'd, to retire, Which, when recover'd, did enhance desire, And made me more adore and more admire! All this with Silence I had still enjoy'd, But my too forward Zeal all this destroy'd. O Slave! O Wretch!—yet why shou'd I complain? By Fate compell'd, I have reveal'd my pain, And so shou'd do, were it to do again: Long smother'd Flames at last will force their way, And, when once Master, will no more obey.

The vain Pursuit. To a Lady that desir'd him to write to her in Verse. CHloe, when you are pleas'd Commands to lay, Though 'twere on Kings, they'd readily obey; Much more may I then, so much less than they. But Ah! I fear, my humble Verse will move You rather to despise it than approve, For I can write of nothing else but Love. Of nothing else, 'tis my eternal Theme, That flows, still, with an unexhausted stream In all I say, or do, or think, or dream. Sometimes I take my Book and go to Prayer; But Love, fond Love, ev'n interrupts me there, And turns my vain Devotions into Air. Yet, though so true to Love, I ne're cou'd find No Balm of comfort for my wounded mind; There's not a Star in Heav'n but what's unkind! For the hard she that I am doom'd t' obey, From my pursuit for ever flies away, And Fate it self's too weak to bribe her stay. Shadows that Fleet before us o'er the Plain, Follow as fast when we come back again, But she ne're turns, and cannot be o'ertane. This is the riged Fate I'me forc't to bear; And tell me, Fair one, is it not severe, That so much Love shou'd meet so much despair? Despair, the bitter Bowl, which, I've heard tell, Does to the Brim with such strong Poison swell, As makes the Furies lash themselves in Hell. Her Name I will conceal; my Reason why, Because she shall not blame me when I dy, That one so low shou'd have a thought so high.

Love and Despair. IN vain I write, in vain I strive to move Her whose stern nature is averse to love: Ah Cruel Nymph! Ah most regardless Fair! Still scorning, smiling at my restless care. 'Tis said, the glorious World and all above Was rais'd from Chaos at one word of Love: Through the wide Wast blest order swiftly flew, And wild Confusion chang'd her griefly hew, Discord by her own Off-spring was forsook; And the glad Spheres their constant motion took, And with a joint consent for ever march Their mighty rounds over the spangl'd Arch: From Love's eternal sway there's nothing free; 'Tis strange, then, Caelia, there is none in Thee, But sure there is, though not design'd for me. And, to say truth, my hopes must needs be frail When Interest more than Passion does prevail, And vulgar breath kick up the sacred scale: Besides (what plainer proof of stedfast hate? She says she scorns, and what she says is Fate: For if'twere possible she shou'd be kind, Her very Eyes, e're this, had told her mind; But Ah! instead of Love, when I gaze there, In plain, broad Characters I read, Despair! Despair then wretch, nor longer strive to move Her whose stern Nature is averse to Love.

The Hopeless Lover; In a Vision to Caelia. TWas now the Time when all remains of day By the thick shades of night were chas'd away; Silence and gentle sleep fill'd every Breast, And Natures self seem'd to retire to rest: Nothing but Fancy (for she ever wakes, And, unconfin'd, her roving Journey takes O'er Hills, o'er Dales, o'er flowy Meads and Lakes; And sometimes mounts aloft where Angels dwell, And in a trice shoots down from thence to Hell, There all the tortures of the damn'd does view, And almost makes us think we feel 'em too.) Nothing beside was free; and 'twas her will To shew the Pastimes of her antick skill: Wrapt deep in sleep I lay, the Scene was drew, And this was that presented to my view. I lookt, and lo! I saw a Nymph, as fair As Guardian Angels in Idea are; So soft her Carriage, and her Eyes so bright, Their Lustre did supply the absent light. Charm'd with the dazling object, and amaz'd, I eagerly on the sweet Vision gaz'd: But witness for me Heav'n, for you know best What Admiration seiz'd my trembling Breast, When drawing nigh to take a stricter view, (Not thinking that the Beauteous form I knew) I found 'twas Caelia, causer of my smart, Caelia, the cruel Empress of my heart; Whose Eyes, methought, at my approach shot flame, Arm'd with that fatal Weapon, sharp disdain; Backward I started, Horror seiz'd my heart, And stab'd it round in every vital part; Nor had I strength to bear the painful wound, But fainted, and fell speechless to the ground; And lost had been beyond Fate's power to save, Had not these words recall'd me from the grave. Amintor, rise, give Ear to what I speak; I bring the Cure, the onely Cure you seek: Despair no more (the bane of all delight) Shall break your peace by day, your rest by night, But, chas'd by me, take everlasting flight: Vp then, to meet thy coming Ioy prepare, And think me now as gentle as thou'st thought me fair. Reviv'd with these kind words I upward sprung, But Fear had yet bar'd utt'rance from my Tongue: A thousand doubts rowl'd in my troubl'd Breast, While I stood trembling to expect the rest; Kind though she seem'd, her Eyes commanded Death, And my pale fate hung hov'ring o'er her Breath. Dear Youth, continu'd she, the scorn I've shown Was only to confirm you more my own; For, if your Passion was unfeign'd and pure, I knew all tryal 'twou'd with ease endure: 'Twas this to be assur'd of, made me feign All the sharp rigours of unjust disdain; And who, alas! will blame me, that reflects How many of our frail believing Sex Are ruin'd, lost, caught in the worst trapan, By the fair specious Arts of faithless Man; How oft ye vow y'are our eternal Slaves, Then Tyrants grow and drive us to our Graves: When once possest for what you feign'd to burn, You treat us with disdain, neglect and scorn, And mighty Love to rude contempt does turn: Such thoughts as these made me with caution move, And on a sure foundation build my Love; For who e're gain'd it, I well knew wou'd find, 'Twas not the Passion of a fickle mind, Changing as Tydes, and wav'ring with the Wind, But fixt like Fate from whence its Essence came, Ever to last, and always be the same: And so, Amintor, so to you I give A Heart, which for you only wisht to live. Charm'd with the tuneful sound her Language bore, I now was lost in Joy, as in despair before: Not the least sign of sorrow did remain, This one blest moment cancell'd all my pain: So a new enter'd Saint through Heav'n does range, And so does wonder at his happy change. At last, recover'd from the Trance, I spoke, And in these words the pleasing silence broke. Thou truest Image of the Powers above, For they, like you, will frown on him they love; But when through much Adversity h' has past, Like you, they bounteously reward at last; For Perseverance gains their love divine, And Perseverance too, has gain'd me thine. Thou'st sav'd me from despair and rais'd me higher Than my most tow'ring wish e're durst aspire. O how shall I enough thy worth declare! How sweet! how soft! how merciful and fair! Description droops when I'de thy praise relate, And Language fails beneath the pond'rous weight. O strange reverse! —Oft have I sent my cries, Through yielding Air, up echoing to the Skies: How oft in each thick Melancholy Grove Have I sat mourning my improsp'rous Love? How oft did I to senseless Trees complain? Whose whistling leaves wisper'd back grief again: Hard stones of Adamant ev'n seem'd to hear, And, in Compassion, oft wou'd drop a Tear; But harder you ne'r wept, or lent a pitying Ear. So moving was each tender sigh and groan, Ev'n Philomel has ceas'd her midnight mone, And thought my melancholy strains more pitious than her own. 'Vnkind, Relentless Caelia, wou'd I cry, 'Must I thus scorn'd and thus unpitied dy? 'Wou'd she vouchsafe one smile to ease the Slave, 'I'de go without reluctance to the Grave; 'But she denies me that; what then remains 'But with one stroke to free me from her Chains? 'In Death the Lover's eas'd from all unjust, 'Her pointed Frowns can't reach me in the Dust. Such were the words my wild despair let fall, But this blest moment has o're paid 'em all. Thus I, methought, my Passion's progress mourn'd, When, Caelia, weeping, this reply return'd. Amintor, how shall I your Peace restore? Or how reward the Pangs for me y'ave bore? My Love, I fear, is a return too small; Take with it then my Life, my Soul, my all! All! (cry'd I) — By Heav'n the Gift's so great, As ev'n in Angels might Desire create, And make 'em wish they mortal were, like me, T' enjoy so fair an Excellence as thee! Who if I ever cease t' adore and love, May darted vengeance brand me from above, And, if 'tis possible, to plague me more, Plunge me in sorrow deeper than before. What then, Dear Charmer, what remains but this? What? but to rush on our approaching bliss; — But first, we'll seal the Contract with a kiss. But, Ah! no sooner had the cursed sound Of those last words unwary utt'rance found, But the fair Vision took her unseen flight And swiftly vanish't through the shades of night. Awak't, I started up and gaz'd around, But not one glimpse of the dear shadow found, 'Twas gone! 'twas gone! and with it fled away All the dear hope I had of future Joy! Eternally relentless Pow'rs above! Must all my constant sighs so fruitless prove As not to pierce the heart of her I love? Must I for ever be (O cursed State!) The wretched mark of her obdurate hate? Must I for ever in these pangs remain? Doom'd to love on, yet doom'd to love in vain▪ But, 'tis your will, and I must not complain. Yet, O ye Powers, had you been my Friend So far, to've let the Vision known no end, That raptur'd with Imaginary Charms, I might have slept whole Ages in her Arms; Of all th' unnumber'd Joys you have in store For Vertue, nothing cou'd have pleas'd me more: But Ah! when we expect a sure relief, To find we are but deeper fixt in grief, Is of all human Curses, sure, the chief; For know, O Caelia, O disdainful fair, I must still love thee, though I still despair.

Silvia in the Country, 1682. AS in that Region where but once a year The Sun does show himself and disappear, Leaving no glimpse behind, but just to see All Comfort flies away as swift as he; Through the dark Plains wild Echo's hoarsly ring, And Lyons roar where Birds were us'd to sing; If by hard chance some wretch is left behind, (For 'tis a Climate shun'd by human kind.) He must endure an Age of ling'ring pain, E're the bright Lamp of Heav'n returns again. So, till you left the Town, 'twas all clear day, But night, perpetual night, now y'are away. Like him, alas! (his Northern Climes among) Your stay is short, but, O! your absence long. And O! how long so e're it is design'd, That killing absence will afflict my Mind; Nor me alone, for all that know you, mourn, And all invoke the Gods for your return. But why, alas! do I offend your Ear With that which you, perhaps, disdain to hear? Or wish you back in this ill Town again, The vast Exchange of all things lewd and vain; When you so much the happier lot enjoy, Free from those storms which here our Peace destroy; No State-Plots there disturb your blisful hours, But every moment is worth ten of ours; Where the harmonious Quire in Copses sing Their Airs Divine, and prophecy of Spring; Where Nature smiles and yields you all things rare, At least she, sure, must smile now you are there. No, rather let me wish my self with you, And to that wish I'll add this other too, That you'd be gracious to an am'rous Youth, Nor let him suffer Martyrdom for Truth.

Silvia, Luke-warm. NOw, while I languish on your gentle Breast, (That Pillow where my Cares are hush't to rest) While our plump veins are full of youthful fire, And nature able to make good desire; Why, at this Season, in Love's choicest prime, Shou'd you believe, that I indulge a crime To urge enjoyment? which you rather ought To think th' effect of Passion, than a fault: Think, dearest Charmer, how the Minutes fly, And the preventing spite of Destiny; Our vig'rous days, alas! will soon be gone, And Impotence and Age come swiftly on; Let us not then thus wast the pretious time, 'Tis that, O Silvia, that's the greatest crime, For as that fails, as that consumes away, Who knows too but our Passions may decay? Enjoyment will preserve the Flame entire, For that's the fuel that maintains the Fire, That's Love indeed, the rest is but desire; That is the Oyl that makes the Colours last, While Paints in Fresco fret away and wast: For pity then change your half-yielding mind, To be but kind in part is much unkind; Luke-warm Indifferency I cannot bear, Such tedious Hopes are worse than quick Despair.

Silvia, Perjur'd. SHE has, ye Gods, forgot the Vows she made, And, conscious, flies the wretch she has betray'd! But, if she's yet not past the pow'r of Love, If Constancy have Charms, or Verse can move, I'll fetch thy Vertue back, forgetful fair, And prove that plighted Oaths are something more than air; In that sad Language I'll my wrongs impart, So lively will I paint my bleeding heart, Ev'n thou thy self shalt blush, and think it strange It shou'd be capable of such a change! Yes, fair persidious Maid, 'twill make thee pause, To see all this and know thou art the cause: For by your Falshood, to soft Peace a Foe, I'm rais'd to the extremest pitch of woe, From whence surveying all the numerous fry Of Men, I see not one so curst as I. Did Angels know my truth as well as you, Ev'n they wou'd wonder Man shou'd be so true, But wonder more thou shou'd'st unfaithful prove▪ To such an inexhausted fund of Love. You know, and I shall nere forget the time, (If Love was Vertue then, why is it now a crime?) When I lay raptur'd on your panting Breast, Raptures not lawful here to be exprest; When by the awful pow'rs above you swore, Nay, by our mutual love, and that was more, That to me only you your heart resign'd, And for my sake rejected all Mankind: Did I not there, too, vow the same to you? You heard me, and your own bright Eyes di • view. How zealously I lookt on Heav'n above, Wish't it unkind to me if I prov'd false to love▪ Have we not since too often done the same? With fresh indearments fed th' eternal Flame? Eternal! — No, 'twas momentany, slight, A short-liv'd Meteor, a glaring light, A blaze, an Ignis fatuus of the night; By which thou'st led me over Bush and Thorn, Drill'd on by hope, and driven back with scorn: Sure thou dost think thou at Love's Auction art, And dost, by Inch of Candle, parcel out thy heart; Thy Flame so far from lasting, I ev'n doubt Thou dost but light it up to put it out, Or sindge us purblind Moths that fly about. Destructive Sex! for as thou usest me, So each Man's us'd by some persidious she. Cruel, or false y'are all; and he is blest, He only, that excludes you from his Breast, Nor lets your Tarrier Love dislodge his rest. O wou'd kind Heav'n my ancient peace restore, That Liberty which I contemn'd before, Away, I'd cry, with Love, and think of it no more.

The end of the Love-Verses.

Miscellanies.

TO My Lord E. Eldest Son to the Marquess of H. Upon his Marriage and Return, &c. PArdon, my Lord, if a poor Poet, one That is not, nor deserves not to be known, Presume not only (hardn'd in his Crime) To greet your safe Return with dogrel Rhime, But wish your future Years may this atone, And Bless no other Country but your own; Which, as it griev'd to want your Lustre here, Envy'd it's shining in another Sphere. Many there are that travel Foreign parts, They say, to know the Manners, Men and Arts; But 'stead of leaving their own dross behind, Bring back a dross, too course to be refin'd, Affected Body and affected Mind: For such Accomplishments what need we roam, Thanks to our Stars, these may be had at home. But you, my Lord, have nobler Conduct shown, And brought from the French Court what will adorn our own; A Vertuous Wife! a thing so rare to see, Ev'n Holy Writ mentions but two or three: To her own Native Soil she bids adieu For dear Religion, and her Dearer You; Nor has she lost, but in your Arms will find Sublimer Blessings than she leaves behind: For early y'ave the chase of Fame begun, Nor are, but by a Father's name outdone, He, when three parts of four in darkness lay, Broke the thick Scales and made us see the day, And drove our Fears and Iealousies away; False Fears and Iealousies, those useful things That Knaves insinuate when they'd ruin Kings: His Noble Image we in You may find, Lively in Person, livelier in your mind, For both have climb'd the Mountains top, there sit, He Judge of Wisdom, You the Judge of Wit.

TO THE Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, &c. upon his Marriage with the Lady Mary Compton. OF all men His is the most pleasing Life, That Heav'n has favour'd with a Vertuous Wife; She loves him with a chast, but cheerful Flame, And in all changes still will be the same; She brings him home Content, and shuts out strife, Content, the Cordial that does lengthen Life: This Fate, my Lord, is yours, 'tis you have found This Miracle, with true perfection Crown'd: Her Youth's adorn'd in Nature's freshest Charms, Her Youth she brings, unsully'd, to your Arms: Nor is Heav'n only to her Person kind, She is as nobly furnish't in her mind: Good Natur'd, Pious, Affable to all, Meek as the Turtle Dove that has no Gall, And free from Pride as Eve before the Fall: Ah had she been in her first Mother's room, Sure Paradise had not been lost so soon! But as the Treasure's vast which you possess, 'Tis your own Right, your Merit claims no less. You to whom Nature kindly does impart All that can please the Eye, or charm the Heart. Shou'd our Apollo his pretensions quit Of being sacred President of Wit, With th' Acclamations of the general Voice, You wou'd succeed, at least, you'd be the Poets Choice. To judge of Poesie some make pretence, Damn what does please, and praise what gives offence, But all your approbation stamps goes currant off for sense. Yet though your Judgment we so much admire, Your Charity does lift our wonder higher! 'Tis not for nought propitious Heav'n does bless All that you undertake with such success: Ev'n that rough Sea where most Adventurers fail, That Bay of Biscay that tears every Sail, Has favour'd you with an Auspicious Gale, And brought you safe to the delightsome shore, The golden Worlds of Love's eternal store, Where unconcern'd you sit, and daily see The Wrecks of Marriage, from the danger free▪ For where the sacred Ty of Love does join With that of Marriage, there the Knot's divine; There Life like an untroubl'd stream does flow, No murmuring sound or perturbation know, But, Crown'd with daily Blessings, glides away With an almost insensible decay.

To Sir Edward Nevil Baronet, upon his Marriage. NOW, Sir, when your good Angel does rejoyce, And looks down pleas'd upon your happy choice, When Love and Beauty drest in all their charms, Give up their only Darling to your Arms, It may be thought Impertinence in Me, To grate your Ears with worthless Poesie; For while Love's sacred Musick charms the sense, All other sounds are harsh and give offence; And yet, alas! though conscious of my crime, I still go on; a Slave condemn'd to rhime. 'Tis grown almost a Miracle to see Two Natures form'd by Nature to agree; Your lovely Bride, Chast, Courteous, Noble, Good, And you, Sir, Eminent in Worth as Blood, Just, Loyal, Brave; — but let me say no more, Nor for a secret tell what all cou'd tell before. Hail then, blest Pair! your Race of Love's begun, And may you still be eager to love on; May Pleasure flow, and, because all must tast What sorrow is, may sorrow ebb as fast, That this first day may be a Prologue to the last: May long Life bless you, and a health as long; And may you, too, be fruitful while y'are young, That from your Loyns a Loyal Race may spring, T' adorn their Country, and to serve their King.

To my unknown Brother, Mr. R. R. hearing he was happily Marry'd. 'TIS, sure, the fairest Branch of Nature's Law To love all men, ev'n those we never saw; By the same Rule, it follows we should still Rejoice at their good Fate and mourn their ill, Ev'n general Charity thus much shou'd do; But I've a nearer Ty to grieve, or Joy for you: Thy Sister, still indulgent to my ease, And good, as she were only made to please, Suspends my Care, and silences my grief, Which, but for her, had never hop'd relief; Ingrateful then, ill natur'd shou'd I be, Did I not wish as good a Spouse to thee, Did I not wish, that she whom you have chose May make her chief diversion thy repose; For Vertuous we will think her, though unknown, Ev'n in thy Choice her Worth and Wit are shown: What cou'd inspire thee with a Lover's care, Must needs be something very Chast and Fair. O may you long be happy in her Arms, You never want for Love, nor she for Charms, But smoothly glide along the stream of Life, A tender Husband and Obedient Wife; And O may never Jealousy destroy Your Peace of Mind, and clog your rising Joy: May ev'n the World to thy own wish agree, The World, which has too often frown'd on me.

To G. G. C. Esq upon the Report of his being dead. WHen to my Ears the dismal Tydings flew, And my own Fears had made me think 'twas true, A silent sorrow on my Soul did seize, And fill'd my Breast with such sad thoughts as these. Ah! why shou'd mortal Man on Life depend, Which once, and none can tell how soon, must end? Ev'n he who was but now all blythe and gay, Cheerful as April's Sun, and fresh as May, Whom every grace adorn'd and doated on, In the full bloom of Life is dead and gone! Cropt from his Stalk his vernal sweets decay'd! So flourish't Jonah's Bower, and so did fade; Nor cou'd that loss th' impatient Prophet bear, He beat his Breast, and griev'd ev'n to despair: Ah! how can I then mourn enough for thee, Who always wert a Jonah's Gourd to me, A shelter from the storms of Poverty? Yet, Witness Heav'n, it is not only gain, The loss of so much worth I most complain. Honour he priz'd, and has this Honour gain'd, 'Twas ne'r by an ignoble action stain'd; Nor was his Wit of a less sterling Coin, He ow'd it not to Blasphemy, or Wine. Ah! Why, ye Pow'rs! why was his Morn so bright, If you design'd so soon to banish light, And bring on gloomy death, and endless night! But, lo! while thus I did indulge my grief, The happy news arriv'd that gave relief: A gust of Joy ran through each vital part, Flam'd in my Eyes and revell'd in my heart! He lives! I cry'd, — dy those that wish him ill, He lives! the great young man is with us still; He lives! that word shall dwell upon my Tongue, He lives! shall be the burden of my Song, He lives! and 'tis my Prayer he may live long.

To P. A. Esq on his Poems and Translations, &c. THE sacred Wreath of Bays is worn by few, Scarce in a hundred years by one, or two, Yet from that hope we must not banish you; You, who so well and with so strong a wing, Of love and the bright charms of Beauty sing: Thy Version does th' Original refine, Though oft 'tis rough in that, 'tis always smooth in thine. To thee the Languages so well are known, We may, with Justice, call 'em all thy own; And by thy learned converse e'en presume At Madrid, Paris, Portugal, or Rome, Thou art as true a Native as at home. Had'st thou at Babel been, and, but allow, Thou'd'st understood the Tongues as well as now, In vain had Heav'n their Structure overthrew, Thou'd'st made 'em carry on the Work anew, Their different Dialects had'st reconcil'd, And made all regular when all was wild. Ah Friend! it grieves me that at such a time, When all that's learn'd or good, is thought a crime, Thou should'st be doom'd to the hard fate of rhime. So base, ill natur'd are our Criticks grown, They will damn any thing but what's their own: These lines of thine, which well deserve to live, And have what praise Judicious Men can give, Must not, though nicely written, hope to be From their ungovern'd, Lawless Censure free; But let not that disturb thee, though they frown, Insult, despise thy Works, or cry 'em down, For Resignation is the mark of Grace, And Persecution shews the chosen Race.

To Mr G. F. then in the Country. Writ in 1681. AH Friend! Oft have I wish't my self with you, Walking among the Meads and pregnant Fields, Now in sweet Dales, and then on Hills to view How every Spring fresh streams of pleasure yields: Where true content so very seldom found, (If any where) eternally does dwell; Where all the store of Nature does abound, To feast the Eye, the Ear, the Tast and Smell: But, Ah! reserv'd for some more rigid fate, I'me doom'd to a perpetual Bondage here, Just in the Bosom of a murmuring State, Where Tumults reign as in their proper sphere. The greatest Storms are soonest overpast, They do but make a Visit and away; But here the wrack eternally does last, And without Intermission Night, or Day. Wer't possible to mount among the Clouds, When Thunder does with greatest fury rave; Compar'd with London they were peaceful shrouds, Still as a Calm, and silent as the grave. Nor wonder at it; Murder, Schism, Debate, Treach'ry, Revenge, with thousand Mischiefs more, Make a more loud Report than anger'd Fate, When Winds below and Heav'n above does roar: Ah loving Friend! how happy shou'd I be, Were I remov'd as far from the lewd Town as thee?

To the Countess of Abingdon. IF to commend and raise true Vertue high, To fix it's Station in the Starry sky, To cloath it gay and make it flourish long, Be the best subject for a Poet's Song; Then, Madam, I may hope you will excuse This dutiful presumption of the Muse: For since in that bright track so far y'ave gone, And with unweary'd swiftness still keep on: Something we ought to your vast Merit raise; What all Mankind admires, 'twere impious not to praise. Long the fair Sex under reproach have lain, And felt a general, oft a just disdain: But you redeem their Fame; in you we find What Excellence there is in Womankind! Of some bright Dames w'have been by Poets told, Whose Breasts were Alabaster, Hair of Gold, Whose Eyes were Suns, able to guide the day, In which ten thousand Cupids basking lay, And on their Lips did all the Graces play: Flow'rs sprouted, and th' obsequious Winds did bring Arabian Odours and around 'em fling; Where e're they came 'twas everlasting spring! Their Voices ev'n the Rivers stopt to hear; Not singing Angels, when they tun'd a sphere, Made softer Musick, or more charm'd the Ear! This we thought Fiction all; but, seeing You, We own 'tis possible it might be true. So finely temper'd, and so nobly form'd, With so much sweetness, so much Grace adorn'd! If ought like Angels we can see below, It is to You that Happiness we owe! None sees you that, unwounded, can retire, He knows his errour, but he must admire: Yet though he loves, he dare not hope your Grace, For your chast heart is spotless like your Face. Had you but liv'd in the blest days of old, What Stories had the Antick Poets told? It had been doubly then an Age of Gold: The Goddesses had (though in Beauty rare) No more contended which had been the Fair, But with a joint consent resign'd the Ball, Asham'd your Lustre shou'd eclipse 'em all. Succeeding Times (for they shall know your Fame) Will have just Cause to celebrate your Name; Blest with a noble Issue, 'tis your doom For this Age to provide, and that to come: Those Beautys then shall shine, now in their Spring, And the then Poets of their Praises sing, Like you in every outward Gift compleat; And may, ye Gods! their Vertues be as great: A Race of Hero's too that Age shall know, Who by their Deeds will their Extraction show, Add lasting Honours to the Bertie's Fame, And with fresh Laurels crown that Noble Name. Happy the Children sprung from vertuous Wives; Thrice happy those to whom that Fate arrives! The bright Example, through Life's vitious maze, Does guide 'em in the path that leads to praise. A Vertuous Wife! but such, alas! there's few, And in the Van your Merit places you. A Vertuous Wife! which who e're does attain, Has got the chiefest good, the richest gain, No greater Blessing can the Gods bestow When they'd oblige a Favourite below. A Vertuous Wife! which Heav'n and Earth regards, And Heav'n and Earth, too, bounteously rewards; For she'l in both Worlds meet the highest doom, Honour in this, Glory in that to come.

To my Lady Anne Bainton, on the 28th of April, 1688. 'TWas night, and, with a weight of grief opprest, Though weary'd with much toil, I took no rest; All wrapt in Melancholy thought I lay, Wish't 'twou'd be ever dark, or soon be day: But Heav'n, still mindful wretched man to ease, Inspir'd me with a pleasing thought, when nothing else cou'd please; A thought which all around did joy display, And drove the anxious throng of cares away: So, in a Dream, oft Fancy to us brings A thousand frightful Images of things, Confus'd, but at the op'ning of the Eye Their shapes dissolve, the airy Fantoms fly. Gods! streight I cry'd, why ly I longer here? When Pleasure's nigh, why thus indulge my care? Up, then, and to high Heav'n Devotion pay For the return of this Auspicious Day, The day that gave fair Adorissa Birth, And with another Lucreece blest the Earth: Chast Adorissa, high in Heav'n's esteem, The Grace's Darling, and the Muses Theme! Which every Pen to write, and every Ear With an uncommon Joy inclines to hear! While in her Conduct we see, fairly writ, Her Mother's Heav'nly Modesty, her Father's pow'rful wit! As thus I spoke, Aurora's cheerful ray Brought the glad Tydings of returning day, The Larks did mount, their morning Carols sung, To Heav'ns wide Arch the tuneful Echo's rung: And now the Sun let loose the Reins of light, And ne're before, methought, appear'd so bright; No gloomy Cloud did interpose between His Beams and us, nor rising Fog was seen: The Winds were hush't; only a balmy breeze, With am'rous Wings, fann'd perfume through the Trees. Lo! here, cry'd I again, when all around, Above, below, a general Joy I found, Nature her self, to shew we well admire, Puts on her gorgeous Robes and Spring attire, That we may say, her gentlest looks she cast To grace this day and bless it as it past. Never, O Grateful Goddess! was it known Thy Glories were more proper to be shown. For, O! what Charms can in that Sex abound That's not in the more charming Adorissa found? Her Vertues, which the nicest Test will bear, Her easy, flowing, yet commanding Air, A temper, which no trifling will abide, Sweet without Art, and stately without Pride; How all she does becomes her, such a Grace! Such lovely Motions! such a lovely Face! Though young her self, yet how in Judgment old, Are things too full of wonder to be told. These, Madam, were my Thoughts, but while you stay To read 'em, you throw pretious time away, And mar the better Pleasures of the Day; The Guests, Impatient, long you shou'd appear, And I shou'd err to keep you longer here. Now strike up Musick, let the Virgins feet With equal Harmony your Measures meet; And you, fair Dam'sels, give delight the rein, Though often tir'd, take breath and to't again: But, O kind Youths, let not the Nymphs, though fair, Make you fix Adoration only there; O give not Cupid all, let Bacchus have his share. So, to the top fill up the flowing Bowl, Come, he that spills least has the greatest Soul: Let no dull sniveling Coxcomb baulk his Glass, But if he will not drink, dismiss the Ass; Ill fare the man that will, at such a time, Think Dancing, Love, Delight, or Drink a crime: What if they call us Sots, so let 'em do, Your Sober Sot's the dullest of the two. O Solomon! thou never spok'st amiss, If time for all things, now's the time for this. Fill round again, to the large Brim fill up, 'Tis Adorissa's Health, unlade the Cup; But prithee, though y'are merry, don't forget The Poet;— Wine's his best pretence to wit. But whither does the Muse intend her flight? Or has the Jilt forgot to whom I write? Or I am drunk indeed? turn'd giddy with delight. Howe're it is, Madam, I'm confident 'Tis all obedience, 'tis all humbly meant. Permit me, then, to hope you will forgive These lines, and condescend to let 'em live; The Poet's Friend, whene're y'are pleas'd to smile, You wing our Fancy and improve our stile. Wherefore this April's Sun shall cease to warm, Your Spouse to Love, and your own Eyes to charm. E're I decline (indulgent to your Fame) To write your Praise and celebrate your Name. Long may you in your Partners Arms be prest, With the same Ardour that you first carest, When the dear man came panting to your Breast. May you see many of these days return, And all the while have not one cause to mourn: And O! (which will be more than double Joy) May your next Birth-day prove the Birth-day of a Boy!

To Mrs H. Key. FAir is your Sex, but, Ah! so faithless, they Indeed deserve what we in Satyr say: But some among the rest, a very few, Like Diamonds in the dust, attract our view; Among which number sparkling like a Star, You shine above the rest, and spread your lustre far. Ah Noble Maid! but in thy Age's noon, And make perfection all thy own so soon! Showing thy Sex (and O that more wou'd please To trace thy steps) they may be good with ease; That Vertue's not a Scarecrow to affright, (light: But soft as kindling love, and mild as dawning Indeed our Teachers with their Haggard looks, And doz'd with poring upon Musty Books, Say 'tis a Blessing ev'n the best can't gain, But with an Age of Patience, Toyl and Pain; O, why shou'd they make rough what you have made so plain? But while of these Impediments they tell, They but discourage those that wou'd do well, Unwing their mounting thoughts, which else might fly A tow'ring height with yours and reach the ample sky: 'Tis granted that Temptations still abound, But whom seduce? the rotten, not the sound: Gold charms in vain, in vain the Siren sings, To one that does contemplate higher things; That sees the Goal, and with a sober pace, (For some run fast and tire) keep on and win the race. Ill fare the rigid Dame and wrinkl'd Face, As far from common sense as Sin from Grace, That think none can be wise or good, but those That whine and cant, and snuffle in the Nose, And wear, by choice, unfashionable Cloaths: But decent Ornament, though such abase, Instead of a reproof does claim our praise: Why shou'd that Female be thought vain, or proud, That loves to be distinguish't from the croud? The crowd (not Sin shou'd be avoided more) Those two leg'd Bruits, more senseless than the four. Yet that a mean shou'd be observ'd is true, And 'tis as sure that mean's observ'd by few: The Servant shou'd not like her Lady dress, (She may let her Impertinence be less) Nor Drabs of the Exchange, of base report, Be trick't like a fine Lady of the Court: In Quality there's many things allow'd, Which, in a meaner State wou'd be too proud; Though oft in Quality, it self, we see A strange Corruption of this Liberty: Extravagance in dress is the abuse, And that, in no degree, admits excuse. The Merchant's tawdry Spouse does most affect That costly wear the better-bred reject; Such will have rich attire, and when that's done, They're awkardly and flauntingly put on: Just as a Bully's know by full-mouth'd Oaths, So the Cit's Wife by ill-chose tawdry Cloaths; Which yet, to make it worse, the senseless Elves Think best, and for their fancy hug themselves.— But thou art to the happy mean inclin'd, Ev'n in thy outward dress we see thy inmost mind, So much of Modesty it dazles sight, And renders thee our wonder and delight: Fine, not coquetish, as if too much care Were us'd in dressing; then thy gentle air (Neither too stiff, nor, which is worse, too free, But just what true deportment ought to be) Mixt with thy pleasing Converse, is a Charm That wou'd give Statues Life, and make cold Hermits warm. Happy for Womankind, as Happy too For us, were all your charming Sex like you; Wou'd they Behaviour from your Conduct learn Dress well, but make high Heav'n their chief concern: But Ah! Mankind wou'd then too happy be, And Heav'n has shew'd us, in Creating Thee, Such Worth's a thing we must but seldom see; For, unlike thee, most of thy Sex, we find, Not made to Pleasure, but to plague Mankind. Vain are our Youths to let thee, then, so long Live in thy Virgin State — but 'tis themselves they wrong: Or else unkind art thou, that wilt not take Th'Addresses, which without dispute, they make; For they have Hearts Impression to receive, And you have Eyes to Conquer and Enslave! Yes, yes! I see 'em at your Footstool kneel, I hear 'em sigh, and with a pang reveal That Love they did with greater pangs conceal! O be n't Inexorable, but incline To Pity — Love's a Passion all Divine! Make some one happy, and reward his care, And ease the rest by giving 'em despair.

Absence. THree years, Almira, has our Souls been join'd, For what's true Love but mingling of the mind? To say w'are the same flesh is far too low T'express the Faith we to each other show: Ev'n Friendship burns but faint, not worth a name, When 'tis compar'd with our more mutual flame, And not so well deserves Immortal Fame. In thy dear Arms my Cares were always eas'd, Nor cou'd I ever grieve when you were pleas'd; Still so concern'd, so studious of your good, For every tear you shed my Heart wept blood. Nor was your Passion, dear Almira, less, Too strong to warp, too mighty to express, A languishing, a lasting, lambent flame, Bright as thy Eyes, untainted as thy fame, Fresh as the dawn when first Aurora springs, And soft as Down upon an Angel's Wings Such was our Love, so we, entranc't, did live, Contented, and what more had Heav'n to give? Blest were these hours, and Ah! they swiftly flew, But who e're kept soft pleasure long in view? For since our Hearts were one by mutual vow, We never knew what absence was till now; Ne'r knew what 'twas to wander all alone, Ly by a murmuring Brook on Moss, or Stone, And make the list'ning stream attend our mone, With sharp complaint the neighb'ring Air to wound, And tire kind Echo with the mournful sound; Ne're knew what 'twas at dead of night, distrest, (When silence does invite the World to rest) With sighs abrupt to think on our late Joy, Which we once thought ill Fate cou'd not destroy; Ah foolish thought! let none hereafter be So fond to assure themselves Felicity; If we, in whom unsully'd Love did reign, Cou'd not be priviledg'd from hateful pain, For others to expect a kinder Fate is vain. Not through past Ages can a pair be found, Whose truth deserves more nobly to be crown'd, Or will in after Days be more renown'd. To lay down Life for her dear sake I love, Though great, were far too small my Faith to prove; I cou'd, nor doubt I but your love's like mine, Endanger ev'n my Soul to rescue thine, Nor does in this ought that's profane appear; For Heav'n wou'd not be Heav'n, were not Almira there; Though I enjoy'd what cou'd on Man befal, All that in this world wise men happy call, Absence from thee wou'd turn those sweets to gall. Think then thou lovely Partner of my heart, Lovely I call thee, lovely without Art, Lovelier than those that ly in Princes Arms; For she that's vertuous has ten thousand Charms. O think if absence can such woe create, What 'tis I suffer from relentless fate! Unhappy shou'd we be, indeed, and know No ebb of grief, but a perpetual flow, If unkind Fortune longer shou'd conspire, With inauspicious hands, to cancel our desire: But, thanks to Heav'n, their kindly Influence Our Stars begin, in pity, to dispence: For the time's nigh that will redeem our harms, And bring us, blest! to one anothers Arms. Fly then, ye minutes, you that grace the van Be quick as thought, and lead the following on; And you succeeding moments ('tis no crime When once you enter the cariere of time) That you the sooner may our Peace restore, Push on the sluggards that took flight before. And thou, my Soul, no more at Fate repine, No longer blame decrees that are Divine; Compose thy Griefs against thy Joys return, For when thou art at rest, Almira will not mourn.

Prologue design'd for a Play of mine. OF Poets living poorly oft you tell, But you may wonder how they live so well: How many vain Fops do there daily sit, Trick't like my Ladies Monkey, in the Pit, That wou'd be poorer if they liv'd by Wit? Not that the Poets have so vast a store, But they might, very well, dispence with more: Of late, indeed, what e're they want in sense, Is made up with Poetick Impudence; No Trophies to the good or great they raise, But Fool and Knave they over-whelm with praise. They feed on Flattry, and it keeps 'em strong; So Maggots get best Nutriment in Dung ▪ These are the things our wretched Poets do, Yet most of ye wou'd be thought Poets too. There hardly was an Age e're known before, Vertue was less in use and Verses more. Courtier and Pesant equally possest, Write, and 'tis hard to tell which writes the best; For, when examin'd, we are sure to see But little Reason and much Ribaldry: Nay ev'n the Women of this Frantick Age Think they're inspir'd with Poetick rage; If any vain, lewd, loose-writ thing you see, You may be sure the Author is a she. The Lawyer, too, does versify amain, But falls, by starts, to his own Trade again; For Knavery, that Functions, fertile clime, Is far more difficult to leave than rhime; Once of that Tribe you can be just no more, They're thorow tainted, rotten to the core. The Flutt'ring Spark that has lov'd Chloris long, As his last hope, attacks her with a Song, And with ten whining lines does charm her more, Than with ten thousand whining words before; Songs will prevail, in spite of Vertue's rules, For that vain Sex is still most kind to Fools: All these pretend to Wit, but, still 'tis shown, The way they strive to prove it, proves they've none. Our Author by this rhiming Fiend possest, Does put in for a Fool among the rest; For Fools e're now (he says) have written Plays, Nay more than that, Fools have had good third days; He therefore begs, and he'l desire no more, Shew him the Favour they had heretofore; He'd fain be thought a Fool upon that score.

On the new Edition of Godfrey of Bulloigne, in 1687. LOng this stupendous work has lain obscur'd, From gloomy Times a long Eclipse endur'd: But now it rises like a Cloudless Sun, And brings as great a Tyde of glory on. Hail, Heav'nly Poem! while these strains we hear, The Soul does mount into the ravish't Ear, Diverts our Anguish and suspends our Care! So wond'rous are the Actions here enroll'd, And in such high harmonious numbers told! See here, you dull Translators, look with shame Upon this stately Monument of Fame; And, to amaze you more, reflect how long It is, since first 'twas taught the English Tongue; In what a Dark Age it was brought to Light, Dark? no, our Age is dark, and that was bright. Of all those Versions which now brightest shine, Most (Fairfax) are but Foils to set off thine: Ev'n Horace can't of too much Justice boast, His unaffected easie style is lost; And Ogilby's the lumber of the stall; But thy succinct Translation does atone for all. 'Tis true some few exploded words we find, To which we ought not to be too unkind; For, if the truth is scan'd, we must allow They're better than the new admitted now: Our Language is at best, and it will fail As th' inundations of French words prevail: Let Waller be our Standard, all beyond, Though spoke at Court, is foppery and fond. For thee too, Tasso, I a wreath wou'd twine, If my low strain cou'd reach the praise of thine: Homer came first, and much to him is due, Virgil, the next, does claim our wonder too, And the third Place must be conferr'd on You: Thy work is through with the same spirit fir'd, Will last as long and be as much admir'd. If lofty Verse undaunted thoughts inspire, And fill the Hero's Breast with martial Fire; May that Lorrain. great Chief, who does the Turk engage, Makes Armies tremble, and restrains their rage; May he (a scourge to Infidels unblest) Take Pattern by the Warriour here exprest, And drive like him, with an avenging hand, Those Vnbelievers from the sacred Land, Free the great Sepulchre of Christ once more, And be what mighty Godfrey was before.

The True Fast. A Paraphrase on the 58th of Isaiah. CRY, let thy Voice like the loud Trumpet sound, Through the wide Air diffuse it all around, To tell My People how their Crimes abound: And yet, alas! they seem to take delight To know my ways and study what is right, As if they did not trespass and rebel, They justify their Errors, and think all is well: Wherefore (say they) do we make tedious Fasts? Thou see'st not, still thy Indignation lasts; To mortify our Lusts why do we roam, And wander such a wicked way from home? Why such lean Penance do we undergo? Thou tak'st no knowledge, though thou all dost know. Hear me (O Rebels!) that can thus report, Do you not fast for wantonness and sport? Is it true Piety? Is it Remorse? No, no, A Ceremony made in course, Of neither Efficacy, Power, or Force: Under this thin disguise much sin you hide, Hypocrisy, Revenge and Canker'd Pride; And Strifes, that you may have pretence to blame The wiser few that will not act the same, Participating in your guilt and shame; Such as the Nonsense of your Fasts detect, And clearly prove they are of no effect. But Fasts you call 'em, and you Fasts proclaim, When Luxury oft were a more proper Name; The Deep is ransack't, all her Treasures shown; For Flesh one day deny'd, the Sea is all your own: In vain with this loose Custom you comply, In vain for this you lift your Voices high, They come lame Intercessors to the Sky. Observe, O Stubborn Brood! your Maker's voice; Is this a Fast which I have made my choice? Is to afflict the mind, to sigh and mone, And drawl my name out in a Canting tone? Is it to sob and fawn with heads reclin'd, Like Bull-rushes that bend before the wind, To dress in Sack-cloath and the lash to feel, With all th' External Pomp of hair-brain'd Zeal? What stress upon such trifling will ye lay? Or can this be to me a Fast, or Acceptable Day? No, no, the Fast that pleases me is this; To loose the Bands of all that is amiss, To fly from willful sin and every way In which th' unwary Soul is led astray, Release the heavy load, break every yoke, And free the wretched from th'Oppressor's stroke; To deal thy Bread to those that sit in want, And, to thy power, ready still to grant (For he that has but little, yet may be, By giving little, sav'd for Charity) To think not thy own House too good and great For Strangers to sojourn, and th' indigent to eat; To let the mourning Widow be thy care, To cloath the Naked that they be not bare In the Inclemency of Winter's Air; Not to detract, or be with Passion wild, But ever merciful and ever mild, Nor be a cruel Father to thy Child; Not to be Proud, or in Discourse profane, But free thy Lips from all obscene and vain: Reach but this Goal, and happiness you win; This is a Fast indeed, — A Fast from Sin. Then thou shalt be exempt from every pain, Thy health shall quickly come and long remain; All thy Good Deeds shall in the Front appear, And Glory shall attend 'em in the Reer: Then thou shalt call, and I will hear thee streight, Nor long shalt for a Gracious Answer wait: From dark Obscurity thy light shall rise, And take it's lofty Station in the Skies; The Sun himself shall hardly shine so bright, Hardly diffuse around a more refulgent light: Nay more (what better Fate can Man betide?) 'Tis I my self, ev'n I will be thy guide, I'll set thee in the Path, I'll shew the way; O happy Man, that cannot go astray! In Famine thou shalt daily have supply, In tedious Droughts thou never shalt be dry, But like a water'd Garden still be gay, Or Fountain rising in a Sun-shine day, Whose Springs ne're fail, but ever mount and play. The noble Structures ras'd by War and Time, Thy Sons shall build more sumptuous than their prime, But thine shall be the Glory, thine the Fame; The Age to come shall bless thy honour'd name. Yes, this was he, th' united Voice shall cry, That the foundations laid, and rais'd the ruins high. And if to this thou add these Vertues more, I'll yet add other Blessings to thy store; If from all loose desires thou turn'st away, Not following Harlots on my Holy-Day, But think it honourable, pure, sublime, And take delight then to redeem the time, With Zeal and ardour wish its coming on, And, when 'tis with thee, that 'twou'd nere be gone; And all this while not walking thy own way, Nor after dull Enthusiasts run astray, Not speaking thy own words, but cleave to what I say; In the true Fast that I have nam'd remain, (For t'other's superstitious, fond and vain) Then thou shalt be my Darling, my Delight, Dear to my thought and pleasing to my sight; High I will lift thee and far spread thy Name, The Globe shall be too narrow for thy Fame, With me to Heav'n I'll carry it along, An Endless Theme for the Celestial Song: All Nature's Products too thou shalt command, And feed upon the fatness of the Land; — 'Tis I have spoke it, and my word shall stand.

The Harlot. A Paraphrase on the 7th of Proverbs. YOung Man, let what I speak attention draw, Observe it as you wou'd Heav'n's strictest Law; Hear my Commands and weave 'em in thy heart, Make 'em both one that they may never part; Do this, you'l quickly find the good effect, But swift destruction follows the neglect. To Wisdom say, thou my fair Sister art, My Hope, my Guide, and Goddess of my Heart, Dearer than Life, with Life I'd sooner part; Discretion too thy near Relation call; Get these (O happy Youth!) and thou hast all; No better Gift can bounteous Heav'n bestow, No safer Guard from human ills below: Envy may hiss, but she can do no harm, She flies, she dies before the pow'rful charm. Particularly, it will keep thee free From the loose Strumpet's specious Flatt'ry, Whose words like Oyl on Rivers glide along, Her words more tuneful than the Siren's Song; She makes Perdition pleasing with the Musick of her Tongue: Keep, keep from her Inhospitable Coast, But once incline to hear her, you are lost; Regret, Remorse, Repentance come too late, Nought but a wonder can reverse your Fate; While on her wanton Breast your head you lay, For one thought that does cry, Rise, Come away, You'l have ten thousand pressing you to stay: But let the Wretches Fate which here is shown, Encline you to be careful of your own. Just in the close and shutting up of day, When the last gleams were hurrying swift away; The Harlots hour their subtle Trains to lay; As in my Window I stood leaning out, Pensive and thoughtful, gazing round about, Among the Youths (behold!) a Wretch I spy'd, Loose, foolish, vain, nor strove his guilt to hide, What shou'd have been his shame he made his Pride; For to his Drab's Apartment he was bent, His glowing Cheeks discover'd his intent; Pleas'd with the thought, he scarcely touch'd the ground, But, like a Mountain-Roe did leap and bound: But (lo!) she met him, coming forth to see For some kind Friend of her Fraternity; For any Fop had serv'd as well as He: Those that are learn'd and known to gain by sin, Must trade as well without doors as within; At every Corner of the street they ply, To angle Coxcombs, which in shoals glide by, As soon as e're the Bait appears in sight, Eager to be beguil'd, the Gudgeons bite: Have you e're seen (what time the Seasons yield Suck kind of sports) a Spaniel range the Field, And mark't what pains he takes to spring his Game? Th' industrious ranging Drab is just the same: Thus, streight, the Youth she spies, and round him cast Her snowy Arms, she prest, she held him fast, And with a warm Lascivious fierce embrace, Laid Cheek to Cheek and suckt him to her Face: Bare were her Breasts, and Careless her attire, Learn'd in the Art how to enflame desire, And kindle what was found too apt to take the Fire; Harlot throughout, each motion that she made Show'd her true Punk, and perfect in her Trade: But after some fond looks and dalliance past, Thus the fair faithless tun'd her Tongue at last. 'Tis Peace (said she) 'tis Peace and Love I bring, This day I've paid my vows and made my Offering, And therefore came I forth; with thee to meet, Thus late, and thus alone, I rove the street; The dangers of the night not frighten me, At least, they vanish at the sight of Thee: Without thee what a tedious night I'd past? And who knows too but it had been my last? Depriv'd of thee must have strange Tortures wrought, And plung'd me deep in Melancholy Thought; But I have found thee, long I've wisht it so, And it shall longer be before I let thee go. I've deck't (my Love) I've deck't my Bed with Flowers, Not sweeter were the Gods delicious Bow'rs; With costly Tap'stry I have hung my room, Not richer ever stretch't the Tyrian Loom; There Venus is in all her Postures wrought, And how Loves Pleasure she with hazard sought, Surprizing to the Eye! transporting to the thought! Perfum'd with richest Scents, such as inspire Gay Loves and melting Ioy, and soft desire! Come then, away, and take of Love our fill; In Passion, such as ours, there is no ill: Let aged Matrons rail, and Gown-men preach, They are too wise to practise what they teach: Away! come let me plunge into thy Arms, Find you fresh Love, and I'll create fresh Charms: Come, till the Morning let us sport and play, Nor rise the sooner for it's being day. Nor let the thought of Husband pall your Ioy, He's now far off upon a grand employ, Cash he has took long Charges to defray, And will not come till his appointed day; And O (ye Gods!) I wish he never may; My right in him I'd willingly resign, Millions of his embraces are but one of thine: But ah! the hours have Wings, away! away! Let not the pretious time be lost when Love and Pleasure stay. With her fair Speech she forc'd him soon to yield, But force is needless when we quit the field; Too credulous, her Flatt'ry he believ'd, Nor was he the first Fool that she deceiv'd: She turns, he follows, nor his Joy conceals, Nor sees destruction dog him at the heels: As Oxen to the Slaughter (wretched State!) So on he walks, unmindful of his Fate; Or as a Vagrant to Correction goes, To lasting scorn he does his Fame expose: As Birds hast to the snare their food to find, And think not that their ruin is design'd; So a Dart strikes him through, a fatal Knife, And lets him see h' has fool'd away his Life: Disease o'ertakes him, makes his health a prey, Meagre and wan he looks that once was gay, His Winter his December comes in May: Too late his Lustful error's understood, He feels her Poxt Embraces in his tainted Blood: With aches crampt, and strong Convulsions torn, Sciaticas too grievous to be born, Till the Gout comes, the pains of Hell scarce worse, And his last Breath evaporates in a Curse. Hear me (O Youth) and to my words attend, Despise 'em not because I am a Friend, But persevere in good, and glory crowns the end: Let not thy Footsteps to her Paths decline; She's worse than Devil though she seems divine: Strip her but of her Silk, her Patch and Paint, And see how fit she's then to make a Saint; Then mark her shrivel'd Face and sallow Skin, Rank all without, and rotten all within: And yet, alas! (such Charms she does display) The rich, the noble, witty and the gay, The great, the strong, have been, by turns, her prey; Warriours themselves have by her Arts been slain, Have lain down by her, but ne'r rose again: Her House is the destructive path to sin, From whence there's no return when once y'are in, Down to the Courts of deepest Hell it goes: O don't thy Safety to this Rock expose! 'Tis but a Kiss you gain, and 'tis a Soul you lose!

To Madam G. with Mrs Phillips's Poems. ORinda's lasting Works to you I send, Not doubting but you'l prove her lasting Friend; Accept and lay her to your Breast, you'l find She's Entertainment for the noblest Mind, And to your Sex this lasting Honour brings, That they are capable of highest things: Her Verses and her Vertuous Life declare, 'Tis not your only Glory to be Fair. How can you fail to Conquer, when your Darts Are double-pointed still that reach our Hearts? Wing'd with your Beauty, guided by your Wit, What mark so distant that they cannot hit? Darkness in vain wou'd interpose between; With these advantages you wound unseen. But by what Magick has her Heav'nly Song Lain from thy knowing view conceal'd so long, When not the Sun, who is the God of Wit, Makes more unweary'd searches after it? Great Shakespear, Fletcher, Denham, Waller, Ben, Cowley, and all th' Immortal, tuneful Men Thou'st made thy own, and none can better tell Where they are low, and where they most excel, Can reach their heights when thou art pleas'd to write, Soaring a pitch that dazles human sight! But O! when thou hast read this matchless Book, And from it's excellence a Judgment took, What the fair Sex was then, thou, sure, wilt mourn To see how justly now they're branded with our scorn. Farces and Songs obscene, remote from Wit, (Such as our Sappho to Lisander writ) Employs their time; so far th' abuse prevails, Their Verses are as vitious as their Tails; Both are expos'd; alike, to publick view, And both of 'em have their Admirers too. With just abhorrence look upon these Crimes, And by thy chast Example fix the Times; Right the wrong'd Age, redeem thy Sex from shame, 'Twas so Orinda got her deathless Name; Thou art as fair, hast the like skill in Song, And all that thou dost write will last as long.

To Madam Beaw. Occasion'd by a Copy of Verses of my Lady Ann Bainton's. AS when the Blest up to their Heav'n are gone, And put their Fadeless Wreaths of Laurel on, How are they pleas'd to hear their Vertues there A Theme for Angels songs that met Reproaches here? No less amaz'd, nor less with Rapture fraught, Rais'd above Earth with the exalted thought, I stood, to hear my Praise, contemn'd by Men, Employ our Beauteous Adorissa's Pen! All that we Merit we but think our due, So but bare satisfaction can ensue; And Blessings hop'd for half the Bliss destroy, For ev'n the Expectation palls the Joy; But when unthought of, undeserv'd, they come, They give us transport, and they strike it home! So she, like Heav'n, does her Rewards impart, Which fly beyond the Bounds of all desert. I now may boast I have Eternity; For, sure, what she does write can never dy: Her Beauty may, perhaps, to Time submit, But Time must fall a Trophy to her Wit. Beneath her shelter, like a Shrub, I ly, And, safe intrench't, the envious Men defy; While, like the Mountain Cedar, she surveys The Plain, and whom she please does Crown with Bays: They cannot reach to her, nor dare reject (To her high worth preserving their respect) What she has deign'd, to like and to protect. But while her Wit is in our Praises shown, Why is she so forgetful of her own? Why honour others, and neglect the claim To her undoubted Right, Immortal Fame? 'Tis therefore, Fair One, that these lines you see, That on this subject you may join with me: You can both write, and judge of what is writ, A Priestess of the Mysteries of Wit, Though her own Modesty won't soar on high, But clips the Wings with which her praise shou'd fly, Our Gratitude must not with that comply: We shou'd, how e'r, attempt to do her right; The subject will instruct us to indite. Does not her Form, which we with Joy behold, Transcend Fictitious Goddesses of old? Yet Matchless though her Beauty be, her smile Is not more sweet and lively than her stile; Her Eyes themselves have not more moving charms, And ev'n her Love not more Divinely warms! Sure from her Godlike Sire her Genius came, Who living warm'd three Nations with his Flame: She, Phenix-like, soars from his Urn aloft, Her Flight as steady, and her Plumes as soft. Here we shou'd all her other Gifts declare; (For of all else she has as great a share) Her Piety, unblemisht Love and Truth, A Converse fin'd from all the Dross of Youth; A Faith unsully'd to the Nuptial Bed, And strict Obedience to her lawful head. On Marriage do depend our Peace of Life, Our greatest good or ill springs from a Wife, Eternal Comfort! or eternal strife! Eternal Comfort, then, is Damon's Lot: But where one has it, Millions have it not. He only cou'd deserve so great a good, Who in the Bud the Flower understood, And knew to what advantage 'twou'd be shown, When Spring was come, and all its Glories blown. A hundred Seasons may the Gods allow This Blessing to him, and she fair as now. But O! what Pen or Pencil can we find Able to paint the Beauties of her mind? Which open'd to our view diffuse around A Flood of lustre that does sight confound, Forces the Muse her airy flight to stay, Which here must stop, or else must lose her way. So when from Heav'n (and brighter than the Sun) A sudden Glory round th' Apostle shon, Too much refulgence did oppress his sight, And he fell blind amid'st the blaze of light.

Instructions to a Young Lady. Y'Are now, Asteria, on the publick Stage, Live in ill Times, and a Censorious Age, But seen few years, yet like an Angel Fair, As great your Merit, great must be your Care. Be strict, if you'd have Reputation stay, The least neglect throws the rich Gemm away. Th' Hesperian Fruit, though by a Dragon kept, Was by a bold Hand gather'd while he slept. The more your Beauty shines, it but gives light To the sharp Darts of prejudice and spite, To take their fatal aim, and hit the white. Beside, alas! though every Woman's frail, The fairest are most liable to fail: If fruit we chuse, we take the loveliest first, The rest goes down, but not with such a gust: Think of Lucretia, then of Tarquin's lust. If Barefac't Violence does not prevail To work your Ruin, Flatt'ry will not fail; But O! beware the smooth enchanting Tale. You know the Truth, the Snake's beneath the Flower, Avoid his Tongue and you avoid his Power. Let ev'n the good with Caution be believ'd, For not to trust is not to be deceiv'd. But who, alas! can scape sharp Envy's sting, That wounds up from the Beggar to the King; Nothing is free from it's unlicens'd rage, Nor Innocence of Youth, nor Reverence of Age. Shou'd Angels, as of old, from Heav'n come down T' instruct, as then to scourge a Lustful Town, They'd find ill Tongues wou'd slander spreadabout, And bring their Heav'n-born Purity in doubt: If this be so (as Truth 'tis to our shame) You can't with too much niceness guard your Fame; That to secure shou'd all your thoughts employ; Hard to preserve and easy to destroy. Vertue, though ne're so pure, may sully'd be, She's made, or marr'd by Credibility; Toss'd like a Ship, Opinion fills her Sails, And they all slacken as Opinion fails: That is the Sterling Stamp that makes her go, For you are Vertuous if we think you so: Strive then (nor is your labour spent for nought) When we think well of you, we may improve the thought. 'Tis true, you'l say when Clouds as thick as night Obscure the Sun, yet in himself he's bright, Breaks through at last, and does exert his light; And Vertue, though opprest, at last may rise, And with it's cheerful Glories gild the Skies: But do not let this Answer be forgot, This may arrive, but much more likely, not. If we a Voyage take (and let Life's Scene Be that avoidless Voyage that I mean) Is it not better far still to be free From Reckless Storms, and Heav'ns Inclemency, That no rough Waves shou'd rowl, no Winds shou'd blow, But all be still above, and smooth below, Till we have gain'd the Port, in Harbour ly, And there, secure, their baffled rage defy? To be more plain; had we not better live, And take what Praise a grudging World will give, Let life glide gently on, an even stream, Free from ill Tongues and every wild extream, Till to the Grave we go, and there enjoy That long repose which Envy can't destroy? Were it not wiser thus, than, by fond ways, Proud of our worth, pull down what we wou'd raise? For vertuous we may be, but when respect We wou'd assume for being so, it dwindles to neglect. Let it then be your study and delight Never to give the least pretence to spite; A Mad Dog, if not hooted, may not bite. But above all, Religion be your Care; Your Thoughts and Actions must be centr'd there: It must not be with a light Air receiv'd, For then as lightly it will be believ'd; The great Deceit is when w'are by our selves deceiv'd. What Arguments so e'r some men may bring To make it seem a sowre unlovely thing, When once embrac't, you'l find it has more charms Than Love, or Wealth, or Power can usher to your Arms. Yet, have a care, for, to our lasting shame, All's not Religion that does bear the Name. 'Tis not a hot dispute, or Zeal that's cold, Or Legends very false and very old, Dull, superstitions, such as sense destroys, And only fit for Chimney talk for Boys. Nor is it whining, when, with Maudlin Eyes W'are told the grunting Spirit's just about to rise. That's true Religion that does make you strive To love your Neighbour, and the Poor relieve, To do no wrong, nor at no wrong connive, And all the wrong that's done you to forgive. Now Fair One let me this request obtain, That these Instructions you would not disdain, Because they're told you in a homely strain; Not but I know your Conduct has been try'd, And that you'l find out Fame without a Guide.

Funeral Elegies.

TO THE Memory of Mr. John Oldham. BUT that 'tis dangerous for Man to be Too busie with Immutable Decree, I cou'd, dear Friend, have blam'd thy cruel doom, That lent so much to be requir'd so soon! The Flowers with which the Meads are drest so gay, Short-liv'd though they are, yet they live a day; Thou in the Noon of Life wer't snatch'd away! Though not before thy Verse had wonders shown, And bravely made the Age to come thy own! The Company of Beauty, Wealth and Wine, Were not so charming, not so sweet as thine; They quickly perish, yours was still the same, An everlasting, but a Lambent Flame, Which something so resistless did impart, It still through every Ear won every Heart; Unlike the Wretch that strives to get esteem, And thinks it fine and janty to Blaspheme, And can be witty on no other Theme. Ah foolish Men! (whom thou did'st still despise) That must be wicked to be counted wise! But thy Converse was from this error free, And yet 'twas every thing true Wit can be, None had it but, ev'n with a Tear, does own, The Soul of Dear Society is gone! But while we thus thy Native sweetness sing▪ We ought not to forget thy Native sting: Thy Satyr spar'd no Follies nor no Crimes; Satyr the best Reformer of the Times. While diff'rent Priests eternally contest, And each will have his own Religion best, And in a holy huff damns all the rest, Their Love to Gain, not Godliness is shown; Heav'ns work is left undone to do their own. How wide shoot they that strive to blast thy Fame By saying that thy Verse was rough and lame? They wou'd have Satyr their Compassion move, And writ so pliant, nicely and so smooth, As if the Muse were in a flux of Love: But who of Knaves, and Fops, and Fools wou'd sing, Must Force and Fire, and Indignation bring; For 'tis no Satyr if it has no sting: In short, who in that Field wou'd famous be, Must think and write like Iuvenal and Thee. Let others boast of all the mighty nine, To make their Labours with more lustre shine: I never had no other Muse but thee, Ev'n thou wer't all the mighty nine to me: 'Twas thy dear Friendship did my Breast inspire, And warm'd it first with a Poetick Fire, But 'tis a warmth that does with thee expire; For when the Sun is set that guides the day, The Traveller must stop, or lose his way.

To the Memory of Edmund Waller Esq. THough ne'r so base, or never so sublime, All human things must be the spoil of time; Poet and Hero with the rest must go, Their Fame may higher mount, their dust must ly as low: Thus mighty Waller is, at last, expir'd, With Cowley from a vitious Age retir'd, As much lamented and as much admir'd! Long we enjoy'd him: on his tuneful tongue, All Ears and Hearts with the same rapture hung, As if Heav'n had indited, and an Angel sung. Here the two bold, contending Fleets are found, The mighty Rivals of the wat'ry round; In Smoak and Flame involv'd, they cou'd not fight With so much force and fire as he does write! Here Galatea mourns; in such sad strains Poor Philomel her wretched Fate complains: Here Fletcher and Immortal Iohnson shine, Deathless, preserv'd in his Immortal Line: But where, O mighty Bard! where is that he, Surviving now, to do the same for Thee? At such a Theme my conscious Muse withdraws, Too weak to plead in such a weighty cause. Whether for Peaceful Charles, or Warlike Iames, His Lyre was strung; the Muse's dearest Themes! Whether of Love's success, when in the Eyes Of the kind Nymph the kindling glances rise, When, blushing, she breaths short, and with constraint denies; Whether he paint the Lover's restless care, Or Sacharissa the disdainful Fair; (Relentless Sacharissa, deaf to Love, The only she his Verse cou'd never move; But sure she stopt her Ears and shut her Eyes, He cou'd not else have miss'd the Heav'nly Prize) All this is done with so much grace and care, Hear it but once, and you'd for ever hear! His Labours thus peculiar Glory claim, As writ with something more than mortal flame: Wit, Judgment, Fancy, and a heat divine Throughout each part, throughout the whole does shine, The expression clear, the thought sublime and high; No flutt'ring, but with even wing he glides along the Sky. Some we may see, who in their Youth have writ Good sense, at fifty take their leave of wit, Chimaera's and Incongruous Fables feign, Tedious, Insipid, Impudent and Vain, The Hinds and Panthers of a Crazy Brain: But he, when he through eighty years had past, Felt no decay, the same from first to last, Death only cou'd his vig'rous Flame o'ercast. Such was the Man whose loss we now deplore, Such was the Man, but we shou'd call him more: Immortal in himself, we need not strive To keep his sacred Memory alive: Just, Loyal, Brave, Obliging, Gen'rous, Kind; The English Tongue he to the height refin'd, his Legacy, And the best Standard of it leaves behind.

To the Memory of Colonel Edward Cooke. 'TIs Vertue which alone supports the whole, For without that the World's without a Soul; Most certain, then, as it grows faint and weak, Th' eternal Chain decays, at last must break: When great Cooke fell, the jarring Links did twang, And Nature sigh'd as if she felt the pang; Nor is it strange; For Vertue was his guide, And scarce before so much e're with a votary dy'd, In War he was nurs't up, Arms his delight, Courted in Peace, and as much shun'd in fight: Death he had seen in various shapes, but none Cou'd move him to be fearful of his own: Nor did old Age abate the martial Flame; 'Twas always great, and always was the same. His Charity did equally extend To cherish the distress'd, and serve his Friend. When he did good (and who his Life surveys Will find he did delight in't all his dayes) 'Twas for the sake of good, and not for praise. Restless Ambition ne'r his thought employ'd; Peace and Conteet he sought, and those enjoy'd. Merit he priz'd though 'twere in rags enshrin'd; He look't not on the Person but the Mind. His Judgment was unbyast, clear and strong, His Conversation pleasant, gay and young: But then his Mirth was still from Folly free; Take all profane from Wit, and that was he. And as when Tygers range the Woods for prey, And chance to meet a Lyon in their way, Streight they forget their rage, and learn t' obey; So Atheous Men, though they blasphem'd before, Aw'd with his Presence, their vain talk forbore: For Piety was still his constant Guest, And found its safest refuge in his Breast. Such was his Life — and now his Death we'll shew, His Death, the greater wonder of the two! For when the fatal pangs were drawing on, And the last Sands were eager to be gone; When all his Friends lay drown'd in tears of grief, Wishing, alas! but hopeless of relief; Ev'n he alone his Change with Patience bore, Like all the Changes of his Life before: No labouring sound, no murmuring groan exprest, But dy'd as weary Pilgrims go to rest. O Pity, pity, some more able Quill Had not adorn'd this Theme with greater skill; That Fame to late Posterity might tell, Few Men can live, but fewer dy so well.

To the Memory of Mrs M. Peachley. COme hither You who the fair Sex reproach, And basely rail at what you can't debauch, That in loose Satyr tell us of their Crimes, And say they are the grievance of the Times; Come hither all, while, in sad Funeral Verse, Peachley's Immortal Vertues I reherse, That you may see how very much you err, Repent, and learn how to be good by her. Ev'n in her Youth her early worth did show To what a vast proportion it wou'd grow, When Faith had taught her all she was to know; On whose strong Wings she oft to Heav'n wou'd flee, And by it find what can, what cannot be, Better than all their vain Philosophy. Charming her Form, and matchless was her Mind, At least 'twas something above Womankind. Trace her through all the Series of her Life, You'l find her free from Envy, Hate and Strife; A Duteous Child, and then a Vertuous Wife: A careful Mother next, and if we find Any regret for dying touch'd her mind, It was to leave her Angel-Brood behind; And not the love of Life: O hapless young! The World's a Maze where you will sure go wrong, Without the Clue of her Instructive tongue; She wou'd have taught you when with cares perplext, And lost in this World, how to find the next: O how shall we enough her Worth commend! So good a Christian, and so true a Friend, She'd take Offence, but never wou'd offend! Well read in History, in Religion more; And had a Heart which ne'r forgot the Poor. Mourn, mourn, ye Graces, mourn your Darling's fall, The most exalted wonder of you all! To whose kind Breast can you for refuge run, Now she that gave you life is dead and gone? A great Example stands, to let us see "No pitch of Vertue from the Grave is free.

URANIA. A Funeral Eclogue; TO THE Pious Memory of the Incomparable Mrs Wharton. Damon. Alexis. Dam. ALexis, Why that Cloud upon your Brow? Has lovely Chloris lately broke her Vow, And the sad Tydings reach't your Ears but now? It must be so, that, sure, must be the cause, That from your Eyes this bleeding deluge draws. Alex. Were it no more but a frail Nymph unkind, It rather shou'd divert than wound my mind; For he that grieves when such their Love estrange, As well may grieve because the wind will change. No, Damon, no; my Sorrows fetch their spring From a more sad, a more important thing: Were all my Life to be one mourning Day, Or cou'd my Heart dissolve in Tears away, 'Tis yet a Tribute for our loss too small, Our Loss, I call it, for it wounds us all! Dam. Still to your Tears you call a fresh supply, And still, too, you conceal the reason why. Alex. O! Is it possible thou should'st not know The Fatal Cause that has unman'd me so, When Sorrow does triumph o'er all the Plain, And strikes the coyest Nymph and dullest Swain? These beat their Breasts, and t'other rend their hair, Like Lovers that are wedded to despair: Not more cou'd be the cry, if the last doom, The dreadful change of Time and Place were come! Dam. No longer in suspence, then, let me stay, But tell, that I may mourn as well as they. Alex. Take then, O Damon! take the worst in brief, The worst! for it admits of no relief! Vrania, Sweet Vrania, justly fam'd, And never but with Adoration nam'd, In whom were join'd each Vertue and each Grace, These in her Mind, and t'other in her Face; Vrania, in whose conduct we did find More than we cou'd expect in Womankind; The happy Favorite of the mighty Nine, Whose Verse was still employ'd on Themes Divine; Ev'n she — O Heav'ns! — Dam. I fear, — but yet — go on. Alex. Then hear and burst with grief — she's dead and gone! Dam. O killing Sentence! which I dy to know! Alexis, prithee say that 'tis not so: But, see! thy Eyes run o'er! in them I view The fatal news y'ave told me is too true! Alex. Too true indeed: — when I my thought advance, Reflecting on the turns of Fate and Chance, How many Accidents disturb our rest, How soon we lose the bravest and the best, How they no more are priviledg'd from death Than ev'n the vilest Insect that draws breath, Subject to worst of wrongs, opprest with care, (Of which, Vrania, thou hast had thy share) How swift, by Heav'ns inevitable doom, They're snatch'd from hence and hurry'd to the Tomb, Leaving the wicked and the vain to wast, And glut on Blessings they cou'd never tast; I hardly can the Impious thought forbear, — That Heav'n of our concerns takes little care, Or that, at least, 'tis something too severe. Dam. Alexis, do not blame Divine Decree, And the strict Laws of strong necessity; For since eternal Iustice cannot err, What that inflicts we shou'd with patience bear: I need not tell you all must dy e're long. — Alex. True Damon, but not all dy while they're young: As for the Aged let 'em pass away, And drop into their Tenements of Clay, It does not trouble me; for they must go, Must feel the Sting of Death, and shortly too; But then the Youthful, Healthy, Gay and Strong, We may with Justice hope to live as long; And she, you know, was in her lovely noon, (O Heav'n! that things so fair shou'd fade so soon!) Not half her Glass (Ah brittle Glass!) was run, Not half her natural term of years was done! 'Tis that — Dam. Alexis, moderate your grief; 'Tis in your power to give your self relief: Think her (as sure she is) among the blest, And has begun the Sabbath of her rest; Think she is free from all that World of woe Under whose weight she labour'd here below, And you will find more reason to be glad, Than thus to be immoderately sad: Repine not then, Alexis, 'tis not well; — Yet, since y'are on this subject, prithee tell By what sad Fate the sweet Vrania fell. Alex. A mortal, but a lingering Disease Upon the Spirits of her Life did seize; Her strength decreas'd, and every fatal Day Still took a part, till all was born away: Pale, wan and meagre did her Cheeks appear, Though once a Spring of Roses flourish't there: Thus long she lay with strong Convulsions torn, Which yet were with a Saint-like patience born; Till nature ceasing, rather forc't to cease, Gave her a painful, yet a kind release. Go sacred Nymph! ascend the spangled Sphere, For it has long wanted thy lustre there! Faithful and loving to the last she prov'd, And better did deserve to be belov'd: — Here Colon I cou'd — Dam. Mention not his Name, But let your subject be the Matchless Dame. Alex. So many are her Vertues and so vast, And crowd upon my Memory so fast, 'Tis difficult on what part to begin, And 'twill be hard to leave when once I'm in. Her Converse was from all that Dross refin'd That is so visible in Womankind; So very mild, so fraught with Innocence, I dare believe she cou'd not give offence. By Practice she did Vertue's path commend, And honour'd all that were to worth a Friend: Her Ardour still to Heav'nly things, did show She learnt to be an Angel here below! Gentle to all, but to her self austere, Hardly a Day but was half spent in Prayer: 'Tis Heav'ns Injunction we shou'd pray for those That are our mortal and inveterate Foes; Hard Lesson! hard to us, so prone to err, But 'twas a very easy one to Her. Her Charity did every where extend, For to be poor was to make her a Friend. The Muses off-spring all she did excel, In the great Poet-Art of writing well, Her charming strains did please the nicest Ear, And ev'n the haughtiest Swains were proud to hear: Thirsis himself took notice of her Lays, And thought 'em worthy his Celestial Praise! Ah sweet Vrania! of all Womankind, Where hast thou left one like thy self behind, Unless the chast Mirana? who but she? Thy Vertuous Sister; For in her we see, Thou dear departed Saint, how much w'ave lost in Thee! Dam. By Heav'ns, Alexis, thou so well has shown The Vertues of the Nymph for whom you mone, In such sad numbers told the fatal cause That from your Eyes this bleeding Deluge draws; I've caught it too, plung'd in the same extreme, Nor blush to weep upon so just a Theme! Alex. Such pious grief Heav'n cannot but forgive, That lets the Vertuous in our Memories live. — But, see! if now thou dost some tears let fall, There goes a sight that will engross 'em all! The sweet Vrania (ah too rigid doom!) By▪ Virgins born to her eternal home! See with what mournful Pomp the Scene appears, The Swains all Speechless, and the Nymphs all tears: Instead of Flow'ry Wreath, with Chaplets crown'd, Their Temples are with Funeral-Cypress bound, Though they are silent, yet their looks impart A lasting Anguish and a bleeding Heart! Ha! Damon! see! on the sad Biere display'd, Where all the Riches of the Earth is laid! You sigh! alas! you know you sigh in vain, You'l never more behold her tread the Plain! No more you'l hear that soft harmonious voice, Which none yet ever heard but did rejoice! For ever ceas'd are all her matchless lays! Heav'n has clos'd up the Volume of her days! O Grief! that I can think on the chast Dame, "Think that she's dead, and not become the same! Dam. Cease, Dear Alexis, lest it shou'd be sed We fail'd in our last Office to the dead: Let's follow then the Mourners gone before; It cannot add to our affliction more: To see her laid in Dust, that Boon we'll crave, And strew sweet Flowers upon her honour'd Grave.

ALCANDER. A Funeral Eclogue. Sacred to the Memory of Sir▪ G. G. Baronet. Doron. Amintor. THE Sun was set, and the obsequious Night Had nigh extinguish't all remains of Light, When poor Amintor, with his head reclin'd, A pensive Visage and a troubl'd Mind, His Flocks neglecting, to the Grove retir'd, Alone, nor any Company desir'd; True Mourners still the dark recesses crave, Most pleas'd with those that are most like the Grave. Doron who all that day had mark't his grief, And fill'd with hope to give him some relief, Follow'd the weeping Swain, who, seeing, spoke; But first he sigh'd as if his Heart were broke. Amin. Doron, Methinks this lovely, gloomy shade Seems only for despair and sorrow made: The cheerful Sun darts here no rosie beam, But all is sad and silent in extream; The Melancholy place deserves a Melancholy Theme: Let us, then, talk of the uncertain State Of human Life and the swift turns of Fate; For who on frail Mortality does trust, But limns the water, or but writes in dust. Dor. Look through blue glass, and the whole prospect's blue; Through sorrow's Optick this retreat you view, And that does give it the same tincture too: When Caelia first you saw 'twas in this place; Caelia, the chastest of the charming race, All Truth writ in her mind, all Beauty in her Face: Not one of all the Shepherds of the Plain That sigh'd for the fair Maid, but sigh'd in vain, She still frown'd on, regardless of their pain: You only gain'd her Favour, and 'twas here First the disdainful Nymph vouchsaft an Ear; She heard you, so much Wit and Truth were shown, You melted her to Love, and made her all your own: And still as lovingly the Myrtles twine, As if her snowy hands lay prest in thine, And all the Quire of Birds stood mute to hear her Voice divine. 'Tis you then that are chang'd; and O! if what My boading fears suggest I may relate, In your despairing looks I read Alcander's wretched Fate! Amin. Doron, you have it right, alas! 'tis so, He's gone where (soon or late) we all must go! 〈…〉 , whom we ever shall deplore, For ever gone whom we did all adore, Alcander, dear Alcander is no more! No more! O bitter word! O hateful sound! What two-edg'd Sword can give a deeper wound? What Ponyard, Poison, what envenom'd Dart Can find a quicker passage to the heart? They wound but one way, this through every pore: No more! O bitter, hateful word, no more! Dor. Amintor cease — but who can reprehend Those Tears wept o'er the grave of such a Friend? How many down death's steep Oblivion rowl, Thought on no more than if they'd had no Soul? Ill, sure, they've liv'd, and met a wretched lot, That are so soon eternally forgot: It shows much worth, a generous heart and kind, When gone, to leave some mourning Friends behind. Amin. If grieving for the dead, in ought set forth Their private Vertue, or their publick worth, It, both ways, does sufficiently proclaim Alcander's Bounty, Friendship, Love and Fame: For O! who ever touch't Death's fatal shore, Of all the Millions that are gone before, Whose dear converse was mist, or mourn'd for more: In me, O Doron! read (and you may see His loss in no small measure touches me) How all his Friends (and no one Man had more) Lament his absence, and his loss deplore! With Grief transported, Grief that knows no bound, They fall extended on the rigid ground, Expostulating with relentless Fate, That deals so hardly by the good and great, Disdaining to give respit to their mone; But, with a joint consent, all sigh and groan, All weep for poor Alcander, dead and gone! Dor. How can it chuse but move the hardest heart, To think that Honour, Piety, Desert, Are most obnoxious to the fatal Dart? Amin. Frequent Examples we may daily view, That what y'ave said, O Doron, is too true! For O! to my Confusion, now I find Death makes distinction, takes the just and kind, And nought but Knave and Coxcomb leaves behind; And they live on the time that nature gave, Till, tir'd with Life, no longer time they crave, And upon Crutches creep into the grave: But such as dear Alcander soon take flight, Their rosie morning soon eclips'd in night, That was so cheerful, vigorous and bright! And O! since once we must resign our breath, Since once w'are doom'd to feel the sting of death, Wou'd I his fatal Minute had supply'd; That he might still have liv'd, I willingly shou'd ha' dy'd: No less by me cou'd on the publick fall; His loss does for the publick sorrow call, And will be surely heard, and surely mourn'd by all! To serve his Country still his care did tend, That with his Sword and Council to defend; No Man was ever more his Country's Friend! But he is gone, he's gone! and let us mourn, Gone to the Grave, and never must return! To the dark Grave, to the wide gloomy shade, Where, undistinguish't, good and bad are laid! O Eyes! run o'er, and take of Grief your fill, Let every Tear be sharp enough to kill! Let ev'ry groan come from my Heart, and show 'Tis torn with the Convulsive Pangs of woe! O Cheeks! henceforth no sanguine Colour come To open view, but pale usurp the room, Such a true pale as all the World may know, Such a true pale as may distinctly show The fatal cause from whence the sad effect does flow! Let from my Lips the livid tincture fly, Like Ev'ning Rays before a gloomy Sky, And a dark ashy hew throughout be spread, Dusk't over like the visage of the dead! Yet when all these with one joint mind condole, To show how great my grief is in the whole, They'll yet want pow'r to paint the anguish of my Soul! Dor. When I just now your sorrow did commend, I did not mean a sorrow without end: The dead claim nothing but our present grief, While Nature does exert her power in chief; For they that dy well give us this relief; They're free from Horror, Sorrow, Pain and Care, Envy, Disgrace, Resentment and Despair, With all the num'rous Catalogue of ills That Plague us here, and crowd the Weekly Bills: For spite of all that's urg'd in Life's defence, And all the Pleasures that depend on sense, There's no true Pleasure till we go from hence. Beside, what is more vain than to lament Immoderately for what we can't prevent? Not all our sighs, our Tears, though ne'r so great, Though spent at never so profuse a rate, Can change th' unalterable Doom of Fate; We must resign when Heav'n does give the call; Cedars where that does lay the Ax, must fall. Amin. That all must dy is true, beyond debate, But some may dy too soon, and some too late: When good men leave us, what e're term you use, Though Heav'n may gain, we wretched Mortals lose: There brightest Spirits but small lustre add, Here they shine out, and wou'd direct the bad; Like Israel's Guide, in a Corporeal shroud, By night our Pillar, and by day our Cloud. How many are there, Infamous to name, That strive to set the Nation in a flame, Blood their delight, and Civil strife their aim? He wisely saw which way the stream wou'd force, And rais'd the Banks to stop it's violent course. O never let the Muse forget his Name! But lift it high, and give it lasting Fame; Describe his Actions, which claim vast esteem, For, sure, there ne'r was a more copious Theme! Dor. "That task does properly belong to you; "You best can be to his high merit true: "He was your Friend; I oft have heard you tell, "Fond Mother's scarce love their first-born so well. You then that knew him, and have skill in Song, Proclaim his Vertues, or you do him wrong. Amin. "My Oaten-Reed no lofty Notes can raise, "And lofty Notes alone can reach his praise: "Yet, though I'm short in power, accept the will, "And let my Love atone my want of skill. Dor. "Be still ye Winds, let not the gentlest breeze, "With winding Lab'rinth, murmur through the Trees; "Ev'n Philomel thy charming grief forbear, "Thou'st long pleas'd us, now lend thy self an Ear; "Let all below, above, and all around us hear! "While in sad strains Amintor does relate "Alcander's glorious Life, and wretched Fate! Amin. Thou'st heard, O Doron! of our fatal Broils, Our harrast Country, and intestine toyls; How the proud Subject, in a cursed hour, Assum'd the sacred Reins of Sovereign Power: By unjust force a num'rous Host was rais'd, The Patriots of Rebellion lov'd and prais'd: Enthusiasm, Schism, Spite and Rage, And all the Agents of a Barbarous Age Broke loose at once, and level'd at the Crown, To raise themselves by pulling Justice down: 'Twas for our Sins, which now took general Birth, Th' Almighty pour'd his Viols on the Earth: May we no more such desolation find! But more deserve, and Heav'n will be more kind. Here brave Alcander, on this bloody Stage, Found work t' employ his Vertue and his Rage: And, that his Loyalty might first be try'd, He took the Royal, and the Suffering side. In all Attempts still prodigal of blood, Nor valu'd Life lost in a Cause so good. Where horrour and where danger thickest lay, Through, like a Storm, forc't his impetuous way. Let Edge-hill's Fatal Field his worth declare, Success in Conduct, and his Name in War; Nor only He, but there, with Courage fraught, His Father, Vncles, and his Brothers fought: O Loyal Family! O Ancient Name! The sound repeated fills the blast of Fame! The Royal Martyr saw, and had regard, Saw his vast worth, and gave him due reward. But ah! in vain he fought, in vain fought all, For Heav'n decreed the pious Prince shou'd fall; In vain all means were try'd, Art, Conduct, Force, Were all too weak to stop the Torrent's course; Down fell the Banks, the Deluge enter'd fast, Till all was lost, all over-whelm'd at last! Thus Blood and Vsurpation rais'd their head: And with the rest our brave Alcander fled, To see what pity strange Lands wou'd afford, And mourn'd in Exile for his murder'd Lord, Nor saw one happy moment till he saw his race restor'd: Here was a short amends for all his pain, For a whole Family of Hero's slain. Th' auspicious Prince, return'd, benign, August, Look't on his wrongs, advanc't him into trust And never was a Subject known more just! But who, alas! can long a Favourite be? Or ride safe in the Courts inconstant Sea? A Sea, indeed, where few rough Tempests blow, But num'rous Rocks and Quicksands lurk below, And make vain all the Care a Pilot can bestow: For Life no certain Station can afford, And Envy wounds much deeper than the Sword. Dor. The wisest and the bravest ne'r cou'd be From the vile Tongues of black Detractors free; And rising Vertues, as they mount the Sky, They daily watch and shoot 'em as they fly. As the returning Light expels the dark, And points the Archer out his certain mark, So good men, by their radiant Acts made bright, Stand but a fairer Butt for rage and spite. A Prince's favour dangerous glories bring; In every Male-content it puts a sting; By such the Favourite is despis'd, debas'd, The good he does the publick goes unprais'd, Still the more hated as he's higher rais'd: Kings see not this; for it is hard to see Through the nice subtile Vail of Flattery; Dissimulation wears an airy screen, And, like a Deity, does walk unseen: When the Court Parasite does thus prevail, Bear all before him with a smiling gale, The Worthy, Honest, Loyal Man must fail; Expos'd to black Aspersions, publick hate, And oft must stoop to an Inglorious Fate, Of this hard Truth let wretched Strafford tell, He, who when all cry'd Justice! Justice! without Justice fell. Amin. Darkn'd a while, but not quite overcast, 'Twas but a faint Eclipse and soon was past: Alcander's Vertue was too bright to ly Long shrouded under odious Calumny, But, like the Sun, for a short time retir'd Behind a Cloud, broke out, and was admir'd. And let me here to their Confusion tell, Their lasting shame that ought to've us'd him well. (An honour ne'r conferr'd but on the brave) He bore his Prince's favour to his grave; Firm in his grace he stood and high Esteem; And here again renews the mournful Theme! When glory seem'd to court him with her smiles, And give him peace after an Age of Toils; When all around him 'twas serene and bright, And promis'd a long Jubilee of light, Then! then his Eyes to close in Death's eternal night! And, which does yet for much more sorrow call, By a mean accident ignobly fall: Not in the Field, where sterling honour's sought, And where, with blood, he had that honour bought; Not in his King's and his dear Country's cause, Destroying those that wou'd subvert the Laws; But, God's! by such a chance, as well does show How little to that trifle Life we owe, How transitory the best gift below! Nor worth one half, we, to preserve it, pay, That is, in spite of all our care, so quickly snatch't away! O Life! O nothing! for y'are both the same, Or, if you differ, 'tis but in the name: 'Tis equal to be what we nothing call, As to be sure we shall to nothing fall. Add to all this his firm, unshaken mind, To the fixt Pole of Glory still inclin'd: A Carriage graceful and a Wit sublime, A Friendship not to be impair'd by Time; A Soul sedate, with no misfortune mov'd, And no Man was with more misfortune prov'd. Death he ne'r fear'd in its most ghastly form, In Slaughter, Blood, and Cities took by storm; Now he caress'd him with a cheerful brow; Welcome at all times, but most welcome now! O had you heard him, e're he did resign, With how much Zeal he talkt of things divine, You wou'd have thought, so sweet his dying Tongue, While he discours'd descending Angels sung; Waiting his better part with them to bear; Which now, let loose, through the vast tract of Air, Pierc't like a Sun-beam to its native sphere. Dor. There let him rest; —and let the thought, my Friend, That he is happy thy Complaints suspend — But come, 'tis time, we now shou'd homeward steer; And, to be plain, 'tis but cold comfort here. The mold is damp, the wind perversely blows; And Night, far spent, invites us to repose. Come, let me raise thee by the Friendly Arm:— What? still in Tears? and has my Voice no charm? Amin. Yes, I will go, but think not of repose, My heart's too full to let my Eyelids close: No cheerful thought shall in my Breast find room, But Death and Man's inevitable doom: Nor Rest will I invoke, unless it be That Rest that shakes off dull Mortality; When following him that is past on before, I lay me down to sleep and wake no more.

The End of the Funeral Elegies.

Pindarick Poems, TO THE SOCIETY OF THE Beaux Esprits.

TO Fleetwood Sheppard, Esq. SIR, I Need not here the Servile path pursue, By doing what most Dedicators do; Lay out their Patron's Vertues on a Stall, Like Pedlar's Ware, to please the Crowd withal, And be despis'd by the Iudicious Eye, Which does but look and loath, and pass regardless by. Your Merit speaks it self; a Poet's care, In lofty praise, wou'd be superfluous there. What need that Man in a Fool's co •• be shown That hath one very graceful of his own? I wave that Subject then, your generous mind; Wit, Iudgment, Converse, and what else we find So lov'd, admir'd, and courted by Mankind; And humbly at your Feet this worthless Tribute lay; I owe you much, and blush I can so little pay. I am, Sir, Your much Obliged Servant, R. Gould.

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FOR the Reader's clearer understanding, I am to inform him, that the word [Beaux-Esprits] as here us'd, has no relation to the Beaux-Esprits, or Vertuosi of France; but means barely what the word in that Language imports in its simple signification; which is, fine, good, or true Wits: The Poem being written to a Society of Ingenious Gentlemen, whom the World has honour'd with that Distinction. Not but they might, without Arrogance, have assum'd to themselves that Title, as being Men whose charming Conversations have render'd 'em the delight and Ornament of the Age; it being thought no small Honour, ev'n by the most Accomplish't, to be admitted of their Number. What more relates to 'em follows in the Poem; which, though it does not particularize their Endowments, may serve to let the World see how sublime a piece a better hand wou'd have made upon the subject. But for my Insufficiency, I beg their Pardon: this being my first Essay in Pindarick, and likely to be the last; since nothing that can, or, at least, has of late been writ in this kind, is comparable to what that Admirable Poet has done, who first retriev'd and made this stately way of writing familiar to us; and indeed has perform'd so much, as cuts off all hope of like success to any that now do, or shall (I prophesie) hereafter attempt it: for though he has imitated Pindar without the danger that Horace presag'd shou'd befal the Man shou'd dare to do it: 'tis vain for us (without the same portion of Genius) to mount that unruly Steed, whose guidance requir'd ev'n all the strength and skill of so great and so celebrated an Author.

Pindarick Poems, TO THE SOCIETY OF THE Beaux Esprits. ODE. (1.) IF Poets when they undertake Some happy, lofty Theme, That does their Hero's worth immortal make, And fix it in the foremost rank of Fame; So firm, 'tis hard to say if Fate Or that will bear the longer date; If they invoke some God to be Propitious, and infuse Life, Spirit, Warmth and Vigour in the Muse, That through the whole may brightly shine, And shew they're guided by a hand Divine; What Power, what Deity (You learn'd Society!) Must be invok't by me? 'Tis You, great Souls, 'tis You, Whose Fame I sing, must aid me too: If your assistance does my labours bless, 'Twere vain to doubt success: For while I write to Men, Themselves such Masters of the Pen, Solid, Judicious, Wise, That search the dark retreats where errour lies, And pluck off the Disguise; While such I praise, shame, if not skill, Will my desire fulfil; 'Tis hard on such a Subject to write ill. (2.) No tedious ways y'ave taken, no Meander's trac'd; Well knowing, they That will be obstinate and go astray, And leave the easie for a rugged way, Are but the more remarkably disgrac't: As sordid Chymists with much toyl and pain, Labour of Body and of Brain, Wear out their wretched days In solid Poverty and empty praise; And all to find (such Notions do they start) What neither is in Nature nor in Art. In vain they strive that passless Rock t' explore, Where they have seen so many split before, And lost on that Inhospitable shore. Castles they still build in the Air; Rapt with the Bliss They shall possess In their new Golden Worlds, the Lord knows where! But after all, we see (In spite of their stupidity) When their whole Life is in expectance past, Drill'd on by Hope, and flatter'd to the last; Instead of the fam'd Stone of which they're proud, That Geugaw in whose praise they've been so loud, Meet the Resemblance only and an empty Cloud. (3.) No; You have better fix't your aim, And, to the Honour of your Name, Acquir'd a just and lasting Fame: "When first you did your Forces join, "When first you did your mingl'd lustre twine "In that bright Orb where now you shine, "The Envious must confess, "Though great the Praise we gave, you did deserve no less. When 'twas your Pleasure to enrol In your fam'd List some worthy Soul, With one joint Mind and Voice: You made the generous Choice; For whom one Recommended, all the rest A like esteem exprest, And shot their Friendly Souls into his Breast: Which proves the Body's purity, From Factious and Self-Interest-Members free▪ No whiffling Fops you did admit, Retaylers in the Trade of Wit; No Farce-Companions, that, with awkard Miene, Court every Punk they meet, and every where are seen; No sordid Scriblers, whose unlicens'd Rhimes Add to our growing Crimes, And will, I fear, pluck down a Judgment on the Times: This fry was scorn'd: — to none Was the great Favour shown, But who brought equal merit of their own; Such as were worthy and believ'd The Honour Worthy they receiv'd: That loath'd the crying Follies of the Age, And the lewd Scenes of the declining Stage; The Coward's calmness and the Bully's rage, The Statesman's Quibbles and the Lawyer's wiles, The Souldier's brags and the false fair One's smiles, The Spark's gay dress that sets up for a Beau; With all that think they're Wise and are not so: These were the Genii, these the Soul; And such as these compose the whole. (4.) Thus constituted, your bright Progress you began; Short is the time and far the space y'ave ran! For to that pitch of glory y'are arriv'd, As all the foremost Arts admire; Yet you stop not, but still aspire; Unlike the Greshamites, who have their Fame surviv'd, You are the more rever'd as you grow longer liv'd. You make it not your business to pry Into the dark-wrought Snares of Policy, Made Intricate by Jugling Elves, And is a Maze to lose themselves: Ne'r vex, or wonder at the turns of State That makes so many Knaves and Coxcombs great, Does upstart Mushroms raise Till they, like Meteors, blaze, And make the Lavish Poets wanton in their praise; This stiles 'em Noble and this Iust, And tells how well they have discharg'd their trust, Though they rais'd all their store, By peeling of the publick and the poor, As by Estates, soon got, w'are sure they must. Another does their Eloquence approve, As if their Tongues dropt from above, And swear, like Orpheus's Harp, they make the Forests move: Yet to the man that nicely marks, A Dog keeps more Coherence when he barks: Thus they flourish; — but anon The storm of Fate comes on, They're prov'd false Metal, and they must be gone; And that which now appear'd so bright, Has in a moment lost its glaring light, Eclips'd by black reproach and everlasting night. (5.) Nor is your time mis-spent in Parchment-Far, The Hellish Bustle of the Bar, Where the loud tough-lung'd Tribe wage an eternal War; A War while there: — high words are rais'd, Their Pedigree and Vertues blaz'd: That is the Issue of a first-rate Clown, That wore his Leathern-Breeches up to Town; This is a Pimp to Causes, such a Cheat, He'd pawn his Soul for a five-shilling Treat: This has a Conscience steel'd, and this a Face of Brass, And he that looks so gravely is an Ass: Yet when they next meet they agree, (Litigious Treachery!) Consult afresh to raise their Client's strife, And make it last as long as life: Yet they well know the Law was meant, What's wrongful to redress, To free the Poor and Innocent, And make their suffrings less. How cou'd Grays-Inn, or how the Temple rise, (Such pompous Piles as e'n outbrave the Skies, And seem a dwelling fit for Deities;) If all the Cash, which such a charge sustain'd, Had Righteously been gain'd? Let Lawyers then talk what they please, Banter, Buz, and ly for Fees, We see which way they draw; And safely may assert, (And all unprejudic't will take our part) No man can be a thorough Knave that's not bred to the Law.) (6.) But as you shun and hate These Catterpillars of the State, That ravage on the Spring just as they please, And leave the Barren after-crop to other Sciences; So you laugh too at those (For they deserve not pity but your scorn) That madly run into the dang'rous Noose, And painful Bondage before freedom chuse — But Asses are for slavery born: Such Bruits! They wou'd let all the poor Rot and perish at the door, E're they'd relieve'em with a single Mite; Yet wast Estates to propagate their spite: Wou'd give a Million, without grutch, To Pettifoggers, Rooks and such, Just for the dear delight to make another spend as much: Reflecting not what will, at last, befal, Or who stands waiting by to sweep up all. At the Groom-Porter's, so, I've seen the Fops impatient for the throw, Win there three hands and pay, But leave not off their play, Till, between what was won and lost, Fortune from one to t'other tost, Wise Niel has half the Cash engross'd; Still they push on, nor mind th' impendent ill, The Purse will empty as the Box does fill. And so too have I read In living lines, though the fam'd Author's dead: The Frog and Mouse were once at mortal strife, And each in equal hazard of his life; The Kite who saw the vain contest, (And, by the way, Lawyers, like them, are Birds of prey) To give a warning to the rest, And make their senseless fewd a jest, Devours 'em both, ends the dispute. Dull Souls! whom such Examples can't confute. (7.) Nor stop you here; the Velvet-Quack That wears a Leash of Lives upon his back, Feels your Resentment like the rest, For him a like disgust express't: Nor does the grave Disguise (Which he affects to make us think he's wife) Preserve him from the Notion of a Cheat, That grows by purging, and by poys'ning great: How negligent they are we see, And careful of our Lives what need they be, That both ways, live or dy, will have their Fee? By Indirection thus they raise their store; Keep their gay Lacquey, Coach and Whore, And Fops of Quality can do no more. As for Religion, what they have, they feign, 'Tis not consistent with their way of gain, T'wou'd make 'em charitable paths pursue, Which they that will be rich can never do. Their Spawn, Th' Apothecary, too, Who Leech-like cleave to the poor Patient close, And suck their Purses full e're they break loose, With their damn'd, long, unconscionable Bills, Bring in as many Pounds as they deliver Pills: Thus Fools, with Villains willfully complying, Are made to pay for dying: Nay some leave 'em large Legacies by Will, And, ev'n in Death, admire their Murd'rer's Skill. (8.) Unhappy, foolish, wilful Man, Preposterous! from thy self thy Woes began: Of all created things none are so curst as Thee, So curst by their Simplicity: The Feather'd and four-footed kind, Without those helps we boast to find, Endure Heav'n's wrath, Excessive heat and cold, Yet grow, according to their Natures, old; Nor are among themselves at strife, How to abridge the little span of Life, Which of it self, alas! is quickly gone, And flies too fast to be push't faster on: But Man, vain Man has found a thousand Keys To open that one Lock that ends his Days; Or if Sword, Fire, the Plague and Tempest fail, They're not Physician-proof, he'll certainly prevail. O for a Western Wind that may To the Red-Sea these num'rous Locusts bear, A greater Curse than those of Egypt were: They but a while brought Desolation; But these are fixt a standing Plague to scourge the sinful Nation. (9.) Nor less do you despise The dull Astrologer's Absurdities, That through their Telescopes pore on the Skies, To calculate Nativities, And find out Fools and Women's Destinies: When such a one may 'scape being hang'd, or drown'd; When Spirits walk, where Treasure may be found; — At Peru, under ground. When Comets hang in Air, With swinging Tails and blazing Hair, To what part of the World they threaten Plague and War. What all our senseless Dreams import (Drest in a thousand various shapes, Centaures, Chimaera's, Bulls and Apes) When Fancy is dispos'd her Airyship to sport. And thus, with their twelve Houses, and their Schemes, Run into more Ridiculous Extremes, Than Poets, Fools and Madmen in their Dreams; How can Another's Fate by him be known That's Ignorant of his Own? Or how reveal th'Intriegues of France and Rome, That knows not when a Parliament will be call'd here at home? Can those into Fate's dark Recesses see, And find what is to be, That shall forget (to prove how far they stray) What their own selves did Yesterday? To tell what is to come how dare they boast, That can't retrieve the slightest Image memory has lost? (10.) In the same File with these you do The Virtuosi place; Though, to speak truth, they don't deserve that Grace: Who is it that can see Their Magazins of Trumpery, And how preposterously they're all employ'd, And not, at the first view, be cloy'd? Here one, that thinks he is no Ass — (And 'tis but thought — but let it pass) Has in his Magnifying Glass Stuck up a Crab-louse, and does pry Upon't with such a heedful Eye, You'd swear some horrid Prodigy, Or a new World were just upon Discovery; Yet all the while shall have no other aim, Than just to see, as 'tis divulg'd by Fame, If it be like the Fish that bears that name: Then into their Extraction they enquire, And prove 'em Cousin Germans, if not nigher. Another does to Montpelier repair, To bring home bottl'd Air; Extremely good to let loose here, A Pint enough to purify a Shire. A third will send for Water from the Rhine, Only to make comparison between The Thames and that, which of the two's most light, Or which will freeze the thickest in a night. Others aver, the Mites in Cheese Like in a Monarchy, like Bees, Have civil Laws and Magistrates, Their Rise, their Periods and Fates, Like other Human Powers and States; And, by a strange, peculiar Art, Can hear 'em sneeze, discourse and fart: These Men by right shou'd be Ass-trologers, And hold Acquaintance with the Stars, Happy for doubting Man 'twou'd be; For they that have such Ears, what is't they may not see? (11.) Nay ev'n Philosophy is not exempt From meriting contempt: 'Tis true, it's Excellencies are Above all other Learning far; That but a Glow-worm, this a Star; Yet 'tis not wholly priviledg'd from Fau'ts, And those employ my present thoughts. How many wild Opinions have took Birth From Man? that lumpish Son of Earth That blindly groaps on in the dark: For all their works express, The best of 'em but spoke by guess, No wonder they shoot wide that cannot see the mark▪ Here one, the first and wisest, did not know But that this All was always as 'tis now, And did on it's Power depend, As Self-Existent, and wou'd never end. Another (as if just wak'd from a Trance, And seen the Atoms in their Antick Dance; Those Atoms, which he says, all sorts of Union past, Leap't into Form, and made a World at last) Asserts 'twill perish, as it came, by chance. A third the Earth is fixt, and all above, Sun, Moon and Stars for ever round it move. Others call this in doubt, And say the Earth is whirl'd about, By a Finger and a Thumb at first set up, And spun e'r since just like a School-boy's Top, While the superiour Orbs of light Stand gazing on, and wonder at the sight. Some, that the Moon's a World, and add withal This Globe on which we tread, this pond'rous Ball, (A fine task to discuss!) Is but a Moon to that, as that to us. (12.) As Contradictory are all Their Notions of the Soul; So hard, so difficultly solv'd, And with so many wild perplexities involv'd, The more w' unravel w' are the less resolv'd: So a benighted Traveller that strays, And comes to have, at once, his choice of many ways, (For what is human Wisdom but a Maze?) Stands reasoning with himself and doubtful long, Choses, and wanders further in the wrong. Quite as abstruse is what they say Of Mankind's final good, As little understood; Here, one does place it, and another, here, And all the while, alas! they grasp but Air; For certain happiness we ne'r can know; A Jewel 'tis too glorious to be worn below. How senseless and how vain a thing is Man? That, with his little span, Pretends the height and depth, and breadth of Providence to scan! Attempts to grasp whole Nature in his hand, Whose smallest part he ne'r can understand! From hence my Muse, with conscious awe, retires, And all she cannot comprehend, admires. (13.) Pardon me, generous Souls, I have digress't too long, But my Digression has not done you wrong; For while I show the Follies you despise, The Lyon's Skin that you pluck off, and find What sordid Creature lurks behind; While this I tell, Impartial Men will guess, By the degenerate Paths you shun, In what a noble track you run, And by the Vice you hate, the Virtues you possess; Your Virtues, which, by me, If you assist, shall be Deliver'd down to all Posterity. Here, therefore, I again your aid require, That with fresh Spirit you'd the Muse inspire, That while through airy, untrac'd ways I fly, And nothing see but Sky, I to your Worth may a just Tribute bring; And keep the towring Pegasus on Wing, Till it has fixt your Name Among the happiest Favourites of Fame; From her Records ne'r to be rac'd, Till the loud Trumpet's general blast, And Nature, Death and Time have breath'd their last. (14.) First, your Religion shall be shown; Though Zealots may, perhaps, think you have none. All vain Disputings you avoid, (Disputes with which, of late, w' have been so cloy'd) But chiefly those, that tend This Faith t' oppose, or that defend; For such can never have an end. For while there wants a measure to decide The right from wrong, the diff'rence must abide: True, Scripture is sufficient, and wou'd do't, But that, alas! is Mute; And this will wrest it one way, that another, And, knowing this, why keep they such a pother? The Points in Question I'll not here Pretend to darken, or to clear, But leave 'em to the holy, wrangling Men; Such Iargon wou'd defile a Poet's Pen: Yet this, without a Perspective, I see, Their Interest, Prejudice and Pride, will ne're let 'em agree; Each day the diff'rence grows more wild, And all the Parties are resolv'd not to be reconcil'd. Thus, to their everlasting shame, They fix a scandal on the Christian name, And tarnish the bright Lustre of it's (else unspotted) Fame. 'Tis this which makes the Atheist fleer and laugh, And, equally, at all Religion scoff; For how (they'l say) How can we chuse but go astray, When ev'n our Guides themselves take each a different way? And these damn those, without Reprieve, For not believing what they can't believe? (15.) But you, Illustrious Souls, see this, See all, and know that all's amiss; And very wisely trace The moderate Path, and keep the moderate pace; While violent men, daz'd in their rash carere, Fall from their aim, and meet the ills they fear: But, Carrier-like, you cheerfully jogg on, (Yet not so slow to mire, Nor yet so fast to tire) And the extremes of either hand you shun: And just as the kind Sun, (That cheers you while he shines) Has chang'd the shadows and declines, You'l arrive safely at your happy Inn, When others the long Iourney but begin: Lost and benighted, on they stray, And perish in their Doubts before 'tis day. In short, Faith's necessary Rules are few, And you those Rules pursue; And a good Man has little else to do. (16.) Your Morals too with your Religion fit, And both are suited to your Wit: Your Wit! which does deserve immortal praise, A Wreath of Stars instead of Bays. Your Wit! which can at once instruct and please, And give the vitious Patient timely ease; Discover his loose deeds and frantick thoughts, And laugh him to a loathing of his Fau'ts: Your Wit! so charming, those that hear Cou'd wish they were all Ear; No sooner they admire, But some new rapture lifts their wonder higher! Not taken up on trust, no plated Brass, But Currant Coin that every where will pass: From painful Learning and Experience drain'd, And as with labour got, so with delight retain'd. No glaring Meteor that makes us gaze, And spends it self all in a blaze, But, like the Sun, a lasting sourse of light, Which, though it must decline, 'tis but to rise more bright. Your Wit! which never values Man the more For Wealth and Power, Or what his lewd Ambition does devour; His Pride, Vain-Glory, awful Port, Which meets so much regard at Court, It justly damns and makes a May-game sport. No barren Jest, the Carman's Mirth, Or Clinches e're from you take Birth; But all you speak is nervous, strong, And soft as Philomela's Song, While Fools, unknowingly, advance, And if they're Witty, 'tis th' effect of Chance. (17.) When met, with grave Harangues you first begin, Such as from Kings might just attention win: Shew us how far w' have been misled Both by the living and the dead: Free us from Prejudice and Lies, Nonsense, Impossibilities, And Wolves in Sheep's disguise, With all the Snares Malice and Zeal have laid, By bringing our own Reason to our aid: Our Reason, still in danger try'd, And always prov'd a faithful guide: Reason, the Polar Star That does discover Happiness from far, Straiten the Crooked Path, found by so few, Contract the space and set all Heav'n in view. A Pilot that can through Life's Ocean steer As safe in Storms, as if the Skies were clear: While those who stupidly believe, And pin their Faith upon a Zealot's sleeve, Are still with doubts and killing Fears perplext, This hour of one perswasion, none the next: But Reason, drest in Adamantine Arms, Does end the frightful Charms; All subtil shifts descry, With it's sharp-sighted Eagle's Eye, Before whose pow'rful Rays the gloomy Phantoms fly. (18.) While thus you hold discourse, the Goblet's crown'd, And twice or thrice does nimbly move around: Care, that disturber of our rest, That grows habitual to the Breast, And hardly ever leaves what it has once possest, Ev'n that curst Fiend at such a time takes wing, And Envy drops her sting: Yet nothing idle, or profane, Lewd, Ridiculous, or vain, Nothing is spoke but what the Nuns might hear, Were they much chaster than they are. With you Mirth's cloath'd in it's true, genuine shape, Not like an Ass, an Owl, or Ape, But in the same garb it was drest by Ben. There's as much difference between Mirth as Men. And now you Envy not ev'n Kings themselves, Nor all the under-fry of courtly Elves; Who, like the Moon, their borrow'd lustre owe, And Tradesmen are the Suns that make 'em glitter so. The troubles of Mortality you view, (Those num'rous, and it's Blessings few) The evil that o'r Mankind brooding sits, That fattens Fools and starves the Wits: What Fears and Iealousies are broach't by Knaves, Believ'd by Cowards, Pimps and Slaves: And since true pleasure flits and will not stay, You this way take a draught without allay; And make the dull Fatigue of Life fly pleasantly away! (19.) What Honours then, you mighty few, Ought here to be conferr'd on you; That make Life pleasant, and improve your selves in knowledge too? What Trophies to your Fame must we erect! And O! what wonders may we not expect, Though distant now, brought home within our view, By Men so qualify'd as you? That, ev'n at your first setting out, can be So worthy of a History! But that I know you will not raise A Monument in your own praise, I shou'd presume to ask Some one of you to undertake that task: For where, alas! where else can there be found A Sprat, your Grandeur to resound? Where else a Cowley, in his lofty Verse Your Glories to reherse, And to the Heav'nly Arch make the loud Echo bound? Your Glory, which, like the fix't Star, wou'd shine, And as propitious be, To all that want a guide, as He, Had this great Subject been adorn'd by any Muse but mine.

To the Earl of Abingdon, &c. ODE. AS when some humble, lab'ring Swain Is favour'd with a large encrease of grain, Straight to the Gods he sends his Prayer Through the obsequious Air, More swift than the wing'd race themselves can flee; For nothing is so swift as Piety: With no less hearty Zeal, my Lord, to you My Praises I acknowledge due; For all the Bounties you dispence, And with an Influence So far diffus'd and free, It ev'n extends to me! Disdain not, then, that Praise (my Off'ring) to receive, For that, alas! is all that I can give; But then the World shall see I'll never cease to pay you that, till I shall cease to be. (2.) Were I in Ricot's happy shade, Where no State-noise the Rites of Peace invade; But every Morn does still fresh Pleasure bring, And Plenty flows with an unbounded Spring; Where Horses neighing, and the cheerful sound Of Huntsman, Horn and Hound, Echo's a grateful Harmony to all the Country round. Or when your sportful Lavington we name, The jocund Scene is much the same: There only 'tis where Nature is with Art at strife; Both are ambitious to excel, And both have done so well, That 'twou'd be hard to tell Which of 'em's most adorn'd with Beauty and with life! Such haunts as these might, possibly, inspire My Breast with a Poetick Fire, And set those thoughts on wing, Which now but faintly fly and hoarsely sing. (3.) No longer, Clio, on the Mansions live, Though they deserve more praise than thou can st give, (As situate in a happy soil, And blest with Flora's earliest smile) But view the Hospitality within, And a new flight begin; For that's a Theme where thou may'st ever dwell, And every day have something new to tell: A Theme which had great Pindar's greater Son Been but so happy to have known, Through every Village 'twou'd have rung, The sole delight of every Tongue, Through ev'ry Meadow, ev'ry Grove, Where Shepherds seal their Vows of Love, Through ev'ry populous City, ev'ry Cell, And every where, where Vertue's known to dwell; Nay to the Clouds it Echoing wou'd have flew; What less when his the Song and the great Subject you? (4.) Nor had his vast Carere Or stop't, or tired here: Your God-like Sire's high worth he wou'd have sung, Who, while he liv'd, was blest by every Loyal Tongue: He wou'd have told, inspir'd with the Heroick thought, How great his Conduct and how well he fought; How like a Bulwark by his Prince he stood, When 'twas found Treason to be great, or good; And, spite of Death and Time's devouring Jaws, Have crown'd his memory with deserv'd applause: So great the Warriour, and so just his Cause! From thence, Triumphantly, have fled To the Production of your fertile Bed; In whom already does appear, (And 'tis the Spring that crowns the following Year) Their Father's Courage and their Mother's Charms; A Guard from future harms: And here again fresh thoughts wou'd spring, How they might one day serve their Country and their King. For that untainted Blood which from your Veins does flow, Can produce nothing but what's truly so. (5.) Nor had your Wisdom and your Piety Been past neglected by; And least of all your stedfast Loyalty; Which stood the pow'rful Faction's late Impetuous shock, Unshaken as a Rock: Upon smooth Seas we may with safety steer, For there the Pleasure does surmount the Fear; But hard and dangerous 'tis, to gain the Port, When Winds and Waves with equal Fury roar, And make those stately Barks their cruel sport, They seem'd to court before: Such is the Sea; nor was our storm at Land, By yours and other Loyal Hands represt, Less dangerous to withstand. All this he gladly wou'd have done In Verse as lasting as the Sun; While, at an humble distance, I Had blest the happy Muse that wou'd have soar'd so high!

Sacred To the Memory of our late Sovereign LORD King CHARLES the Second. ODE. EAch Man has private Cares enow To make him bend, to make him bow; Ah! how then shall we bear the general Sorrow now! Unless we dy with Grief, what Sanction can we bring Sufficient for the loss of such a gracious King! Peace, like a Mountain-stream, from him did flow, And water'd all us humble Plants below, And made us flourish too; Yet Peace himself but seldom knew. Too rigid, Ah! too rigid is the Fate That on indulgent Monarchs wait! While for the Publick good, the Publick weight they bare, As they're Supreme in Power, so they're Supreme in Care: Theirs is the Toyl, theirs is the pain, Ours is the Profit, ours the gain; And this was prov'd in Charles's Reign: Think, Britains, think, how oft h' has broke his sleep, Intrench't on his few hours of needful rest, To make us free, to make us blest, And, if you are not Marble, you must weep! (2.) Long as our stubborn Land he sway'd (Ah that w' had all so long obey'd!) Our stubborn Land a Paradise was made: Indulg'd by his enliv'ning smiles, (The Glory of all other Isles) We did in Safety, Ease and Plenty live, Enjoy'd all Priviledges He cou'd give: Till sated with continu'd Happiness, Like Devils, we conspir'd to make it less. False Fears and Iealousies Knaves did create, And, once more, strove to plunge the State In all the miseries it felt from forty one to Eight Here did our pitying Monarch timely interpose, And sav'd us from our selves — for who else were our Foes? On those whom goodness cou'd not awe, He let loose Iustice and the Law; His Iustice prob'd our fester'd wound, His Iustice heal'd and made it sound, From Exile call'd our banisht right, (Good Angel's and good Men's delight) And made us happy in our own despight! (3.) Not op'ning Buds more certain Tydings bring Of the approaching Glories of the Spring, Than his least Action spoke him King! He talkt, he look't, he trod, And had the Air, the Port and Manage of a God! These Wonders in his Person all might find; But who can tell the wonders of his mind? How Wise! how Just! how Mild! how Kind! In Exile, Danger, Want and Strife, In all the various Changes of his Life, Before, and when he reign'd, His troubles were with Saint-like Constancy sustain'd: And great and num'rous was the store; His Martyr'd God, and Martyr'd Father, only suffer'd more: His Favours too, like theirs, Did to his deadliest Foes extend, Forgave as fast as ill Men did offend, And when he had forgave, wou'd prove a Friend: What greater proof of Clemency Cou'd Heav'n it self express? 'Twas Vertue, Goodness, Mercy to excess! (4.) If ought that's excellent, or brave, Cou'd priviledge their Owners from the Grave; He, like Elijah, to his Bliss had fled, And never mingled with the dead: — But Man was born to dy! And though the Prophet might the easier Passage find, Our Pious Sovereign left his Dross behind, And went to Heav'n more pure and more refin'd. There rest, blest shade, from all the sorrow free, From all the Treachery, From all the Infidelity, That did attend thy painful Progress of Mortality: There rest: — while the poor Melancholy Bards below Though they can ne'r pay all they owe, At least, their Love and Duty show, And, in sad Funeral-Verse, embalm Their ever haypy Patron's name; Not that it needs it — for 'twou'd live Without th' Assistance Poets give.

The End of the Pindarick Poems.

SATYRS.

PROLOGUE. To the following Satyrs and Epistles. TO that Prodigious height of vice w' are grown, Both in the Court, the Theatre and Town, That 'tis of late believ'd, nay fixt a rule, Who ever is not vitious is a Fool; Hiss't at by old and young, despis'd, opprest, If he be not a Villain, like the rest: Vertue and Truth are lost — search for good men, Among ten thousand you will scarce find ten. Half Wits conceited Coxcombs, Cowards, Braves, Base Flatt'rers, and the endless Fry of Knaves, Fops, Fools and Pimps you every where may find, "And not to meet 'em you must shun Mankind. The other Sex, too, whom we all adore, When search'd, we still find rotten at the core, An old, dry Bawd, or a young, juicy Whore; Their love all false, their Vertue but a name, And nothing in 'em constant but their shame. What Saty'rist, then, that honest can sit still, And, unconcern'd, see such a Tyde of ill, With an impetuous force, o'erflow the Age, And not strive to restrain it with his rage? On Sin's vast Army seize, Wing, Reer and Van, And, like Impartial Death, not spare a Man? For where, alas! where is that mighty He, That is from Pride, Deceit and Envy free, Or rather, is not tainted with all three? Mankind is Criminal, their Acts, their Thoughts; 'Tis Charity to tell 'em of their Fau'ts, And shew their failings in a faithful Glass; For who won't mend that sees he is an Ass? And this design 'tis that employs my Muse, This for her daily Theme she's proud to chuse; A Theme that she'l have daily need to use: Let other Poets flatter, fawn and write, To get some Guinnys and a Dinner by't; But she cou'd ne'r cringe to a Lord for meat, Change sides for Int'rest, hug the City-cheat, Nor praise a prosp'rous Villain, thô he's great: Quite contrary her Practice shall appear; Unbrib'd, Impartial, pointed and severe: That way my Nature leans, compos'd of Gall; I must write sharply, or not write at all. Tho' Thyrsis wings the Air in tow'ring flights, And, to a wonder, Panegyrick writes; Though he is still exalted and sublime, Scarce to be marcht by past or present time; Yet what Instruction can from hence accrue? 'Tis flatt'ry all, too fulsom to be true. Urge not (for 'tis to vindicate the wrong) It causes Emulation in the young, A thirst to Fame, while some high Act they read, That spurs 'em to the same Romantick deed; As if some pow'rful magick lay in Rhimes, That made men braver than at other times. 'Tis false and fond: — Hero's may huff and fight, But who can merit so as he can write? To hold a Glow-worm is the morning Star, And that it may, with ease, be seen as far, Were most ridiculous, so wide from truth, It justly wou'd deserve a sharp reproof. That wretch is more to blame, whose hireling Pen Calls Knaves and Coxcombs, wise deserving men, Says that the vitious are with vertue grac't, Iudges all just, and all Court-Strumpets chast. If to be prais'd does give a man pretence To Glory, Honour, Honesty and Sense, Cromwell had much to say in his defence; Who, though a Tyrant, which all ills comprize, Has been extoll'd and lifted to the Skies: While living (such was the applause they gave) Counted High, Princely, Pious, Just and Brave, And with Encomiums waited to the Grave. Who then wou'd give this — for a Poet's praise? Which, rightly understood, does but debase, And blast that Reputation it wou'd raise. Hence 'tis (and 'tis a Punishment that's fit) They are condemn'd and scorn'd by men of wit: 'Tis true, some Foplings nibble at their Praise, And think it great to grace the Front of Plays; Though most to that stupidity are grown, They wave their Patron's praise to write their own; Yet they but seldom fail of their Rewards; And, Faith, in that I cannot blame the Bards; If Coxcombs will be Coxcombs, let 'em rue, If they love Flatt'ry, let 'em pay for't too; 'Tis one sure method to convince the Elves; They spare my pains and satyrize themselves. In short, nought helps like Satyr to amend: While in huge Volumes motly Priests contend, And let their vain Disputes ne'r have an end, They plunge us in those Snares we else shou'd shun; Like Tinkers, make ten holes in mending one. Our dearest Friends, too, though they know our Fau'ts, For pity, or for shame conceal their Thoughts, While we, who see our failings not forbid, Loosely run on in the vain Paths we did: 'Tis Satyr, then, that is our truest Friend, For none before they know their Faults can mend; That tells us boldly of our foulest crimes, Reproves ill manners, and reforms the Times: How am I then too blame, when all I write Is honest rage, not prejudice, or spight? Truth is my aim, with truth I shall impeach, And I'll spare none that come within it's reach: On then, my Muse, the World before thee lies, And lash the Knaves and Fools that I despise.

Love given over: OR, A SATYR Against the Pride, Lust and Inconstancy, &c. OF WOMAN.

Writ in the Year 1680.

TO THE Right Honourable CHARLES, EARL of Dorset and Middlesex, &c. My Lord, THE Widows Mite cast to the store, Was more than all, for she cou'd give no more; The Rich, indeed, might daily Presents bring, As flowing from an inexhausted Spring: I say not this that you shou'd partial be, Or think this more, because it came from me, But only, that I am as poor as she: As poor, I mean, in Sense, as she in Coin; Nor is that Mite originally mine: 'Tis true, a Mite is, in it self, but small, But vast the store that gives a Mite to all: You are that Store, my Lord, whose boundless mind, In Iudgment firm, in Fancy unconfin'd, Distributes Rayes of Sense to all Mankind. It is but just then (as the Gods inspire Earths sordid Clay with their Celestial Fire, Which, whensoe're the dull Mass finds a Grave, Returns again to the same God that gave) I shou'd that little, All I have, restore; But blush to think that 'tis improv'd no more. I am, My Lord, Your Lordship's Faithful, And most humble Servant, R. Gould.

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THE pious Endeavours of the Gown have not prov'd more ineffectual towards reclaiming the Errors of a vitious Age, than Satyr (the better way, though less practised) the amendment of Honesty and good Manners among us: Nor is it a wonder, when we consider that Women (as if they had the Ingredient of Fallen-Angel in their Composition) the more they are lash't, are but the more hardned in Impenitence: And as Children, in some violent Distemper, commonly spit out those cherishing Cordials, which, if taken, might chase away the Malady, so they (inspir'd, as 'twere, with a natural averseness to Vertue) despise that wholsome counsel, which is religiously design'd for their future good and happiness. Iudge, then, if Satyr ever had more need of a sharper sting than now, when he can look out of his Cell on no side, but sees so many Objects beyond the reach of Indignation. Nor is it altogether unreasonable for me (while others are lashing the Rebellious times into obedience) to have one fling at Woman, the original of Mischief. I am sensible, I might as well expect to see Truth and Honesty uppermost in the World, as think to be free from the bitterness of their Resentments; But I have no reason to be concern'd at that; since, I'm certain, my design's as far from offending the good (if there are any among them that can be said to be so) as those few that are good wou'd be offended at their Reception into Bliss, to be there crown'd with the happy reward of their Labours. As for those that are ill, if it gall them, it succeeds according to my wish; for I have no other design but the amendment of Vice, which if I cou'd but, in the least, accomplish, I shou'd be well pleas'd, and not without reason too; for it must needs be some satisfaction to a young, unskilful Archer, to hit the first mark he ever aim'd at.

Love given over; OR, A SATYR Against WOMAN. Writ in the Year 1680. AT length from Love's vile slav'ry I am free, And have regain'd my ancient Liberty: I've shook those Chains off which my Bondage wrought, Am free as Air, and unconfin'd as thought: For faithless Silvia I no more adore, Kneel at her Feet, and pray in vain no more: No more my Verse shall her fled worth proclaim, And with soft Praises celebrate her name: Her Frowns do now no awful Terrors bear; Her Smiles, no more, can cure, or cause despair. I've banish't her for ever from my Breast, Banish't the proud Invader of my rest, Banish't the Tyrant-Author of my woes, That rob'd my Soul of all its sweet repose: Not all her treach'rous Arts, bewitching wiles, Her sighs, her tears, nor her deluding smiles Shall my eternal Resolution move, Or make me talk, or think, or dream of love: The whining Curse I've banisht from my Mind, And, with it, all the thoughts of Womankind. Come then, my Muse, and since th' occasion's fair, Against that Sex proclaim an endless War; Which may renew as still my Verse is read, And live when I am mingl'd with the dead. Woman! by Heav'ns the very name's a Crime, Enough to blast and scandalize my Rhime! Sure Heav'n it self (intranc't) like Adam lay, Or else some banish't Fiend usurp't the sway When Eve was form'd, and with her usher'd in Plagues, Woes and Death, and a new World of Sin: The fatal Rib was crooked and unev'n, From whence they've all their Crab-like Nature giv'n, Averse to all the Laws of Man and Heav'n. O Lucifer! thy Regions had been thin, Wer't not for Woman's propagating Sin: 'Tis they alone that all true Vices know, And send such Throngs down to thy Courts below: Nay there is hardly one among 'em all, But Envys Eve the Glory of the Fall: Be cautious then and guard your Empire well; For shou'd they once get power to rebel, They'd surely raise a civil War in Hell, Add to the pains you feel, and make you know W' are here above as curst as you below.— But we may thank our selves: is there a Dog Who, when he may have freedom, wears a Clog? But slavish Man, the more imprudent Beast, Drags the dull weight when he may be releast: May such (and ah! too many such we see) While they live here, just only live to be The marks of scorn, contempt and infamy. But if the Tyde of nature boist'rous grow, And will rebelliously it's Banks o'rflow, Then chuse a Wench, who, (full of lewd desires) Can meet your Flames of Love with equal Fires; She only damns the Soul; but an ill Wife Damns that, and with it all the Joys of Life: And what vain Blockhead is so dull, but knows That of two ills the least is to be chose? But now since Woman's Lust I chance to name, Womans unbounded Lust I'll first proclaim: And shew that our lewd Age has brought to view, What Sodom, when at worst, had blush't to do. True, I confess, that Rome's Imperial Whore (More fam'd for Vice than for the Crown she wore) Into the publick Stews, disguis'd, wou'd thrust, To quench the raging fury of her Lust; And by such Actions bravely got her name Born up for ever on the wings of Fame: Yet this is poor to what our Modern Age Has hatch't, brought forth, and acted on the Stage: Which, for the Sex's Glory, I'll reherse, And make that deathless as that makes my Verse. Who knew not (for to whom was she unknown? Our late Illustrious Bewley? (true, she's gone To answer for the num'rous ills sh'as done; For if there is no Hell for such as she, Heav'n is unjust, and that it cannot be) As Albion's Isle, fast rooted in the Main, Does the rough Billows raging force disdain, Which, though they foam, and with loud terrors roar, In vain attempt to reach beyond their shore; So she, with Lusts enthusiastick rage, Sustain'd all the salt Stallions of the Age: Whole Legions did encounter, Legions tir'd, Insatiate yet, still fresh supplies desir'd. Prodigious Bawd! O may thy mem'ry be Abhor'd by all, as 'tis abhor'd by me! Thou foremost in the Race of Infamy! But Bodies must decay, for 'tis too sure, There's nothing from the Jaws of time secure: Yet when she found that she cou'd do no more, When all her Body was one putrid sore, Studded with Pox and Vlcers quite all o'er; Ev'n then, by her delusive, treach'rous wiles, (For Woman 'tis that Woman best beguiles) Sh' enroll'd more Females in the List of Whore Than all the Arts of Man e'r did before. Prest with the pond'rous guilt, at length, she fell And through the solid Centre sunk to Hell: The murm'ring Fiends all hover'd round about, And in hoarse howls did the great Bawd salute; Amaz'd to see a sordid Lump of Clay Stain'd with more various, bolder Crimes than they: Nor were her Torments less; for the dire Train Soon sent her, howling, through the rowling Flame, To the sad Seat of everlasting Pain! Creswel and Stratford the same footsteps tread; In Sins black Volume so profoundly read, That, whensoere they dy, we well may fear, The very Tincture of the Crimes they bare, With strange Infusion will inspire the dust, And in the Grave commit true acts of Lust. And now, if so much to the World's reveal'd, Reflect on the vast store that lies conceal'd. How, oft, into their Closets they retire, Where flaming Dil — does inflame desire, And gentle Lap—d—s feed the am'rous fire. How curst is Man! when Brutes his Rivals prove, Ev'n in the sacred business of his Love! Unless Religion pious thoughts instil, Shew me the Woman that wou'd not be ill, If she, conveniently, cou'd have her will? And when the mind's corrupt, we all well know The Actions that proceed from't must be so: Their guilt's as great who any ill wou'd do, As theirs who, actually, that ill pursue; That they wou'd have it so their Crime assures; Thus, if they durst, all Women wou'd be Whores. At least (and 'tis what all Men will allow) Most wou'd be so that yet seem vertuous now. Forgive me, Modesty, if I have been, In any thing I've mention'd here, obscene. But ah! why shou'd I ask that Boon of thee, When 'tis a doubt if such a thing there be? For Woman, in whose Breast thou'rt said to reign, And shew the glorious Conquests thou dost gain, Despises thee, and only courts the name: (Sounds, though we can't perceive 'em, we may hear, And wonder at their Echoing through the Air) Thus, led by what delusive Fame imparts, We think thy Throne's erected in their hearts, But w' are deceiv'd, as, 'Faith, we ever were, For, if thou art, 'tis sure thou art not there. Nothing in that black Mansion does reside, But rank Ambition, Luxury and Pride: Pride is the Deity they most adore; Hardly their own dear selves they cherish more: Survey their very looks you'l find it there; How can you miss it when 'tis every where? Some, through all hunted Nature's secrets trace To fill the furrows of a wrinkled Face, And after all their toyl (pray mark the Curse) They've only made that which was bad much worse: As some, in striving to make ill coin pass, Have but the more discover'd that 'twas brass. Nay those that are reputed to be fair, And know how courted, how admir'd they are; Who, one wou'd think, God had form'd so compleat, They had no need to make his Gifts a cheat; Yet they, too, in Adulteration share, And wou'd, in spite of nature, be more fair. Deluded Woman! tell me, where's the gain In spending time upon a thing so vain? Your pretious time! (O to your selves unkind!) When 'tis uncertain y'ave an hour behind That you can call your own: for though y'are fair, Charming and kind as Guardian Angels are, Adorn'd by Nature, fitted out by Art In all the glories that delude the heart; Yet tell me, tell, have they the power to save? Or can they priviledge you from the Grave? The Grave which favours not the rich, or fair; Beauty with Beast lies undistinguish't there. But hold — methinks I'm interrupted here By some vain Fop I neither love, nor fear; Who, in these words, his weakness does reveal, And hurts that wound which he shou'd strive to heal. Soft, Sir, methinks you too inveterate grow, And more your Envy than Discretion show. Who'd blame the Sun because he shines so bright, That we can't gaze on his refulgent light, When, at the self-same time, he cheers the Earth, And gives the various Plants and Blossoms Birth? How does the Winter look, that naked thing, Compar'd with the fresh glories of the Spring? Rivers adorn the Earth, the Fish the Seas, Flowers and Grass the Meadows, Fruit the Trees, The Stars those Fields of Air through which they ride; And Woman all the works of God beside! Yet base, detractive Envy won't allow They shou'd adorn themselves: then pray, Sir, now Produce some Reasons why y'are so severe; For, Envious as you are, you know they're Fair. And so were Sodom's Apples, heretofore, But they were still found rotten at the Core. Nature, without dispute, made all things fair, And drest 'em in an unaffected Air: The Earth, the Meadows, Rivers, every Flower, Proclaim their Maker's boundless Love and Power; But they as they were made at first remain, And all their ancient Lustre still retain. Nothing but vain, Fantastick Woman's chang'd, And through all mischiefs various Mazes rang'd: Yet, that they're Beautiful is not deny'd; But, tell me, are th' unhansom free from Pride? No, no; the strait, the crooked, ugly, fair, Have all, promiscuously, an equal share. Thus, Sir, you see how they're estrang'd and straid From what, by Nature, they at first were made. Already many of their Crimes I've nam'd; Yet that's untold for which they most are fam'd: A Sin, tall as the Pyramids of old, From whose aspiring top we may behold Enough to damn a World: — what shou'd it be, But (Curse upon the Name!) Inconstancy? O tell me, does the World those Men contain, (For I have look't for such, but look't in vain) Who ne're were drawn into that fatal snare? Fatal I call it, for he's curst that's there. Inspir'd then by my Fellow-Sufferers wrongs, (And glad I am the task to me belongs) I'll bring the Fiend unmask't to human sight, Though hid in the black Womb of deepest night. No more the Wind, the faithless Wind, shall be A Simile for their Inconstancy, For that sometimes is fixt; but Woman's mind Is never fixt, or to one point enclin'd: Less fixt than in a Storm the Billows are, Or trembling Leaves the Aspen Tree does bear, Which ne'r stand still, but (every way enclin'd) Turn twenty times with the least breath of wind. Less fixt than wanton Swallows while they play In the Sun-beams, to wellcom in the Day; Now yonder, now they're here, as quickly there, In no place long, and yet are every where. Like a toss'd Ship their Passions fall and rise; One while you'd think it touch't the very Skies, When strait upon the Sand it grov'ling lies. Ev'n she her self, Silvia th' lov'd and fair, Whose one kind look cou'd save me from Despair, She, she whose Smiles I valu'd at that rate, To enjoy them I scorn'd the Frowns of Fate; Ev'n she her self (but ah! I'm loth to tell, Or blame the Crimes of one I lov'd so well; But it must out —) ev'n she, swift as the Wind, Swift as the Airy Motions of the mind, At once prov'd false and perjur'd, and unkind! Here they, to day, invoke the Powers above As Witnesses to their Immortal love; When, lo! away the airy Fantom flies, And e'r it can be said to live, it dies: Thus, all Religious Vows and Oaths they break With the same ease and freedom as they speak. Nor is that sacred Idol, Marriage, free; Marriage, which musty Drones affirm to be The Ty of Souls as well as Bodies! nay, The Spring that does, through unseen Pipes, convey Fresh sweets to life, and drives the bitter dregs away! The sacred Flame, the Guardian Pile of Fire That guides our steps to Peace! nor does expire, Till it has left us nothing to desire! Ev'n thus adorn'd, the Idol is not free From the swift-turns of their Inconstancy: Witness th' Ephesian Matron; — Who to the Grave with her dead Husband went, And clos'd her self up in his Monument; Where on cold Marble she lamenting lay; In sighs she spent the night, in tears the day, And seem'd to have no use of Life, but mourn it all away: The wond'ring World extoll'd her faithful mind, Extoll'd her as the best of Womankind! But see the World's mistake, and, with it, see The strange effects of wild Inconstancy! For she her self, ev'n in that sacred room, With one brisk, vig'rous onset was o'ercome, And made a Brothel of her Husband's Tomb! Whose pale Ghost trembl'd in it's sacred shrowd, Wond'ring that Heav'n th' impious act allow'd; Horror in robes of darkness stalkt around, And through the frighted Tomb did groans resound; The very Marbles wept; the Furies howl'd, And, in hoarse murmurs, their amazement told: All this shook not the dictates of her mind, But, with a boldness suited to her kind, She made her Husband's Ghost (in death a slave) Her necessary Pimp ev'n in his Grave. What need I fetch these Instances from old? There now live those that are as bad and bold, Of Quality; young, vig'rous, lustful, fair, But, for their Husband's sakes, their Names I spare. Are these (ye Gods!) the Vertues of a Wife, The peace that crowns a matrimonial Life? Is this the sacred Prize for which we fight, And hazard Life and Honour with delight? Bliss of the day, and Rapture of the night! The Reins that guide us in our wild Careres? And the Supporter of our feeble years? No, no, 'tis contradiction; rather far, They are the cause of all our Bosom-War; The very source and fountain of our Woe, From whence Despair and Doubt for ever flow; The Gall that mingles with our best delight, Rank to the tast and nauseous to the sight; A days, the weight of care that clogs the Breast, At night, the hag that does disturb our rest: Our mortal Sickness in the mid'st of health, Chains in our Freedom, Poverty in Wealth: Th' Eternal Pestilence and Plague of Life, Th' original and Spring of all our strife: These, rather, are the Vertues of a clam'rous Wife! O why, ye awful Powers, why was't your will To mix our solid good with so much ill? But you foresaw our Crimes wou'd soar too high, And so made them your Vengeance to supply: For, not the wild, destructive wast of War, Nor all the endless Lab'rinths of the Bar, Famine, Revenge, Perpetual loss of health; No, nor that grinning Fiend despair it self, When it insults with most Tyrannick sway, Can plague, or torture man so much as they! But hold; don't let me blame the Power's divine, Or, at the wond'rous works they made, repine; All first was good, form'd by th' eternal will, Though much has since degenerated to ill: Ev'n Woman was, they say, made chast and good, But ah! not long in that blest State she stood; Swift as a Meteor glides through air she fell, And shew'd, to love that Sex too much, is one sure way to Hell. Beware then, dull, deluded Man, beware; And let not vitious Women be the snare, To make you the Companions of'em there: Scorn their vain smiles, their little arts despise, And your content at that just value prize, As not to let those rav'nous Thieves of Prey, Rifle and bear the sacred Guest away: 'Tis they, 'tis they that rob us of that Gem, How cou'd we lose it were it not for them? Avoid 'em, then, with all the gaudy Arts They daily practise to amuse our hearts; Avoid 'em as you wou'd avoid their Crimes, Which, like a Torrent loose, o'erflow the Times. But now shou'd some (for 'tis too sure we may Find many Coxcombs that will own their sway) Shou'd such revile the wholsom Rules I give, And, in contempt of what is spoke, still live Like base-soul'd Slaves, and Fetters chuse to wear, When they may be as unconfin'd as Air, Or the wing'd Racers that Inhabit there; May all the Plagues an ill Wife can invent Pursue 'em with eternal Punishment: May they — but stay, my Curses I forestal, For in that one I've comprehended all. — But say, Sir, if some Pilot on the Main, Shou'd be so mad, so resolutely vain, To steer his Vessel on that fatal shore, Where he has seen ten thousand wrack't before; Though he shou'd perish there, say, wou'd you not Bestow a Curse on the notorious Sot? Trust me, the Man's as much to blame as he, Who ventures his frail Bark out, willfully, On the rough, rocky, Matrimonial Sea; Selfish, his Breast is with vain hopes possest, For why shou'd he speed better than the rest?

THE PLAY-HOUSE. A SATYR.

Writ in the Year 1685.

TO THE Right Honourable CHARLES, EARL of Dorset and Middlesex, &c. My Lord, DEny'd the Press, forbid the Publick view, This Trifle for a Refuge flies to You; To You, my Lord, in whom we well may see What a true English Noble-Man shou'd be: Firm to his Honour, to his Prince sincere, Kind to desert, and think it worth his care; But to the servile Flatterer, severe: 'Tis him we ought to fear of all Mankind; He's never without mischief in his mind: The sweetest words still hide destructive Gall, For 'twas a gawdy outside damn'd us all: But such you scorn, their Poison can repell; Yet, spite of your Example, Fools will use 'em well. Who strives by noble ways to raise his name, And makes true worth the Centre of his aim, Can never miss of an establisht Fame: He marks the Vices that disgrace the Age, Flutter to Court and flourish on the Stage, Does shun 'em too; silence the Knavish Tongue, And rescue injur'd Honesty from wrong. This is the Man to whom our Praise is due, And this Man treads in the same Path with You. There hardly e'r was known so good a thing, But felt the subtle point of Envy's sting; She seldom vents her rage on worthless Game; Good Actions and good Men are still her aim: But here we may (and speak it too with Pride) Say more of You than all Mankind beside, Y' are Envy-proof! and so is all y' ave writ; For no Man e're was so presuming, yet, To fix a brand on your unquestion'd Wit: So good! I durst ev'n hope you will excuse This rude address of my unpollish't Muse; What greater proof? who, in return, will raise Her Wings above the usual pitch to sing her Patron's praise. Your Actions still their Parent-Soul confest, And shew'd they took birth from a Gallant Breast: A Breast which all the full-blown worth displays, That can transmit a name to after days: A generous temper and untainted mind; A Conversation pleasant and refin'd, Made up of all the Charms that can delight Mankind! Courage enough to quell the Age's Crimes, And firmly Loyal in Rebellious Times: Then 'tis, he, who a heart unshaken brings, Is touch't, found right and fit for glorious things, Stands Bullwark in the Gap, and ev'n obliges Kings. Reflecting on all this, how dare I bring To your strict view so mean an Offering? Yet, since truth made me write, perhaps you may In its perusal throw an hour away: For here, my Lord, you'l meet with Knaves chastis'd, Buffoons and Bullys equally despis'd: Strumpets not spar'd, whate'r is their degree; If bad, what is their Quality to me? Ill Plays and Doggrel Poets damn'd in shoals, With their devout admirers, Coquets, Fops and Fools: But this, perhaps, might make its value less, And for the Publick thought too fit a Dress; For to write truth is one sure way to be deny'd the Press. I am, My Lord, Your Lordship's most humble And Devoted Servant, R. Gould.

THE PLAY-HOUSE. A SATYR. OF all the things which at this guilty time, Have felt the honest Satyr's wholsome Rhime, The Play-house has scap't best, been most forborn, Though it, of all things, most deserves our scorn. I then, inspir'd with bold, Satyrick rage, A sworn Foe to the mercenary Stage, (And yet a Foe no further than to show The World what weed in that rank Soil does (grow) Will strip it bare of all the gay attire Which Women love, and Fools so much admire. Ye biting Scorpions (for I've heard of such, And as for Spleen I cannot have too much) Aid me, I beg you, with inveterate spite, Instruct me how to stab, each word I write; Or, if my Pen's too weak this Tyde to stem, Lend me your Stings, and I will write with them: Each home-set thrust shall pierce Vice to the heart, And draw the blood out in the mortall'st part. That the proud Mimicks, who now Lord it so, May be the publick scorn where e'r they go, Their Trade decay, and they unpity'd starve; A better Fate than most of 'em deserve. First to the Middle-Gallery we'll go, (The Prologue to the Vice you'll find below) Where reeking Punks like Summer Insects swarm, And stink like Pole-cats when they're hunted warm: Their very Scents cause Apoplectick Fits, And yet they're thought all Civet by the Cits. (But that's not much, for, the plain truth to tell, They're without Brains, why not without their Smell?) Here, every Night, they sit three hours for Sale, With dirty Night-rail, and a dirtier Tayl: If any Gudgeon bites, they have him sure, For nothing Angles Blockheads like a Whore. To keep their Masks on is their only way, For going barefac't wou'd but spoil their Play; Their Noses sharp as Needles, Eyes sunk in, A wrinkl'd Forehead, and a parchment Skin: A Breath as hot as Aetna's sulph'rous Fire, And yet not half so hot as their desire. The Physick each, at times, has swallow'd up Wou'd stock the King's Apothecary's Shop. Who e're does grapple with these Fire-ships, May tast the Mercury upon their Lips. Wonder no longer that, in France and Rome, They have the knack to poison with perfume; Our Strumpets now, those Factresses for death, Will do't with one puff of their morning breath. If drunk with Nants (as, by their smell, you'd think They never tasted any other drink) It mainly adds to what I've said before, And makes 'em glory in their guilt the more; Then let 'em have their will, and you shall see How wild a thing unbounded Bitch will be: No Pen can write, no human wit can think The lewdness of a Play-House Punk in drink; Inspir'd by Lust's Enthusiastick rage, She'd prostitute her self ev'n on the Stage, Strip naked, and, without a thought of shame, Do things Hell's blackest Fiend wou'd blush to name. Yet such as these our brawny Fops admire; The fittest fewel for so hot a fire. A Woman's ne're so wicked, but she can Find one as wicked, or much worse, in man, To satisfy her Lust, obey her will, And, at her beck, perform the greatest ill: These ride not Strumpets, but are Strumpet-rid, Like Dogs, they'll fetch and carry if they're bid. But now I talk of Dogs, did you e're meet A proud Bitch and her Gallants in the street, Mungrel, Shock, Mastiff, Spaniel, blithe and gay, And mind how they foam, pant and lick their prey, How ceremonious, with what courtly Art They make address? each tenders down his heart, And if Bitch snarles, they take it in good part: This is an Emblem of our Gallery Ware, The Scene you may see, nightly, acted here. How e'r I must give Dog and Bitch their due, They are the better Creatures of the two, But Bawdy only for a Season; here The Leach'rous Commerce does hold all the Year. About one Iilt a hundred Fops shall crowd, So talkative, impertinent and loud, That who e'r hither comes to see the Play, For what they hear, might as well stay away. After a long, insipid, vain Amour Between some flutt'ring Officer and Whore, To some Hedge-Tavern they direct their way, (Known only to such Customers as they) To end th' Intrigue agreed on at the Play: There they roar, swear, huff, eat and drink at large, And all at the Heroick Cully's charge; Till, drain'd both Purse and back, he does retire, And within three days find his Blood on Fire. This is the sum of all the Play-House Jobs, Begin in Punk and end in Mr. Hobs. If he wou'd find the Nymph that caus'd his moan, He toyls in vain, the Bird of night is flown; For, by the way, so sharp they are at sinning, They change their Lodging oftner than their Linnen. Yet not this warning makes the Sot give o'er; He must repeat the dangerous Bliss once more, But still finds harder usage than before. Hence 'tis our Surgeons and our Quacks are grown To make so great a Figure in the Town; They heap up an Estate by our Debauches; Our keeping Strumpets makes them keep their Coaches: Their Consorts are so splendid and so gay, You'd think 'em Queens, for they're as 〈◊〉 as they: None go so 'Expensive as such Vermi •• Wives▪ For the worst Gown they wear 〈◊〉 Lives. What horrid things are these? 〈…〉 the Stage That makes these Insects gain upon the Age. There 'tis offenders sow that fertile crime Of which these reap the harvest in short time There's many of 'em, for their single share, Pocket at least five hundred pound a year; Nor is it strange, so spreading is this Crime, They'll have seven score a fluxing at a time; Of which, perhaps, by Heav'nly Providence, Seven may Recover, and creep faintly thence, So lean, thin, pale and meagre, you'd swear Ghosts have more Substance, though they're nought but air. So cunning too are these Pox-Emp'ricks grown, Live ye, or dy, they'l make the Cash their own, Expensive Malady! where people give More to be kill'd than many wou'd to live! Some get Estates by other deaths, but here The very dying does undo the Heir. O that the custom were again return'd, That Bodies might on Funeral Piles be burn'd; For I believe the Poison that the Sun Sucks from the ground, and through the air does run, Giving all catching Plagues and Fevers birth, Are Steams that are exhal'd from Pocky Earth: From whence the Town may be concluded curst, For here few dy but are half rotten first. But e're from this Bitch-Gallery I descend, I've more to say, and beg you to attend. For 'tis of late found a notorious truth, Court-Ladies, in their heat of Lust and Youth, Sail hither, muffl'd up in a disguise; And by pert carriage and their sharp replies, Set all the Men agog, who streight agree They must be Harlots of great Quality; So lead 'em off to give their Leachery vent, For 'tis presum'd they came for that intent: Indeed, if they're examin'd, they will say, They only meant to take a strict survey, If Whores cou'd be so lewd as they report: — And that they might as well have known at Court ▪ But they're but flesh, and 'tis in vain to rail, Since any thing that's flesh, we know, is frail. Keep, keep you Citizens your Wives from hence, If you'd preserve their Native Innocence: You else are sure to live in Cuckold's row: What Precedent is there that lets you know, Our Wives by coming hither Vertuous grow! That Plays may make 'em vitious, truth assures; Especially, if they're so prone as yours. The London-Cuckolds they all flock to see, Are pleas'd with their own Infidelity. In vain you counsel give; what can reclaim A Woman wholly given up to shame, In whom there is no Faith, no Truth, no trust, And whose chief care is to indulge her Lust? For when once tainted, once enclin'd that way, The Devil may as soon recant as they; To sure Destruction willfully they run, See the vast Precipice, and yet go smiling on. Tyr'd with the Gallery, 'twill now be fit To steer down to the Boxes and the Pit: Where such a flood of Vice invades my Eyes, Such a fantastick fry of Vanities, I know not on what one to fasten first, No more than I can tell which of 'em's worst. Here painted Ladies, there gay-Coxcombs throng, Who, in a soft Voice, charm 'em with a Song; Their own, you may be sure, for none but such Can write what cou'd delight that Sex so much. Some few French words (which plainly does express Their Wit is as much borrow'd as their dress) Does set 'em up for Poets; their whole time Is but one dull Fatigue of Love and Rhime. These are the Womens Men, their Demy Gods, For Ladies and Fop-Authors never are at odds. Not far from hence, another whining Beast, While he makes love, does make himself a jest; With a low cringe, for that he knows will please; Grins out his Passion in such terms as these: Madam! By Heav'ns you have an air so fine, It renders the least thing you do divine! We dare not say you were created here, But dropt an Angel from th' Aetherial Sphere! Ten thousand Cupids on your Forehead sit, And shoot resistless Darts through all the Pit: Before your Feet, see, your Adorers ly, Live, if you smile, and if you frown, they dy! Ev'n I, your true predestinated Slave, Rather than meet your hate wou'd meet my Grave: Ah pity then, bright Nymph, the wound you gave! Thus sighs the Sot, thus tells his am'rous tale, And thinks his florid nonsense must prevail: Bows and withdraws; and streight, to prove his love, Steals up and courts the Fulsom Punks above. Mean while the Nymph, proud of her Conquest, looks Big as wreath'd Poets in the Front of Books; Surveys the Pit with a Majestick Grace, To see who falls a Victim to her Face; Does in her Glass her self with wonder view, And thinks all that the Coxcomb said was true. Hence 'tis that every vain, fantastick chit, Does get the better still of Men of Wit; For they can't Flatter as these Triflers do, And without that, without Success they woe. Speak truth to our fine Ladies now adays, You'l meet with Indignation, not with praise, For they hate nothing more; it calls 'em plain, Deceitful, idle, foolish, fond and vain. Wit, in a lover, they of all things fear, For witty Men well know what trash they are: But a starch't, whiffling, pert, dull, noisy Ass, With them for Courtly, airy, wise does pass, Courageous, generous, affable, what not? Though Heav'n, at first, design'd him for a Sot. Such little Insects still are swarming here, Buzzing dull Jests each in his Ladies Ear; Then laugh aloud, which now is grown a part Of janty breeding, and of Courtly art: The true sign of the modish Beau Garson, Is chatt'ring like a Lady's lewd Baboon; Shewing their teeth to charm some pretty Creature; For grinning, among Fops, is held a Feature. Nor is this all; they are so oddly drest, You'd think God meant 'em for a standing Jest, Ap't into Men for pastime to the rest: Observe 'em well, you'l think their Bodies made To wait upon the motion of the Head: Their Cravat-strings and Perukes so refin'd, They dare not tempt their Enemy, the Wind: Of the least slender puff each Sot afraid is, It kills the Curls design'd to kill the Ladies. So stiff they are, in all parts ty'd so strait, 'Tis strange to me the blood shou'd circulate. But leaving these Musk-cats to publick shame, I'l turn my Head, and seek out other Game. In the Side-box Moll H—n you may see, Or Coquet Moll, who is as lewd as she: That is their Throne; for there, they best survey All the salt Sots that flutter to the Play. So known, so courted, in an hour, or less, You'l see a hundred of 'em make address; Bow, cringe and leer as supple Poets do, When Patron's Guineas first appear in view: While they, promiscuously, their smiles let fall, And give the same incouragement to all. Harlots, of all things, shou'd be most abhorr'd, And in the Playhouse nothing's more ador'd: In that lewd Mart the rankest trash goes off, Though they're so rotten that 'tis death to cough; Though on their Lungs Vlcers as thick take place, As fiery Pimples on a Drunkard's Face. Discharg'd of these, let's look another way, And mind those Fops that seldom mind the Play. A harmless jest, an accidental blow, Touching their Cuffs, or treading on their Toe, With many other things, too small to name, Does blow the Sparks of Honour to a flame; For such vile trifles, or 〈…〉 Drab, They roar, they swear 〈◊◊〉 , lug out and stab, No mild perswasion 〈◊〉 these bruits reclaim; 'Tis thus to night, to morrow 'tis the same. Murder's so rife, with like concern we hear Of a Man kill'd as baiting of a Bear. All people now (the Age is grown so ill) Before they go to a Play shou'd make their Will; For with much more security, a Man Might make a three years Voyage to Iapan. Here others, who, no doubt, believe they're witty, Are hot at Repartee with Orange-Betty; Who, though not blest with half a grain of sense, To leven her whole lump of Impudence, Aided by that, she always is too hard For the vain things, and beats 'em from their guard: When fearing that the standers by may carp, They laughing, cry, egad the Jade was sharp; Who wou'd ha' thought we shou'd have come off thus? Or that she shou'd out-pun, out-banter us? Yet these vain Ophs wou'd think it an offence, More than all human Wit cou'd recompence, If, in the least, we doubt their having sense. Were self-conceited Coxcombs what they thought, They wou'd be Gods, and be with Incense sought; But 'tis a truth, fix't in the standard Rules, Your wou'd-be-wits are but the Van of Fools. Were such e're ballanc't to the Worth they bore, A Game-Cock's Feather wou'd outweigh a score. But I am tedious, and that fault I'd shun; With these wise Fools 'tis time then to have done. Next we attack those tuneful Owls of night, That in vain Masquerade place all delight. Here, wisp'ring, into close consults they run, To know where best to meet when Farce is done: Th' agree; and out one of 'em steals before To bespeak Musick, Supper, Wine and Whore. There they all soak till Midnight; when they're drunk, They sally forth, each Puppy with his Punk, Top-ful of mischief, through the Town they run, And no ill thing they can do, leave undone. If Tradesman and his Consort walk the street, And with these Bullies and their Harlots meet, He must give place, or else be sure to feel, Deep in his Lungs, some Villain's fatal Steell: Villain, I say, that for a cause so small As not t' uncap, or taking of the Wall; — But ah! much oftner for no cause at all, Can those poor Innocents of Life disarm, That neither thought, design'd, or wish't 'em harm. Like any Hero these will foam and fight, When they're urg'd on by Strumpet, or by spite; But if the King, or Country claim their aid, The Rascal Cowards hide and are afraid: Not one will move, not one his Prowess show; They stand stock still when Honour bids 'em go. But back, my Muse, let's to the Play-House steer, We have not yet half done our business there. A thousand crimes already w'ave expos'd, A thousand more remain, not yet disclos'd: On boldly then, nor fear to miss your aim; Don't want for rage, and we can't want for Theme. Here a Cabal of Criticks you may see, Discoursing of Dramatick Poesie; While one, the wittiest too of all the Gang, (By whom you'll guess how fit they're all to hang) Shall entertain you with this learn'd Harangue. They talk of ancient Plays, that they are such, So good, they cannot be admir'd too much: — I think not so. — But in our present days, I grant w' ave many worthy of that praise: The Cheats of Scapin, one, a noble thing; What a throng'd Audience does it always bring? The Emp'rour of the Moon, 'twill never tire; The same Fate has the fam'd Alsatian Squire. Ev'n Ievon's learned piece ha'nt more pretence Than these to Fancy, Language, and good Sense. And here, my Friends, I'd have it understood W' ave a nice Age, what pleases must be good: Again, for Instance, that clean piece of wit, The City Heiress, by chast Sappho writ, Where the lewd Widow comes, with brazen face, Just reeking from a Stallion's rank embrace, T' acquaint the Audience with her slimy case. Where can you find a Scene deserves more praise, In Shakespear, Iohnson, or in Fletcher's Plays? They were so modest they were always dull; For what is Desdemona but a Fool? Our Plays shall tell you, if the Husband's ill, Wives must resolve to make him be so still; If Iealous, they must date revenge from thence, And make 'em Cuckolds in their own defence. A hundred others I cou'd quickly name, Where the Success and the design's the same; For the main hinge they turn on is t' entice, Enervate goodness, and incourage Vice; And that the Suffrage of both Sexes wins: — But see the Curtains rise, the Play begins. Thus the vain Sot holds forth; the other Sparks Hug and applaud him for his wise remarks; Swear that such things must make the Audience smile: — By Heav'n 'tis a fine Audience the while! How much has Farce of late took on the Stage? But Farce suits best with the fantastick Age: If Farce made Poets which 'twill never do, Ev'n Hains and Ho—d might be Poet's too. In short, our Plays are now so loosely writ, They've neither Manners, Modesty, or Wit. How can those things to our Instruction lead Which are unchast to see, a Crime to read? The Youth of either Sex this Path shou'd shun, Or they may be, insensibly, undone: 'Tis hard for th' unexperienc't to escape Destruction, drest in such a pleasing shape: It gilds their Ruin with a specious bait, And shews 'em not their Crime till 'tis too late; Too late to turn their vain Carere, and find Their Ancient Innocence and Peace of mind, Compar'd to which all Worldly Ioys are Wind. Yet I'd not have you think I'm so severe To damn all Plays; that wou'd absurd appear: I love what's excellent, hate what is ill, Let it be compos'd by whom it will. Though a Lord write, if bad, I cannot praise; Nor flatter Dr—dn, though he wear the Bays. Or court fair Sappho in her wanton fit, When she'd put luscious Bawdry off for Wit. Or pity B—ks in tatters, when I know 'Twas his bad Poetry that cloath'd him so. Or commend Durf—y to indulge his Curse; Fond to write on, yet scribble worse and worse. Nor Cr—n for blaming Coxcombs, when I see Sir Courtly's not a nicer Fop than he. Or think that Ra—ft for wise can pass, When Mother Dobson says he is an Ass; That damn'd, ridiculous, insipid Farce! Or write a Panegyrick to the Fame Of Sh—dl, or of starving Set—'s name, Who have abus'd, unpardonable things, The best of Governments and best of Kings — But thee, my Otway, from the Grave I'll raise, And crown thy memory with lasting praise: Thy Orphan, nay thy Venice too shall stand, And live long as the Sea defends our Land. The Pontick King and Alexander, Lee Shall, spite of madness, do the same for thee. But truth I love, and am oblig'd to tell Your other Tragick Plays are not so well, Not with that Judgment, that exactness writ, With less of Nature, Passion, Fancy, Wit: Yet this, ev'n in their praise, can't be deny'd, They are, a' most worth all our Plays beside: Excepting the Plain Dealer (nicely writ, And full of Satyr, Iudgment, Truth and Wit: In all the Characters so just and true, It will be ever lov'd, and ever new! —) And we must do the Laureat Justice too: For OEdipus (of which, Lee, half is thine, And there thy Genius does with Lustre shine) Does raise our Fear and Pity too as high As, almost, can be done in Tragedy. His all for love, and most correct of all, Of just and vast applause can never fail, Never; but when his Limberham I name, I hide my Head and almost blush with shame, To think the Author of both these the same: So bawdy it not only sham'd the Age, But worse, was ev'n too nauseous for the Stage. If Witty 'tis to be obscene and lewd, We grant for Wit in some esteem it stood; But what is in it for Instruction good? And that's one end for which our Bards shou'd write, When they do that, 'tis then they hit the white; For Plays shou'd as well profit, as delight. His Fancy has a wond'rous Ebb and Flow, Oft above Reason, and as oft below. His Plays in Rhime (which Fools and Women prize) May be call'd Supernatural Tragedies: His Hero still outdoes all Homer's Gods, For 'tis a turn of State when e'r he nods. Thus, though they prate of Time and Place, and Skill, For five good Plays you'l find five hundred ill. Fly then the reading this vain Jingling stuff, Such fulsom Authors we can't loath enuff. But, if in what's sublime you take delight, Lay Shakespear, Ben and Fletcher in your sight: Where Human Actions are with Life exprest, Vertue extoll'd, and Vice as much deprest. There the kind Lovers modestly complain, So passionate, you see their inmost pain, Pity and wish their Love not plac'd in vain. There Wit and Art, and Nature you may see In all their stateliest Dress and Bravery: None e'r yet wrote, or e'r will write again So lofty things, in such a Heav'nly strain! When e'r I Hamlet, or Othello read, My Hair starts up, and my Nerves shrink with dread: Pity and fear raise my concern still higher, Till, betwixt both, I'm ready to expire! When cursed Iago, cruelly, I see Work up the noble Moore to Jealousie, How cunningly the Villain weaves his sin, And how the other takes the Poison in; Or when I hear his God-like Romans rage, And by what just degrees he does asswage Their fiery temper, recollect their Thoughts, Make 'em both weep, make 'em both own their Fau'ts; When these and other such-like Scenes I scan, 'Tis then, great Soul, I think thee more than Man! Homer was blind, yet cou'd all Nature see; Thou wer't unlearn'd, yet knew as much as He! In Timon, Lear, The Tempest, we may find Vast Images of thy unbounded mind; These have been alter'd by our Poets now, And with success too, that we must allow; Third days they get when part of thee is shown, Which they but seldom do when all's their own. Nor shall Philaster, the Maids Tragedy, Thy King and no King, Fletcher, ever dy, But stand in the first rank that claim Eternity: Yet they are damn'd by a pert, modern Wit; But he shou'd not have censur'd, or not writ: To blame good Plays, and make his own much worse, Though I shall spare him, does deserve a Curse: 'Tis true, he can speak Greek, but what of that? It makes men no more wise than Riches fat. This Maxim then ought ne'r to be forgot, An arrant Scholar is an arrant Sot. Thee, mighty Ben! we ever shall affect, Thee ever mention with profound Respect; Thou most Judicious Poet! most correct! I know not on what single Play to fall; Thou did'st arrive t' an Excellence in all. Yet we must give thee but thy just desert; Thou'd'st less of nature, though much more of Art: The Springs that move our Souls thou did'st not touch: But then thy Iudgment, care and pains were such, We ne'r yet, nor e'r shall an Author see, That wrote so many perfect Plays as thee: Not one vain humour thy strict view escapes, All Follies thou hadst drest in all their proper shapes. Hail, sacred Bards! Hail, you Immortal three! Y'ave won the Goal of vast Eternity, And built your selves a Fame, where you will live While we have Wits to read, and they have praise to give. 'Tis somewhere said, our Courtiers speak more wit In Conversation than these Poets writ: Unjust detraction, like it's Author, base, And it shall here stand branded with disgrace. Not but they had their failings too, but then They were such Fau'ts as only spoke 'em men, Errors which Human Frailty must allow; But ah! who can forgive our Errors now? If Plays you love, let these your Thoughts employ, It is a Banquet that will never cloy; Chast, Moral Writers, such as wisely tell The happy, useful Art of living well: How you may chuse a Mistress, or a Friend, On which the comfort of our lives depend: How you may Flatt'rers, Knaves and Bawds avoid, By which so vast a portion of Mankind's destroy'd. Unlike the Authors that have lately writ; Who in their Plays such Characters admit, So vile, so wicked, they shou'd punish't be Almost as much as Oates for Perjury: Between 'em both they have half-spoil'd the Age, He has disgrac't the Pulpit, they the Stage. Think ye vain scribling Tribe of Shirley's fate, You that write Plays, and you, too, that translate; Think how he lies in Duck-lane Shops forlorn, And ne'r so much as mention'd but with scorn; Think That the end of all your boasted skill, As I presume to prophesie it will, Justly, for many of you write as ill. Change, change your Bias, and write Satyr all, Convert the little Wit you have to Gall: Care not to what a Bulk your Writings swell, What matter is't how little, so 'tis well? Then turn your chiefest strength against the Stage, Which you have made the Nusance of the Age; Strive that judicious way to get applause, And remedy some of the ills you cause: Lash the lewd Actors — but first stop your nose, It is a stinking Theme, may discompose All but your selves — almost as bad as those. Let this thought screw you to the highest pitch; They keep you poor, and you have made them rich; Toil'd night and day t' encrease their ill got store, And who do they despise and laugh at more? But make you dance attendance, Cap in hand, That once, like Spaniels, were at your Command; Wou'd cringe and fawn, and who so kind as they, If you but promis'd they should have their Play ▪ But since Hart dy'd, and the two Houses join'd, What get ye? what incouragement d'ye find? Yet still you write and sacrifice your ease; Your Plays too shall be acted, if they please. Let nothing then your sense of wrong asswage, The Muses Foes shou'd feel the Muses rage: But still confine your self to truth, for that Is the main mark Satyr shou'd level at, Go not beyond; no base thing must be done, Let justice and not malice lead you on: To please, for once, I'll give you an Essay, And in so good a cause am proud to lead the way. Prepare we then to go behind the Scenes, And take a turn among the copper Kings and Queens. Here 'tis our Callow Lords are fond of such, Which their own Footmen often scorn to touch. Are these fit to be lov'd, to be embrac't? Goats are more sweet, and Monkeys are more chast. Yet, by denyal, they'l enflame desire, Till the hot Youth burns in his am'rous fire, Then wantonly into their Shifts retire; Spur'd on by lust, the Dunce pursues the Dame, Where, nightly, they repeat the fulsom Game. But talking of their shifts I mourn, my Friend, I mourn thy sad, unjust, disasterous end; Here 'twas thou did'st resign thy worthy Breath, And fell the Victim of a sudden Death: The shame, the guilt, the horror and disgrace, Light on the Punk, the Murderer and the Place.— How well do those deserve the general hiss, That will converse with such a thing as this? A ten times cast off Drab, in Venus Wars Who counts her Sins, may as well count the Stars: So insolent! it is by all allow'd There never was so base a thing, so proud: Yet Covetous, she'l prostitute with any, Rather than wave the getting of a penny; For the whole Harvest of her youthful Crimes She hoards, to keep her self in future times, That by her gains now she may then be fed, Which, in effect's to damn her self for bread. Yet in her Morals this is thought the best; Imagine then the lewdness of the rest. An Actress now so fine a thing is thought, A Place at Court less eagerly is sought: When once in that Society enroll'd, Streight by some Reverend Bawd you'l hear 'em told: Now is the time you may your Fortune raise, And spark it, like a Lady, all your days: But the true meaning's this. Now is the time, Now in your heat of youth, and Beauty's prime, With open Blandishment and secret Art, To glide into some keeping Cully's heart, Who neither sense nor Manhood understands, And jilt him of his Patrimonial Lands; Others this way have grown both great and rich: Preferment you can't miss and be a Bitch. — This is the train that sooths her swift to Vice, So she be fine, she cares not at what price; Though her lewd Body rot, and her good name Be all one blot of Infamy and shame; For with good rigging, though they have no skill, They'l find out Keepers, be they ne'r so ill. How great a Brute is Man! a Nymph that's true, Lovely and Wealthy, nay and Vertuous too, (Of which, alas! we know there are but few) Ev'n such they can despise, throw from their Arms, And think a thrice fluxt Player has more Charms. A greater Curse for these I cannot find, Than wishing they continue in that mind. Now for the Men, and those, too, we shall find As vile, as vain, as vitious in their kind. Here one who once was, as an Author notes, A Hawker, sold old Books, Gazets and Votes, Is grown prime Vizier now, a Man of parts, The very load-stone that attracts all Hearts, In's own conceit that is, for ne'r was Elf So very much Enamor'd of himself: But 'tis no matter, let him be so still, It gives us the more scope to think him ill. No Parts, no Learning, Sense, or Breeding, yet He sets up for th' only Judge of Wit. If all cou'd judge of Wit that think they can, The arrant'st Ass wou'd be the Wittiest Man. In what e'r Company he does engage, He is as formal as upon the Stage, Dotard! and thinks his stiff comportment there A Rule for his Behaviour every where. To this we'll add his Lucre, Lust and Pride, And Knav'ry, which, in vain, he strives to hide, For through the thin disguise the Canker'd heart is spy'd. Let then his acting ne'r so much be priz'd, 'Tis sure his converse is much more despis'd. Another you may see, a Comick Spark, Aims to be A Famous Comedian. Lacy, but ne'r hits the mark. Yet that he can make sport must be confest, But, Echo-like, he but repeats the Jest. To be well laught at is his whole delight, And, 'faith, in that we do the Coxcomb right: Though the Comedian makes the Audience roar, When off the Stage the Booby tickles more. When such are born, sure some soft Planet rules; He is too dull ev'n to converse with Fools. A third, a punning, drolling, Bant'ring Ass, Cocks up and fain wou'd for an Author pass. His Face for Farce nature at first design'd, And matcht it too with as Burlesque a mind, Made him pert, vain, a Maggot, vile, ill-bred, And gave him heels of Cork, and brains of lead. To speak 'em all were tedious to discuss, But if you'l take 'em by the Lump, they're thus: A pack of idle, pimping, spunging Slaves, A Miscellany of Rogues, Fools and Knaves; A Nest of Leachers, worse than Sodom bore, And justly merit to be punish't more: Diseas'd, in Debt, and every moment dun'd; By all good Christians loath'd, and their own Kindred shun'd. To say more of 'em wou'd be loss of time; For it, with Justice, may be thought a Crime To let such Rubbish have a place in Rhime. Now hear a wonder that will well declare How extravagantly lewd some Women are: For ev'n these men, base as they are and vain, Our Punks of highest Quality maintain; Supply their daily wants (which are not slight) But 'tis, that they may be supply'd at night. These in their Coaches they take up and down, Publish their foul disgrace o'er all the Town, And seem to take delight it shou'd be known; And known it shall be, in my pointed Rhimes Stand Infamous to all succeeding Times. It wou'd be endless to trace all the Vice That from the Play-House takes immediate rise It is the unexhausted Magazin That stocks the Land with Vanity and Sin: As the New River does, from Islington, Through several Pipes supply ev'n half the Town▪ So the Luxurious lewdness of the Stage, Drain'd off, feeds half the Brothels of the Age. Unless these ills, then, we cou'd regulate, It ought not to be suffer'd in the State. More might be said; but by what's said, we see 'Tis the sum total of all Infamy, And thence conclude, by flourishing so long It has undone Numbers, both Old and Young; That many hundred Souls are now unblest, Which else had dy'd in Peace, and found eternal rest. The End of the Satyr against the Play-House▪

A SATYR UPON MAN.

Writ in the Year 1688.

TO THE Right Honourable CHARLES, EARL of Dorset and Middlesex, &c. My Lord,

THE best Excuse the Author of a Dedication can make his Patron, is, in my Iudgment, to assure him he shall not be troubled with his future Impertinence. I have oft presum'd upon your Lordship's Goodness, and can no otherwise make amends than by protesting this is the last time I shall offend you in this Nature. Poetry has hitherto been my Diversion; I must take care it does not encroach upon my better Judgment, and oblige me to make it my business: in order to it, I here take a solemn and lasting leave of it: Your Lordship has set the Example. In your Youth Poesie, sometimes, snatch't a moment or two from your other Diversions, and never, indeed, did so small time produce so lovely an Issue; Whatever you writ was full of that Fancy, Wit and Judgment, which made, and does yet make your Conversation, of all things, most desirable and charming: but now grown to an age mature, more solid and sublime things are become the Favorites of your choice and study. Poetry shou'd never be entertain'd in a Man's Bosome, she may sometimes be admitted to make a Visit and away; her constant converse is vain and trivial: What Cowley says upon another occasion, I cou'd, methinks naturally adapt to my present thoughts of Poetry; My Eyes are open'd and I see Through the transparent Fallacy.

Indeed, my Lord, to be always versifying, is to be always wasting the most pretious Gift of Heav'n, our Time, without so much as the pretence of Gain for an Excuse: But say that a Man were worthy of praise, and that his Writings really deserv'd it; yet that Chamelion diet is a little too thin for a Poet's constitution; though I must confess, if 'twere possible to live upon Air, our Modern Rhimers wou'd find out the secret. But since 'tis not, 'tis time, my Lord, to take my leave of an unkind Mistress, and not with them doat on till I am in danger of starving.

I am, My Lord, Your Lordship's most humble And much obliged Servant, R. Gould.

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I Have endeavour'd in this Poem to write as bold Truths as I cou'd, and, I hope, without offence to good Manners; Though some may imagine I have swerv'd from it in the Characters at the latter end of the Satyr: But I wou'd have the Critick know, that if there are really such Persons as be there describ'd, they ought to have the Reprehension there given: for where Folly and Knavery are so visible, I will be so much a Leveller as to believe there ought to be no Respect of Persons. Twou'd be very unhappy for Rich Men, and a priviledge, I think, they ought not to boast of, if their Birth, or Wealth, shou'd exempt 'em from being told of their Errours. However no Mans Reputation is injur'd; for, as I have said in the Satyr, (which to Iudicious Men will justify the honesty of my Intention.) Tho' I shall lash their Fau'ts, I'll spare to name, I but expose their Follies, not their Fame.

A SATYR UPON MAN. I Who against the fair Sex drew my Pen, With equal fury now attack the Men; Whom, if I spare, on me the Curse befall, Of being thought the vilest of 'em all. Ye injur'd Spirits of that Virgin-train, Who by unfaithful Lovers once were slain, Cropt from your Stalks, like Flow'rs, in all your prime, To languish, fade and dy before your time: In vain the Nymph was faithful to her Mate, Your truth cou'd not protect you from your Fate; Your truth, too cold to melt th' obdurate mind Of Man, whose Nature is to be unkind: If you, chast shades, e'r condescend to know, Enthron'd above, what Mortals do below; If still you can your Earthly wrongs resent, And with the perjur'd Wretches lasting punishment, Assist my Muse in her Satyrick flight; Lend her but rage, and she shall do you right. Man is my Theme — but where shall I begin, Where enter the vast Circle of his Sin? Or how get out of it, when once I'm in? Man! who was made to govern all things, yet No other Brute is govern'd with so little wit: So oddly temper'd and so apt to stray, There's not a Dog but's wiser in his way: Thinks he sees all things, but so dim his Eye, He's furthest off, when he believes he's nigh. Pretends to Heav'n your Footsteps to convey, Then raises Mists, and makes you lose your way. Slave to his Passions, every several lust Whisks him about, as Whirlwinds do the dust: And dust he is indeed, a senceless Clod, That swells and struts, and wou'd be thought a God. So selfish, insolent and vain, whene'r In his gilt Coach the Pageant does appear, He must be thought just, gen'rous, wise and brave, Though a known Coxcomb, and a fearful Slave. This shews us Fortune, in her giddy mood, Rains bounty every where, but where she shou'd, To merit false, and all that's good and brave, But ever faithful to the Fool and Knave. Good Heav'n! that such shou'd have so little sense, Yet, at the same time, so much Impudence, To think they bear more value than the rest, Because they swear more, and go better drest; Yet so it is, the gawdy Coxcomb's priz'd, And the brave, thread-bare, honest Soul despis'd. How vain is Man, and how perverse his will? That may be good, and by his choice is ill. Where e'r Self-Interest calls, he's sure to go, But never matters where 'tis just, or no: Justice he laughs at, thinks there's no such tye, So lives, so, like a Beast, designs to dy. As greater Fish upon the lesser prey, As Wolves on Sheep, that from the Shepherd stray, So Man on Man pour out their rage and spite, Make violence and rapine their delight, Till with revenge they've gorg'd their Appetite. Not bounded by Divine, or Humane Law, Too proud to humble, and too strong to aw. They break the Bars nature her self has laid, And every sacred Priviledge invade. New Worlds of Vice he daily does explore; His Sea of Villany's without a shore. Ev'n while he sleeps his dreams are full of blood, And, waking, he resolves to make 'em good: Or say against their Treachery you provide, It is but having Power on their side, And that does still to the same Centre draw, Corrupt the Judge, and murder you by Law: Witness the Crew that, late, exulting stood, And wash't their impious hands in Royal Blood: If from their Subject's rage Kings are not free, What must the Wretch expect of mean degree? Not in an Age he sees a happy hour, Vertue and Poverty are Slaves to Pow'r; And oft, to satisfy the Tyrant's Lust, (Hard fate! that 'tis so dangerous to be just!) Are forc'd to bend and crawl, and lick the dust. How vain is Man, and how perverse his will, That may be good, and chuses to be ill? Deceitful, slothful, covetous and base, A Devil's Intellect, an Angel's Face: When e'r he smiles, 'tis then you shou'd beware, To your assistance summon all your care, Some specious Villany lies lurking there: Which oft is drest in such a bright disguise, The dazling Lustre does deceive the wise, And wise men, too, are Villains oft themselves; What Pilot so expert to 'scape these Rocks and Shelves? Ev'n Friendship, which of old gain'd lasting Fame, Is, in these latter times, nought but a name: Who calls you Friend avoid, unless you know Substantial Reason why he shou'd be so: In that disguise all Villanies are done, In that disguise they're hardest, too, to shun. Husbands, who is it makes your Consorts Whores? Your Friend, none else can come within your doors. Who is it proves to Oath and Bond unjust? Your Friend, your Enemies you never trust; Or if you do, y' are very far from wise, And Knave and Fool we equally despise. Who is it does your secret Soul betray, And bring your darkest thoughts to open day, Who is it, but your Friend? in whose false breast You fondly thought they wou'd for ever rest. The Heart of Man is to it self untrue, And why shou'd you expect it just to you? Friendships, at best, are but like Brush-wood fire, Shine bright a while, and in a blaze expire. How vain is Man, and how perverse his will? He may be good, and by his choice is ill! Who protests most let him be least believ'd, For 'tis by such w' are sure to be deceiv'd. Ev'n I my self once thought I had a Friend, For boundless was the love he did pretend: Riches he did not want, he rowl'd in Coin, Which he oft swore was no more his than mine: He wou'd do nothing without my advice, Friendship's best sign, for no true Friend is Nice. I too ador'd him with so bright a Flame, Angel to Angel cou'd but do the same. At his approach all lesser Joys took flight, Ev'n Women I contemn'd; he was the light That rul'd the day, they did but rule the night. And that too oft— upon his gentle Breast My Cares, and every anxious thought took rest. It happn'd once that I was low of store; (It is no wonder Poets shou'd be poor) In this afflicted State, 'twas no small Bliss I was assur'd of such a Friend as this: On him, said I, on him I may depend, I cannot need so much, as he will lend; He will be proud his Constancy is try'd: — I ask't him, and, by Heav'n, I was deny'd! And ne'r since then will he so much as greet, Nay not take notice of me when we meet; But, when he sees me, turns away his Eye, Or with proud scorn does walk regardless by. Traytor to Friendship! may thy spotted Name Stand branded here with everlasting shame. But 'tis no wonder, search and you will find The same Ingratitude through all Mankind: Not Madmen, when they're in their raving fit, Nor the pert Fop, that wou'd be thought a wit, Reciting Poet, or Illiterate Cit; Not flutt'ring Officers, at Mid-night drunk, That scowr the street in the pursuit of Punk, Nor ought, be it as horrid as it can, Is more avoided than the Borrowing Man! How vain is Man, and how perverse his will, That may be good, and chuses to be ill? Reader, I write not this to make thee lend, Unless y'are sure 'tis to a real Friend, If you doubt that, hear not what he entreats; For one that's honest there's ten thousand cheats: Why then shou'd any be so vain to trust, When 'tis such odds, the Debtor proves unjust? A Friend's a Friend, and so he shou'd be us'd, But think two Men your Friends, you'll be abus'd. The Vows of Men are of the britlest kind, Lighter than Children's Bubbles drove by wind, Vary all Colours, blown so thin and weak, As if, like them, just made for sport to break. How prone to promise, and how false of heart Women best know, for they have felt the smart: What Female ever had the happiness To find her Lover all he did profess? Much for Inconstancy that Sex is fam'd; But now in their own Mother Art they're sham'd; The Swains, the Tyrant, and the Nymph is blam'd: Most to be fear'd when he does sigh and whine; Much he does talk, but little does design, And thinks them Devils whom he calls divine: Knows he's unfaithful, yet will swear h's true, Nay, which is worse, call Heav'n to vouch it too; But 'tis all Lust, spoke when his blood is warm, And the next Face he sees does end the charm. How vain is Man, and how perverse his will? He may be good, and chuses to be ill. No Vice so distant, but within his view, Nor Crime so horrid, which he dares not do. Treason's a Trifle, 'tis a frequent thing To hear the sawcy Subject brave his King; Give him worse Terms than Tinkers in their Ale Throw on a Trull, too liberal of her Tayl. Adultery a venial slip, no more; Now grown a Trade, what e'r 'twas heretofore; For some there are (O whither's Vertue fled! O strange perversion of the Nuptial Bed!) That by Venereal Drudgery get their daily Bread. Murder and Pox so common, none can be Admitted Gentleman oth' first degree, Till he has thrice been clap'd, and murder'd three. Incest but laught at, made a Buffoon jest; A Sister now, as G— has oft confest, Is e'en as good a Morsel as the best. Ev'n Sacriledge and Rifling of the dead (By impious hands torn from their sheets of lead) Meets Praise; nay some, though hard to be believ'd, Have stoln the Plate in which they'd just before receiv'd. In short, so much Man's violence prevails, Our Churches must be made as strong as Iayls. But you'l object that such as these, we find, Are Scoundrels, and the fag-end of Mankind, Beneath our Satyr — search the High-ways then, There you'l be-sure to meet with Gentlemen: But being well born makes ill men the worse, Decay'd, their next relief's to take a Purse. Villains that strip the needy Peasant bare, Depriv'd of that he got with toyl and care; Ravish poor helpless Women, barbarous Act! Then stab 'em, lest they shou'd reveal the Fact. But what they lightly get they spend as fast, Their Lives in dissolute Embraces wast, Till they are caught, adjudg'd, their Crimes confest, And then unpittied dy — and so dy all the rest. How vain is Man, and how perverse his will, That may be good, and chuses to be ill? Thrice happy those that liv'd in Times of old, What they call Brass was, sure, an Age of Gold, When Man by active Games was hardy made; Ev'n War was then an honourable Trade: By that they strove t' immortalize their Name, Nor did they miss of their intended Fame: Through Hills they hew'd and div'd through Seas of blood, Were prodigal of life for their dear Countries good. Factions then strove not to subvert the State, As they do now, and as they've done of late: They were not plagu'd with Iealousies and Fears, A Priest cou'd not set Nations by the Ears: Religious Wars and Brawls they did contemn, We fight for that, yet have much less than them. Thus Honour, Truth and Iustice was their aim; Their Sons saw this and learnt the way to Fame. How unlike them are we? that train our Youth To trade, that is t' impertinence and sloth; In no one thing ingenious and compleat, But rubbing of a Counter, and to cheat. Send 'em, fond Parents, out against the Turk, Though idle here, they will not there want work, It is a glorious Cause, and let 'em roam; Better to dy abroad, than cheat to live at home. How vain is Man, and how perverse his will, That may be good, and chuses to be ill? But Trade, you'l say, ought not to be despis'd, That has, and is ev'n now by Princes priz'd, Keeps Millions in employ, who else wou'd know What strength they had, and into Factions grow, Disturb the Publick Peace; Nothing so rude As an untam'd, ungovern'd Multitude: Nay more, by trade Cities grow rich, and rise In a short time to Emulate the Skies — They do, indeed, and we may know as well, 'Tis riches makes 'em murmur and rebel: Those Crowds whom you pretend their Trade deters From launching into civil strife and Iars, Made that a cause of our Intestine harms, For 'tis their chief pretence to take up Arms; If they grow poor, strait, with a joint consent, They lay the fault upon the Government, When 'tis false dealing among one another; One half of Mankind lives by starving t' other. In Gross, or in Retail, for both ways meet, And make this Truth their Centre, Trade's a cheat. What difference is there, 'pray, between the Man That cuts my throat, and who does what he can, By specious guile, to grasp away my store, And, to grow rich himself, wou'd make his Father poor? Doubtless, though t' other seems the more accurst, The secret, trading-Villain is the worst. So of Religion, the bold Atheist, who Says there's no God, though impious and untrue, Is better than the Hypocrite, whose Zeal Is but a Cloak the Villain to conceal. How vain is Man, and how perverse his will? He may be good, and chuses to be ill. But here I must, with Indignation, show What Crime from seeming sanctity does flow, Wou'd you a Rascal be of the first Rate, And make a noted Figure in the State, Pretend Religion, 'tis a sure disguise, Makes Fools adore you, and ev'n blinds the wise. Do you for high preferment ly in wait, As being Trustee of some large Estate; Labour to seem but Pious and Devout, And from a thousand they shall pick you out, Leave to your Management the whole affair, Which is, in short, the Ruin of the Heir. Are ye a Scholar? nay, or are you not? Put on a Gown, and to old Beldams trot, Or gowty Burgesses that have the rot; Who by their Crazyness know Death draws near, And then grow holy only out of fear: For had they health, they'd still be what they were. Go but to these, set up a holy Cant, Be impudent withal (a Gift we grant Which your Religious Strowlers seldom want.) Their hearts shall yern, and streight augment your store, While their poor Neighbours perish at the door. In short, there's nothing, be it ne'r so ill, To Ravish, Cheat, Forswear, to Bugger, Kill, But, if 'tis vail'd with a Religious dress, Is meritorious, Vertue, Godliness. But that the will of Heav'n we plainly find, Fixt and imprinted deeply on the Mind, And Reason tells us, Heav'n will have regard To scourge bad men, and give the good reward; So many errors has Religion shown, And its Professors so irreverent grown, I shou'd e'n think him happiest that had none. How vain is Man, and how perverse his will? He may be good, and by his choice is ill. Yet Heav'n forbid we shou'd include 'em all, Because most of 'em slip, and many fall; The tainted Members 'tis we here condemn, Our pointed Satyr's only aim'd at them. Howbeit we shall not too nicely pry Into their Feasting, Drinking, Leachery; Nor tell how lazily they lead their Lives, And how they train their Daughters and their Wives; How they, by their Example, vitious grow, For 'tis by them they're taught the ills they know: These, and what other faults they have beside, Their Foppery, Peevishness, Self-love and Pride, I shall pass o'er in Silence, and will be More Charitable than they wou'd to me: A Gift much prais'd by them, as little sought; But who did ever practise what he taught? The Zealot and th' Enthusiastick Fry Shou'd feel the lash of our severity, But they are such a Frantick sort of Elves, I spare them too: beside, they flog themselves. Begging their Pardon I have been so free To let the suffering World their failings see, I hasten on (though I much more cou'd add) To mention other Grievances as bad. Justly the Satyr may indulge her rage, For never was a more licentious Age. The Men of business, of all sorts, come next, Who seem to take a Pride to be perplext: Contentious, Restless, never out of strife, But make a Drudge, a Hackney Jade of Life. Much they design, but scarce know where, nor when, And tire themselves in plaguing other men; So very active in their own disgrace, A Dog ought to be pitty'd in their Case. Here one, forsooth, sets up to regulate What-ever is amiss in Church and State; With endless chat, and scarce a grain of sense, Mixt with a shufling sort of Impudence, Asks himself Questions which he ne'r can solve, And what he strives to unperplex, does but the more involve. In Coffee-Houses others wast their time, Yet Idleness they'l tell you is a crime. These Dolts have such a natural itch to prate Of Council, Parliaments and tricks of State, Regardless of their Families they roam, And while they gape for news abroad, can let 'em starve at home. Now for your Pander, whom, if you but scan, You'l find to be a very busy Man; We'll therefore put him in among the rest; And, though his Nature's damnable confest, Of all the busy Men he is the best. Your Harpey Lawyer, too, that deep-mouth'd throng, Who live by what undoes most Men, the Tongue; Ev'n they, for that vile Tribe I'll never spare, Like th' Innkeeper must come in for their share. Justly the Satyr does indulge her rage, For never was a more Licentious Age. One of these Creatures once was pleas'd to be So loving as to tell me, Poesie Was but an idle, empty, airy thing, That, for small profit, much contempt wou'd bring: By Fools and Women, true, said he, 'tis priz'd, But by the men of Business still despis'd; The sober Party, who know what is best, And still are pushing on their Interest. Business does lead to wealth a thousand ways, Let that employ thy thought; and strive to raise A Stock of Money, not a Stock of Praise: What the World says it matters not a T—d You see we thrive with every Man's ill word. Will Praise pay House-rent, or maintain a Wife? That worse than Plague, and Hell of human Life. Will Praise secure a Poet from a Iayl? Will Praise protect him when his Monies fail? Leave then this jingling, scribling itch of Rhime, And in some gainful art employ thy Time. I thank you, Sir, cry'd I, though what y'ave said, Consider'd, is too bitterly inveigh'd Against an Art so excellent and rare, Which Heav'n inspires, and Kings are pleas'd to hear! The Deity was once ador'd in Verse, Which best and loudest cou'd his wondrous works reherse; Prose is too weak that pond'rous weight to raise, Too hoarse to sing a bounteous Maker's praise; Who, when all things were Chaos, with a word Order to wild Confusion did afford, And from their various seeds, in discord hurl'd, Rais'd Sun, Moon, Stars, and a new glorious World. Moses, David's, Deborah's Writings prove, Nothing below meets more regard above: True, 'tis now oft perverted and ill us'd, And its Perverters justly are accus'd, But where is the good thing that's not abus'd? Yet since for business and the love of Gain You'd have me leave the blest Poetick strain, And court your own dear Idol, Interest, What method is it you commend for best? The Law, replies the Wretch, what thing is there, If rightly scan'd, that can with Law compare? What thing so soon can give you Wings to soar? A power to curb the Rich, and spur the poor? Pamper your Carkases while thousands starve, Thousands that better than our selves deserve, And Lord it over those you ought to serve: Nay these are but the light and trivial things, It makes you question ev'n the Right of Kings, Mounts you upon the Publick Steed with ease, And run th' unwieldy Beast which way you please. Law is a spacious and a fertile Field, Which if well cultivated 'tis and till'd, Prodigious is th' encrease that it does yield. What thing so soon the ready Cash advances? And leaves to After-times so fair Inheritances? No matter whether got by right, or wrong, You see their Issue does enjoy it long. How much of the Nobility have sprung From us, the bold Antagonists of the Tongue? Who e're was made a Lord, what Annals show it? Because he, or his Father was a Poet? A little grinning Fame indeed you get, But had you ten times more you'd hardly eat; In Butler's wretched Fate we see what 'tis to live by Wit. Leave therefore writing Madrigals; and then, No doubt, you'l thrive as well as other men. Troth, Sir, said I, y'ave spoke enough to make Too many their good Principles forsake: How e're, I hope, it will not influence me, Your Choice be Law, let mine be Poesie: Yet take my thanks for the advice y'ave gave; I am not yet dispos'd to be a Knave. Severe, to human thinking, is the Fate That upon true, unbyast Natures wait: Dare to be honest, and you'l surely be One of the Votaries of Poverty: But don't repine—there are some Joys in store For him that's very honest, very poor: 'Tis true, he does not ly on Beds of Down, Nor with a Sett of Flanders course the Town; Keeps not Six Lacqueys, that it may be shown, He does not dare to trust himself alone; Drinks not the choicest Wines, nor does he eat The most delicious, or most Costly meat; Keeps not French Cooks to chatter at the poor, Nor lets his strength be soak't up by a Spungy Whore: To this Mans share though none of this does fall, Yet he has that which does o'erballance all, A Sober, quiet Conscience, free from stain, Which the rich Epicure does wish in vain; In vain he'd think there is no future State, He feels his load of Sins, and sinks beneath the weight. While honest Men — but whither do I steer? Why talk of Honesty that is so rare? So seldom thought of, and in bulk so small, 'Tis doubtful if there's such a thing at all. Search City, Camp and Court, find, if you can, That Prodigy, a Real Honest Man; Let me but see him, let me know his Name, And it shall be the whole discourse of Fame, Above the Clouds I'll raise it, set it high, And give it certain Immortality: In the mean time, till such a one is found, (And he that searches, first, must walk much ground, For ought we know the Universe around.) Justly the Satyr may indulge her rage, For never was a more Licentious Age. Go to the Country, if you think to see The old, fam'd, Primitive Simplicity; A Temperate sort of People, Grave and Wise, All Follies hate, and all Excess despise, You'l be deceiv'd; for you shall quickly think, Both poor and rich were all baptiz'd in drink; Eternal Sots! when the Brown-Bowl's in use, Y' ad better meet a baited Bear broke loose: Then for Tobacco, every Alehouse there, Wou'd Suffocate ten Coffee-Houses here. Take'em from talking of Hawks, Horses, Dogs, And you'l find them but little more than Hogs; A stupid, obstinate, Illiterate Race, Their Makers oversight and Man's disgrace: In Converse, of all things, most like a Bear, And have just such another charming Air. Nay ev'n the better sort are much the same, Scarce Souls enough to actuate their Frame, And have of Christian nothing but the Name: Yet when their Ale dull Notions does create, Shall think 'tis only they can steer the Helm of State. Plain-dealing is a thing they all profess, But of all sorts of Creatures none have less: Under the specious Veil of Innocence (That things so foul shou'd have that fair pretence) They shall o'er-reach the honest and the wife; For who'd suspect a Cheat in that Disguise? Against the Town for ever they inveigh, And yet are quite as vitious in their way. Justly the Satyr does indulge her rage, For never was a more Licentious Age. Let not the tawdry Town be here too proud, Or think her Follies and her Faults allow'd, Because, as yet, the Muse has silent been; But she but waits her time to draw the Scene: The Scene she draws—and now you have a view Of every Villany that Man can do, An abstract of all Vices, old and new; A Fund Immense, that won't exhausted be Till Time has shot the Gulf of round Eternity. No Crime's a Stranger here, here all abound, And none so bad but have Protection found. To tell 'em singly were a task as vain As in a showre to count the drops of rain; Yet thus far we premise as to the main, That shou'd a serious Man wast some few days At Taverns, Brothels, Parks, Spring-Gardens, Plays, And take the pains, impartially, to mind The Vanities and Vices of Mankind; Their bragging, pratling, dancing, damning, drinking, Gyants in talk, and less than Dwarfs in thinking; Their Projects, lewd Discourses, and Amours, Their wanton City-Wives, and stinking Suburb Whores; Pimps, Poys'ners, Padders, and half-witted Lords, Brib'd Iudges, damn'd upon their own Records; In Courts of Justice, little Justice had, Knights of the Post, and other Knights as bad. Shou'd he these Monsters see, and many more, (For we might easily augment the store) What cou'd he think? what cou'd he thence deduce, But Sodom was reviv'd, or Hell broke loose? His Hair with Horrour stiffn'd, he wou'd say, We merited the Flames as much as they, And that the Devils went before but to prepare our way. Justly the Satyr does indulge her rage, For never was a more Licentious Age. But that which most surprizes me, is when I nicely mind the difference of men; All wide from one another in their will, Alike in only this, that all are ill; All ill, but then each takes a several way, And chuses his by-path to go astray. 'Twill here be proper then to fix remarks On some particular, and noted Sparks, Whose crimes conspicuous made, in publick shown, May make us less indulgent to our own. Yet, though I lash their faults, I spare to name, I but expose their Follies, not their Fame. Justly the Satyr does indulge her rage, For never was a more Licentious Age. See, first, a Wretch of a preposterous make, In seeking Honour, Honour does mistake: Reason, which o'er the Passions shou'd command, He does not, or he will not understand. If in discourse you don't with him comply,) Or say he treads but in the least awry, Damn me, he crys, d'ye think I'll take the ly? And out he lugs his Whiniard, all beware, For in his rage the Brute will nothing spare, His Honour is engag'd in the affair. Chapman his Busy D'amboys paints him right, "Who thought perfection was to huff and fight: But brutal Courage is from valour far, A glow-worm this, and that the morning Star, Still sure to be the first where Glory calls, But never stains it self with Tavern-Brawls: Thus though he boasts himself of ancient Line, He dont deserve to eat the Husks with Swine. Here one, who by his Age and grave Aspect, You'd think shou'd all vain trifling things reject, Lets his last sands run out in her embrace Who has traduc't and brought him to disgrace: Long kept by him, she in his Bosom slept, And now by her the sordid Cully's kept, Forc't, like a Slave, to dig the Mine for Ore, Which he profusely bury'd there before. O why, ye Gods, shou'd Felons punish't be? Why scourg'd and us'd with such severity, And this much greater Criminal go free? And not with O— in publick made appear, And have his annual whipping thrice a year. Another Fop may lead a happy Life, Claspt in th' Embraces of a Vertuous Wife; For, sure, if any such are known to Fame, She, above all, deserves that sacred Name: Yet he, unkind, unmindful of her Charms, Which ev'n might tempt cold Hermits to her Arms, Forgets his Quality to scowre the streets, And picks up every Midnight Drab he meets, The very scum and refuse of the Stews, Which ev'n no other Bruit but Man wou'd use; Fulsom without, and Medlar-like within, A Bag of rotten Bones wrapt in a sallow skin. Thus, careless of his safety, he does roam, And brings a load of foul Diseases home, Taints the fair Spring, and, to record disgrace, Gets nothing but a pocky, ritling Race. Revers't to him, a fourth, whom Fate has join'd To one that's the disgrace of Womankind: A Iilt whom every Hackney, as it roul'd, In certain signs th' Intriegue within has told: Common as th' Elements of Earth and Air, Ev'n Coachmen have, by turns, enjoy'd her for their Fare. In One that disperses Lampoons. Iulian's sacred Volumes you may find Her Universal Passion for Mankind; How, when and where she met her num'rous prey, And how many she has sent tyr'd away; Not satisfy'd with an European Face, Has drawn an Indian Leacher to her foul embrace, And rather had with Devil taint her breed, Than miss receiving his polluted Seed. But he, kind Husband, to her Vices blind, Thinks her the only Vertue of her kind: In vain he's told, in vain he sees she's light, For he had rather trust her than his sight. Laught at by all, he snuggles to her Breast, And there dissolves supinely into rest, And dreams of what vast Treasure he does stand possest. With some this Wretch may for a wise man pass, But, for my part, I write him down an Ass. Now for a Chitt, who the fair Sex to woo, Washes, perfumes, and grows a Woman too: Six hours are daily spent, Time, Heav'ns best Blessing, All thrown away, in painting, patching, dressing: And when all's done, a Baboon is as pretty, A Wolf as civil, and an Owl as witty. Effeminate Coxcomb! may it be thy Curse, (And Heav'n it self can scarce inflict a worse) Still to dress on, be by loose Strumpets priz'd, And every worthy knowing Man despis'd. Next, view an Oph that's not yet quite of age, What pains he takes to wast his Heritage; And that enuff Extravagance may be shown, He spends it all before it is his own: For every Hundred now (rare way to thrive) Agrees at one and twenty to give five, Beside the Interest, which, alas! alone Soon eats a good Estate ev'n to the Bone. Thus, quickly ruin'd, to the Sea he goes, And finds the Winds and Waves are less his Foes, Than when he here was his own Pleasures Slave, A Jest to Fools, a Prey to every Knave. Oppos'd to him, a sev'nth does bend his mind, In all he does, to cheat ev'n all Mankind. His love of gain is grown to such a pitch, He rather wou'd be damn'd than not be rich: Yet heaps this Wealth, through all this Toyl does run, To get Preferment for a Sottish Son; Who by his Sire's seven thousand pound a Year, And Marrying of a Bastard, grows a — An Eighth who in his Youth had all the Arts Of Conversation, to allure our Hearts; Women contemn'd, thought 'em a sort of Toys Fit to converse with Monkeys and with Boys, And laught at Hymen, and his slimy Ioys; And did, ev'n in his greener days, presage, He wou'd accomplish wonders in his Age: Yet now, alas! his am'rous fit comes on, Just as his Spirit and his vigour's gone, Makes whining Songs the Ladies hearts to move, And melts, effeminately, all to love; Throws by his Books, and burns with Cupid's rage, Now in his doating, and his dying Age. Next comes an Ideot, Dice his dear delight, Sleeps all the day, and Games at Niel's all night: A greater Slave to play, and drudges more Than the poor Miscreant that tugs the Oar: His Offices neglects, Friends, Children, Wife, And loves a shaking Elbow more than Life: Nay the vile Wretch, when all his Money's gone, Shall drill away five hours in looking on. You that have skill to scan all sorts of Vice, Tell me what Charms ly in a Bail of Dice? That Men forget their Honour and their ease, To doat on such opprobrious trash as these. So when a Child does cry, give it to play A piece of gold, and streight 'tis thrown away, But if you'd have it's Tears and Snubbing eas'd, Shake but a Rattle and the Bratt is pleas'd. I shall not tell what Mortgages they make, How many large Estates now ly at stake, Sunk by degrees, and moulder'd quite away, All to maintain a Servile Lust of Play: Of all their Patrimonies, not enuff Left to maintain a constant stock of snuff. Another, who has been deep bit by Play, Has left it to grow lewd another way: Drink is his God, so he might have his swill Of that, he wou'd not take Damnation ill. Six Bumpers in a hand must walk their round, And not a Creature budge, or quit his ground, Till over-gorg'd, at last, they're forc't to yield, And to All-Conqu'ring Bacchus leave the Field: Then all the Afternoon they ly and snore, They th' Inferior Swine, and he their Patron Bore: At night he wakes, and rallys up his men, And to their full Pint Glasses fall agen. 'Tis then such happy Notions he lets fall, As does with wonder charm the Ears of all. Who ever says he speaks one word of Sense, Ought to be Pillor'd for his Impudence. In Brawny Exercise he takes delight, To see Fools wrastle, Butchers Mastiffs fight, And hugs himself with the Bear-Garden sight. Unhappy those that must on him depend, His Drunkenness and Looser hours attend; I'd rather be his Dog than be his Friend! A Elev'nth a Buffoon, if you please, a Wit, Though how a Buffoon and that Term will fit, Has all along been undecided yet: By frequent use, he's come at length to be A Master of the Art of Blasphemy: That's his Employ, by that he gets his Bread, For that ador'd, respected, courted, fed; All sacred things traduces, makes a Jest, And that abuses most that is the best. If he shou'd chance to see a Pidgeon roast, He'l bid the Cook go bast the Holy Ghost. To please great men is the vain Talker's aim, He thinks their favour is sufficient Fame: But this Reproof of mine he will despise; No Men err more than those that think they're wise, Nor none sees less where their main error lies: Let him then have our pity, not our scoff, That damns himself to make lewd Coxcombs laugh. To make 'em up a dozen, see a T—rd, A senseless Ape by Miracle prefer'd; And from a Footboy, Fortunes usual sport, Rais'd to a First-rate Minion of the Court ▪ To see this Brute forget what he has been, So bare, his very Nakedness was seen, The Wind blew through him, the cold ground his Bed, Water his Beer, and Turnips was his Bread; To see him on a May-day-Muster ride, Pamper'd with Impudence, and swell'd with Pride, What a cold look he does cast down on those Ev'n by whose Bounty to that height he rose: Wou'd not all this inspire a Worm with spite? Wou'd it not make the arrant'st Withers write? Studdy new ways to Gibbet up his Fame; A lewd, ingrateful Wretch, and past all sense of shame. To close up all, the humble, Civil— Shall grace these Worthies, and bring up the reer, Wicked enuff we grant to 've led the Van, But for that Office not enuff a Man: Yet Souldier he has been, has born the Name, Nor are his Actions quite unknown to Fame: For once she does record he shou'd have fought; (How dear, alas! is Reputation bought?) But using much Agility, he fell Just as his Sword, as the Spectators tell, Had sent his stout Antagonist to Hell. Yet losing, he came off with Honour bright, Daring to fall was more than 'twas to fight; For Hero's, willingly, may meet with Blows, What Hero, willingly, wou'd break his Nose? But, to be serious; in this Wretch you'l find A lazy Body and a vitious Mind, A Slave, yet wou'd insult o'er all Mankind. Fawn'd to grow pow'rful, and when pow'rful grown Did higher aim, and thought to mount a — But flung from thence, and loaded with disgrace, He fawn'd himself again into his Place. Stops at no ill his Interest to advance, But leads his lewd desires an endless dance. Wealthy, yet ever crushing of the Poor, So stingy, with a Kick he pays his Whore. For benefits receiv'd makes no return; T' oblige him is the way to meet his scorn: To those that fear him haughty and severe, But meanly cow'rs to those that he does fear. With gogling Eyes, and a red, Cock't-up Nose, (Charms which he thinks no Female can oppose) A Cut-throat smile, and an ungraceful Air, He still pretends his Conquests o'er the Fair. Falstaff throughout, an Orthodox compound Of all ill Qualities that can be found. O when he dies, to celebrate his Name, And fix a lasting Trophy to his Fame, This Epitaph shall grace the Hero's Grave: Here lies a Fop, Food, Temporizer, Slave, A Leacher, Glutton, Coward and a Knave. Hear me, ye Poet afters of the Times, Who ought, with me, to lash our growing Crimes, And make the best use of your Dogrel Rhimes. Look back a little on the nauseous Tribe The Muse has had the patience to describe; See there to whom your Works you Dedicate, What abject Slaves you make appear in State: One is like dreadful Mars, another Iove, A Third out-rivals the bright God of Love. Blockheads that you shou'd rather blush to name, If in the least you did but care for Fame, Or had, among you all, a grain of shame. Unless y'are stupid, and resolve to be Abhor'd and branded by Posterity; Forbear to flatter, and to court th' applause Of such as these, against Apollo's Laws. What Reputation can a Coxcomb give? Or will his sneering make your Labours live? No, no; then for his Praises do not care; In all you write be pointed and severe, And those that will not love you, make 'em fear. But here we end, which yet too soon may seem; For Knave and Fool is an Eternal Theme. The End of the Satyr upon Man.

THE LAUREAT.

A SATYR.

THE LAUREAT. A SATYR. The ARGUMENT. Jack Squob's History in little drawn, Down to his Ev'ning from his early dawn. APpear, thou mighty Bard, to open view, Which yet, we must confess, you need not do; The labour to expose thee we may save; Thou stand'st upon thy own Records a Knave; Condemn'd to live, in thy Apostate Rhimes, The Curse of Ours, and scoff of future times. Still tacking round with every turn of State; Reverse to Shaftsbury! thy cursed Fate, Is always at a change to come too late. To keep his Plots from Coxcombs was his care; His Villany was mask't, and thine is bare. Wise men alone cou'd guess at his design, And cou'd but guess, the thread was spun so fine; But every purblind Fool may see through thine, Had Dick still kept the Regal Diadem, Thou had'st been Poet Laureat to him; And long e'r now, in lofty Verse, Proclaim'd His high Extraction, among Princes fam'd: "Diffus'd his glorious Deeds from Pole to Pole, "Where Winds can carry, and where Waves can roul. Nay, had our Charles, by Heav'ns severe Decree, Been found and murder'd in the Royal Tree, Ev'n thou had'st prais'd the Fact; his Father slain, Thou call'st but gently breathing of a Vein. Impious and Villanous, to bless the blow That laid at once three lofty Nations low, And gave the Royal-Cause a total overthrow! What after this cou'd we expect from thee? What cou'd we hope for but just what we see? Scandal to all Religions new and old, A scandal ev'n to thine, where Pardon's bought and sold, And mortgag'd Happiness redeem'd for transitory Gold. Tell me, for 'tis a truth you must allow, Who ever chang'd more in one Moon than Thou? Ev'n thy own Zimri was more stedfast known; He had but one Religion, or had none. What Sect of Christian is't thou hast not known, And, at one time or other, made thy own? A Bristl'd Baptist bred, and then thy strain, Immaculate, was free from sinful stain: No Songs in those blest times thou did'st produce To brand and shame good manners out of use. The Ladies then had not one bawdy Bob, Nor thou the Courtly Name of Poet Squab. Next thy dull Muse, an Independant Iade, On sacred Tyranny fine Stanzas made, Prais'd Noll, who ev'n to both Extreams did run, To kill the Father, and Dethrone the Son. When Charles came in, thou did'st a Convert grow; More by thy Interest than thy Nature so: Under his kindly Beams thy Laurel spread, He first did place that Wreath about thy Head, Kindly reliev'd thy wants, and gave thee bread. Here 'twas thou mad'st the Bells of Fancy chime, And choak't the Town with suffocating rhime. Till Heroes, form'd by thy creating Pen, Were grown as cheap and dull as other men. Flush't with success, full Gallery, Box, and Pit, Thou branded'st all Mankind with want of Wit, And in short time wer't grown so vain a Ninny, As scarce t' allow that Ben himself had any: But when the men of sense these errors saw, They check't thy Muse, and kept the Termagant in awe. To Satyr then thy Talent was addrest, Fell foul on all, thy Friends among the rest; Those that the oft'nest did thy wants supply, Abus'd, traduc'd, without a Reason why. Nay ev'n thy Royal Patron was not spar'd, But an Obscene, a Sauntring Wretch declar'd. Thy Loyal Libel we can still produce, Beyond Example, and beyond Excuse! O strange return to a forgiving King! But the warm'd Viper wears the sharpest Sting. Thy Pension lost, and justly, without doubt, When Servants snarl, we ought to kick 'em out; They that disdain their Benefactors Bread, No longer ought, by Bounty to be fed; That lost, you chang'd the Vizor, turn'd about, And streight a true-blue-Protestant crept out. The Fryer now was writ, and some will say They smell a Male-Content through all the Play. The Papist too was thought unfit for trust, Call'd shameless, treach'rous, profligate, unjust, And Kingly Power meer Arbitrary Lust. This lasted till thou did'st thy Pension gain, And that chang'd both thy Morals and thy Strain. If to write Contradiction Nonsense be, Who has more nonsense in their works than Thee? We'l mention but thy Layman's Faith, and Hind; Who'd think both these, such clashing do we find, Cou'd be the Product of one single mind? Here thou wou'd'st Charitable fain appear, Find'st fault that Athanasius was severe; Thy pity streight to cruelty is rais'd, And ev'n the Pious Inquisition prais'd, And recommended to the Present Reign: — "O Happy Countries, Italy and Spain! Have we not cause in thy own words to say, "Let none believe what varies every day, "That never was, nor will be at a stay? Once, Heathens might be sav'd, you did allow, But not, it seems, we greater Heathens now: The Loyal Church that buoys the Kingly Line, Damn'd with a Breath, but 'tis such Breath as thine. What Credit to thy Party can it be To 've gain'd so vile a Proselyte as Thee? Stray'd from the Fold, makes us but laugh, not weep, One of the Shabby, and the Scabby Sheep; We have but lost what 'twas disgrace to keep. By them mistrusted, and to us a scorn, For 'tis but weakness, at the best, to turn. True, had'st thou left us in the former Reign, 'T had prov'd it was not wholly done for gain; Now the Meridian Sun is not more plain. Gold is thy God, for a substantial summ, Thou to the Turk wou'd'st run away from Rome, And sing his holy Expedition against Christendom. But to conclude, blush with a lasting red, (If thou'rt not mov'd with what's already said) To see thy Boars, Bears, Buzzards, Wolves and Owls, And all thy other Beasts, and other Fowls Routed by two poor Mice; unequal fight! But easy 'tis to conquer in the Right. See there a Youth, a shame to thy gray hairs, Make a meer Dunce of all thy threescore years. What in that tedious Poem hast thou done, But cramm'd all Aesop's Fables into one? But why shou'd I the precious minutes spend On him that wou'd much rather hang, than mend? No, Wretch, continue still just as thou art, Thou'rt now in the last Scene that crowns thy part: To purchase favour, veer with every gale, And against Interest never cease to rail, Though thou'rt the only proof how Interest can prevail. The End of the Satyr upon the Laureat.

A Consolatory Epistle TO A FRIEND Made unhappy by Marriage. OR, A Scourge for ill Wives.

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THough the following Poem, at first sight, may seem to point at some Particular Person, yet, to the Judicious, the design will appear to be of general Influence: for, notwithstanding 'tis a Description but of one lewd Woman, I have taken care to paint her so comprehensively ill, that there are very few but what may put in for a Child's share with her. From whence 'tis easy to guess, I shall be read by that Sex with some disgust: But let 'em have a care, for, if they are angry, I shall conclude (Satyr being a Glass that shews things just as they are) 'tis occasion'd by seeing their own Deformity. If any shou'd imagine this Scourge is chiefly design'd for the Wife of Quality, 'tis rightly guess'd; and I am apt to believe, as they behave themselves now adays, the sharpest thing, in this Nature, can be but seasonable: Yet, let not the meaner Spouse be too much delighted that she is favour'd, for 'tis ten to one they may hear of me, in their turn — but 'tis fit their Betters shou'd be serv'd before them.

A Consolatory Epistle TO A FRIEND Made unhappy by Marriage. OR, A Scourge for ill Wives. THat Man, my Friend, does tempt a dang'rous Fate, That lists himself into a Marriage State. Where is that He so happy in a Bride, But oft does wish the fatal Knot unty'd? Qualms of Disquiet will oppress his thought, And make him see his Marriage was a fau't. And if the happy find so bad success, They that have ill Wives, sure, must hope for less. Killing Vexations, Cares and sleepless Nights, Put a long stop to all their best Delights: And then with Grief they find (what greater ill?) They're wretched, and are sure to be so still. But 'twill be urg'd; if 'tis a Snare so great, What makes Men add Wings to their own ill Fate? And strive to meet misfortunes with such hast, Which of themselves, alas! come on too fast? But ah! set human frailty in your Eyes, Impossible we shou'd be always wise! Or grant we cou'd, this Sea has unseen Shelves, Where ev'n the wisest oft are split themselves. And therefore I that Maxim disapprove, That those that join here, first, are join'd above. If Marriages are made by Heav'ns fixt will, O that some Doctor, with his Heav'nly skill, Wou'd tell why most of 'em are made so ill. Wretched Examples we may daily view; But its worst Influence was shed on You. In all things that cou'd please a Woman, blest, Rich, Healthy, Young, and Witty as the best: Yet ev'n these Gifts made your Misfortunes worse, Since they but charm'd a Heart that prov'd your Curse. Good Heav'ns! who then saw and heard her vow, Cou'd think she'd ever be, what she is now? Her Carriage Impudent, perverse her Will, The scorn of Good Wives, and the worst of Ill! I'll take her, first, ev'n in her Virgin State, Which she was all along observ'd to hate: And if from Dreams we may her Nature scan, She ev'n in them wou'd sigh and call for Man. The disobedience she to Friends did shew, Told us, she'd play the same Game o'er with You. I know 'tis cruel to remind you' again Of wrongs y'ave suffer'd, and add pain to pain; But, if you will a while your thoughts suspend, You'l find, at least, I mean you like a Friend. You marry'd her, and there your Woes began, 'Twas your hard chance to be that hapless Man: Yet, if Joys by appearance might be guess'd, There were few Men but thought you doubly blest. You lov'd her above thought, above controul, Sooner than wrong her, you'd ha' wrong'd your Soul: And yet (so far her cunning did excel) It was believ'd that she lov'd you as well. Ah! what a Riddle is a Woman's will, That seems so good, and is, indeed, so ill? For soon she threw off Vertues, forc'd disguise, With which, a while, she strove t' amuse your Eyes; And then, to shew which way she lean'd before, We saw that she was rotten at the Core. Her roving thoughts were bounded by no Law, But lusted after every Man she saw: From thought she eagerly to action fled, And brought Pollution to a sacred Bed. Blinded by Love, all this you cou'd not view, The last that did believe her false was You. Your sorrow here no Language can express, It griev'd your Heart, and ah! what cou'd it less? To see the charming Partner of your Youth, (Whose Breast you thought had been a Mine of Truth) Root up the Name of Vertue from her Heart, And boldly act an unexampl'd part. Assaulted by the Master Fiend of Hell, It was no wonder the first Woman fell; But this ten thousand times more Vice has shown Without Temptation, all the Fault her own. Ev'n in this Exigence, you, yet, were Calm, Widn'd no Wounds, but rather pour'd in Balm: Good wholsom counsel you prescrib'd her still; Weak Physick to bring back a Wife from ill: Men, tho' they're wicked, stop oft in their Race, And oft reflect upon their dang'rous Case; Though damn'd, they'l yet seem loth to be undone: But Woman, like a River, keeps due on; And like that River, if they stop her Course, Grows wild, and will not be restrain'd by force. For such rough means you cannot be accus'd; But she'd have been the same, had force been us'd▪ To prove this, think how from your Arms she fled, And for a Lawless, left a Lawful Bed Conceal'd her self with an Incestuous Flame, Conceal'd her self, but she reveal'd her shame: While you, with heavy Eyes and Arms across, Were sighing, mourning, dying for the loss. Loss did I call it? 'twas so far from one It prov'd a Blessing, as I'll shew anon.) But now, litigious grown, and past all awe, She plung'd you in the Fetters of the Law, And back't by those who her ill cause maintain'd, She su'd for Alimony, su'd and gain'd: Thus Honesty may be opprest with might, For Power does often make the wrong the right. Her hitting this mark pleas'd her very Soul, For 'twas her aim to live without Controul. Here 'twas she bid adieu to true Renown, And turn'd up tail to every Ass in Town; Porter and Groom went undistinguish't down: Where is the Man that hath not found her ill? Or where's the Man that may not, if he will? Ah foolish Woman! may she one day see How deep sh' has plung'd her self in Infamy, And with true Penitence wash out the stain; — But —mischief on't — why shou'd I pray in vain? For she's but hardn'd at the name of Grace; No blush was ever seen t' adorn her Face. As soon as e're she wakes, it is her way To think how she may wast the following day. If to serve Heav'n our pretious time is lent, Each moment, that's in chase of sin mispent, Will one day blame us we that Treasure lose Which we might to such vast advantage use; If this be so, sure, her Account is long, That by meer choice does labour to do wrong. Well, now she'l rise, and to proclaim no less, Her Footmen are rung in to help her dress; A Ianty mode — for since from France it came (Brought over by a Female of great Fame) 'Twere rude to give it any other Name. Hackney is call'd, Hackney her dear Alcove, (Where Coachmen, for their Fare, enjoy her Love) Hackney, on which, as o'er the Stones they go, She oft this high Encomium will bestow: Some love t' embrace on Couches, some i' th' Fields; I'm for the Bawdy-House that runs on Wheels, Where every Kennel does the Bliss enhance, And each kind jolt's all Rapture and all Trance! Full of such thoughts she scow'rs it up and down, And, e'r night, visits all the Bawds in Town: The Company of this she does desire To sup with her; anothers sent t' enquire For Coolers to allay her am'rous fire; In vain, for she's to Tyrant Lust a Slave, Her barren Womb's Insatiate as the Grave; Barren, nor can it well be any other, She choaks the growth of one Seed by another. Well now 'tis Ev'ning, and the Tavern's full Of Lady and her Train, Bawd, Pimp and Trull: Their Supper's call'd for, and a learn'd Harangue, (By one of the grand Females of the Gang, So very lewd she cou'd not fail to please) Instead of Grace, is made in words like these. Let canting Sots at meals their folly show, And give thanks to a power they do not know: To Nature we our praise acknowledge due, The Patroness of Life and Leachery too: Our best Blood in her Quarrels we expose, She here repays us with that Blood we lose; With sparkling Wines infuses fresh desire; As fast as we quench, she renews the Fire. 'Tis they tread false that dare our steps deride, Can we go wrong that have so sure a guide? No, no, what ever she dictates, we'll do, For all is lawful that she prompts us to. Let us not then think of a base retreat, Or be impos'd on by a holy Cheat; She bids us tast of Man, as well as Meat. She ends, the Lady riggles her lewd Breech, And with a loud laugh, thanks her for her Speech. Imagine now (for 'twere too long to tell All the vain Table-Conference that befel) The Board is clear'd, and free from care and thinking, With one consent, all of 'em vote for Drinking. And now you'd think the end of all were come, And Chaos and Confusion in the Room: A thousand various shapes the prospect fill, And every one, above expression, ill; Here you may see the am'rous War begun, And, for a while, the rest all looking on, Till fir'd with thought to tast the same delight, They strip, and naked rush into the fight: And then such Scenes, such Postures are contriv'd, You'd swear old Sodom were again reviv'd, And all the Chiefs of that accursed Crew Broke loose from Hell, to act their Crimes anew. Tir'd, the Reck'ning's call'd, and, more or less, Host, Hostess, Drawers meet the same success, They're kick't down Stairs with many a bitter Curse, And think they're favour'd if they're us'd no worse; And after all's turn'd to a meer Bear-Garden, They go off ranting, and not pay a farthing. And then in Man's Cloaths, like some hot-brain'd Blade, She sallies through the Town in Masquerade: Bounces, like Bell-men, against every door, And roars out a good morrow with Rogue and Whore. In all her walk no Window can escape, For mischief's her delight in every shape. In short, b' abusing nightly all she meets, Murder and Riot's common to our Streets. Now let unbyast Men judge, by these crimes, If she's not grown a grievance to the times. What Satyr with such Faults can be too rough? For my part, I can't write half sharp enough. Were my Ink Gall, and my keen Pen cou'd stab, The World shou'd see how I wou'd maul this Drab. The Company she keeps is for her fit, All very lewd, with very little Wit. But chiefly one, I must, perforce, applaud, One who all men can tell was born a Bawd, Procur'd as soon as spoke; in Hyde-Park nurst, Her Infant Vice did sprout and flourish first. Letters she wou'd convey from Coach to Coach, And every day set lewd Intriegues abroach; "In her alone 'twas natural to debauch. As soon as ever she was turn'd of ten, Successively, she'd tire as many Men: Nay, if her Actions by her Age we measure, They prove her Whore e'r she cou'd tast the Pleasure. Now rotten grown, each pocky symptom shows She's like to drop in pieces as she goes. This modest Creature, this Black-Angel Saint, She has install'd her Bosom Confidant: And the chief Reason why she this prefers, Because her Vice goes hand in hand with hers. Early they enter'd the Venereal chase, And hitherto they're equal in the race, Swift they begun, and still they keep their pace. To ly, detract, talk Bawdy and Blaspheme, Employs their time, they scorn all other Theme. The Oaths that Bullies barter at a fray▪ Or eager Gamesters when they lose at play, Are nothing, when we them with those compare, Which, in their Cups, flow from this Friendly Pair. Bullies she keeps, too, void of sense and shame, With five-foot Swords to vindicate her Fame: Good Heav'ns! that she shou'd think of a good Name! All Rabble-Rascals, born of Parents base, Their Pedigree is blazon'd on their Face. Vain, rude, ill-bred, the scandal of their kind, And therefore fit for the ill Fate they find; Which is to wast their health with her a-nights, And their base blood in needless brawls and fights. What Brutes are these! that can so busy be, To take great pains, to get great Infamy? But hitherto, my Friend, you'l only find I've shown how she degenerates in her mind, Her Person in the Change, too, has it's share; You'l find as great an alteration there: Bloated all o'er, her Hyde can hardly hold her, Neck shrunk, her Head does lean upon each shoulder, Her Face carbunckl'd, Nodes upon her Skin, Which shows there's rank Contagion lodg'd within. Compar'd with that which to your Arms she came, Neither her Soul nor Body are the same: Yet thus deform'd, a Dog wou'd loath to meet her, She makes out fresh enquiry for a Keeper; In vain, she'l nere succeed do what she can; The only Woman, since the World began, That's ev'n too vile to match her self in Man. But here, perhaps some People may object, I've us'd a Friend's Wife with too course neglect; I ought to pity her, if not respect. But I wou'd fain know of these senseless Elves, That thinks so very wisely of themselves, If when a Feavor rages in the Blood, The Doctor's pity does the Patient good. These are, forsooth, so tender of her Fame, Rather than blame her Faults they Cloak her shame; While I that pity not, a better Friend, Show her her self, and teach her how to mend. By this time, I presume, all are inclin'd To think you the most wretched of Mankind, And past hope of relief— I answer, no; Nay more than that, so far from being so, Among the Fry of Husbands, there's but few That know so much Tranquillity as You. The shaft is blunt that was so sharp at first; And 'tis some Comfort to be past the worst. No jealous pangs, with anguish, you conceal, The most inveterate Sting that Man can feel; For, certainly, it is less pain to know A Wife is False, than to believe she's so. Nay you are safer than th' unmarry'd are, For they are still in danger of the snare: Their misery is to come, but yours is past, Yours but a while, and theirs may ever last. But some will say, y' are still at vast expence — 'Tis true, but then your Peace does spring from thence. The sep'rate maintainance you yearly give, Sep'rate from her, makes you in safety live. The more you think the more this thought will please; You give her money, and she gives you ease: And where's the Man, so ill in love with Life, But wou'd do more to have it freed from strife? How many Men of Honour cou'd I name That wou'd give thousands, were their Case the same? For an ill Wife will stick where she is thrown; Few beside you can say, The Bird is flown. Tell me not you might meet some Heav'nly Dame, That loves you with a chast and fervent Flame, Whose Charms to endless Pleasure do invite; And she has robb'd you of the vast delight. What Man! what run again into the Snare Where you were caught so lately? Have a care: Of your dear Reputation be more nice, There's no excuse for him that marries twice; Especially, if his first Wife were bad, For she proclaims him moap't, the second, mad. But why all this? y'ave try'd the dangerous Main, And are too wise to trust your Fate again. Compar'd with yours, how wretched is his plight That's join'd with a Lascivious Hypocrite? Who, still professing good, is ill by stealth; Wasts his Estate, and undermines his health; Yet, all the while, laughs in the Dotards Face, And thinks her wickedness is his disgrace? Though your good Woman, of the two, is worse, Yet tother to the Man's the greatest Curse. For ever free from such sallacious guile, You live in Peace, and at the Monster smile. Enjoy your Book, your Bottle, and your Friend, Three of as choice Companions Heav'n can send. These are the Blessings that attend your Life, For which, in some sort, you may thank your Wife. For if she had continu'd with you still, Your Cure had been above the reach of skill: The Sweets which now you tast had turn'd to Gall, And wanting sweet content y'ad wanted all: Which now, y'are sure, she never can destroy, But see a Prospect all made up of Joy. The End of the Scourge for ill Wives.

Jack Pavy, Aliàs, Iack Adams.

TO THE Right Honourable JAMES, EARL of ABINGDON, &c. My Lord,

WHen I was last at Lavington, I had the good Fortune to see the Extraordinary Person to whom the following Epistle is subscrib'd; and from an occasional saying of your Lordship's, took the hint of the Poem, which, therefore, I now here present to your Lordship. Some will, for their own Interest, think it a Paradox, and some, I cou'd hope methinks, will not. However, at worst, if the Argument fail in the Main, the Iudicious and Lovers of Truth, will, by the way, find so much Vanity and Knavery discover'd, as may perhaps, encline 'em to forgive me. But, above all, if it please your Lordship, 'twill be my greatest satisfaction, having resolv'd for the future (next my Devotions to Heav'n) to make that the chief study of,

My Lord, Your Lordship's infinitely obliged, And most humble Servant, R. Gould.

TO JACK PAVY, &c. 'TIs true, dear Iack, thou'rt of all sense bereft, And can'st not tell thy right hand from thy left, Observ'st no Seasons, Reason, Right, or Rule; In short, thou art, indeed, a Natural Fool. And hence some Men so insolent we find, To think thee the most wretched of Mankind: But I, who all along have took delight To speak plain Truth, and vindicate the right, Must tell thee thou'rt abus'd: — No man can be More happy, more the Care of Heav'n than Thee. Your Standard Fool, the Fool we shou'd despise, Is he that is a Fool and thinks he's wise. And first, for a foundation, I wou'd know What Man can be intirely blest below, If not as dull as thou: — The Turns of Fate, Promiscuously, on all the wiser wait. Grief, horrour, shame, distrust, despight and fear, Extend to all, each has so large a share, That who has least has more than he can bear. Either his best Diversions quickly cloy, Prey on themselves, and so themselves destroy, Or some sharp cross cut short his mounting joy: In vain he toils for Pleasure, 'twon't be found, But flies the Searcher, like enchanted ground, And in a maze of sorrow leads him round and round. Well then, that Man is happiest, who in this Vain World lives free from Care, and in the next in Bliss, Who neither knows, nor cares, nor can do any thing amiss: This is thy Fate, and this thy Soul will save, For Heav'n requires no more than what it gave, Lays on our minds restraints we well might bear, Were we less wise, and thy kind Fate our share. But grant there are some Men devout and good, (As Gracious Heav'n avert but that we shou'd!) Grant Vertue is, alone, their strictest care, And that they've all a human frame can bear; Nay grant from every anxious thought they're free, (Which is ev'n an Impossibility) They, in this World, can be but blest like thee: But in the next thy Joys will far transcend What they can hope, or by good Deeds pretend. For since by merit Heav'n can ne're be gain'd, Happiest, by whom 'tis with least sin attain'd; Then happiest Thou, to whose share it does fall, Blessed to be without being Criminal, Which ev'n the Wisest never cou'd attain; Th' Attempt shall be rewarded, but th' Attempt is vain Our Parent, Iack, the first Created Man (If Mysteries Divine we may, with safety, scan,) While yet in perfect Innocence he stood, Cou'd not, perhaps, boast so sublime a good As is on thee (Heav'ns greater Favorite) bestow'd. Thy State of sweetness is unmixt with Gall; Thou stand'st, and art not liable to fall: In solid dullness fixt, no Charms, no Art Of Beauty makes Impression on thy Heart. The faithless Sex cou'd ne're thy Fancy move, Thou'rt Adamantine Proof against the shafts of Love. That Conq'ring God cou'd never vanquish Thee; He's blind, thou did'st not care if he cou'd see. At no proud Dowdy's Feet thou e're did'st ly, And pine and sigh, and grieve and weep, and dy; As some, who, like the Heathen heretofore, First make the Deity, and then adore. A light Demeanor and a painted Face, No Wit, no Vertue, with much silks and lace, Pass with such Fops for a Resistless Grace. In short, the Bawds perswasions and her wiles, With the kind Nymphs almost resistless smiles, Are lost on thee, stedfast thou dost remain; Shou'd Eve attempt to charm thee, 'twere in vain. Ah! had old Adam been as dull, as good, Eden had not been lost, and Man had stood! Ambition, which disturbs the Statesman's rest, Ne're gains the least Admission to thy Breast. Without a pang thou can'st see others rise, And take their glorious Station in the Skies; See 'em look back with a disdainful Eye On those, whose Bounty gave 'em Wings to fly: Without concern, again, thou see'st 'em come From their vast height to an ignoble Doom; Like Stars they glitter and as swift decline, But ne'r, like them, must rise again to shine. Mistaken Men! that labour to be great, That still contribute to their own deceit, And will not see through the Transparent Cheat. Pride is a Sin too obvious to conceal, It puffs the Heart as Butchers do their Veal; Looks fair without, but probe the hidden Mind, The Imposthume breaks and mixes with the wind. By it's own self, Narcissus like, 'tis priz'd; But curst is he that is by all, but his own self, despis'd. Nor in the War thou labour'st for a Name, By cutting Throats to get Immortal Fame: Search through the Race of Brutes, and you will find There's none that preys so much upon his kind As we, that boast of an Immortal Mind. Cities are tumbled down, and Temples rac't, And the chief works of God the most defac't: Nor is there any hope these Fewds shou'd cease Till we are all like Thee; then all wou'd be at Peace. In thee no Covetous Desires we find, That griping, restless Colick of the Mind. Devil with Devil damn'd firm Concord hold, But Man will disagree; are bought and sold, Prove Faithless, Perjur'd, Merciless for Gold. Here one, bewitcht with the base itch of Coin, Hides it as deep as first 'twas in the Mine. Still dunning all to whom h' has money due, But you must stay, if he owes ought to You. Against nought else but want of Cash does pray, Dreams on't all night, and hugs it all the day, Yet (sordid Wretch!) can carry none away. Envious of Mankind's good, he'l angry be, His Neighbour is more fortunate than he: Nay, if thy Wife a moderate Beauty bear, He'l curse his Fate, his own is not so fair. This Plague for ever is to thee unknown; Rich in thy Rags, thou let'st each Man in Peace enjoy his own. Envy in vain thy Quiet wou'd devour, Her Rage is impotent, and weak her power: She finds her Foe too fearless to attack, Goes cursing off, and grins as she looks back. The silly Sex, indeed, she does entice; For Envy, chiefly, is a Female Vice: Rather than not Revenge they'l Witches grow; But while around their hurtful Charms they throw, They're curst above, and double damn'd below. Mark but the Course of things, and you must own Most men do that they'd rather let alone: Thinks on his present state with wat'ry Eyes; Still prone to change, with every wish complies, And fain wou'd be the thing his Fate denies: Roving Desires perplex his labouring thought, Still seeking, and still missing what is sought: Against the stream of Disappointment strives, In vain, for back th' impetuous torrent drives, And makes him, to his loss and torture, see He's still Obnoxious to Incertainty: Toss'd, like a Bubble, to and fro he rouls, And every trifle his resolve controuls: Wretched all ways, though Fortune frown or smile, There is no end of his incessant toyl; And all, alas! to have his Bantlings fed; But see the Curse impendent o'er his head, He that moils least has the most share of Bread. The Trading Cit, smooth tongu'd, demure and sly, Who never swears, unless 'tis to a ly, Gets more one Day by bantring off false Ware, Than serves the needy Labourer a Year; He gets, indeed, but curst is ill got store; Rather than so be Rich, let me, ye Gods, be poor. Here One his dozen Voyages performs, Breaks through rough Waves, and combates Winds and Storms; And thus he drudges many tedious Years; The Master wreck't at home with wretched Fears, Thinks on the Winds, the Rocks, the Sands and Pirates of Argiers: Expects 'em long, at last, perchance, they come Without their Lading, Tempest-beaten, home. Thus, for a bootless Voyage, he is hurl'd "From Pole to Pole, and slav'd about the World. But say he gains (as many, we confess, Succeed, that don't deserve the least success) What lasting, what substantial pleasure can Attend this wealthy, careful, restless Man▪ What satisfaction can he compass here, That one can't have for fifty pound a Year? Out of his many Dishes (which I'd shun) He eats no more than I do out of one: Though his Vault's full of Bagrag and Moselle, Though of old Hock and Chios he does tell; I have my Bottle, and that does as well. But after all his outward pomp and show, Though high his Pride, his Credit may be low; For oft such men, ev'n to our Cost found true, Have dy'd in Debt, which (though a Poet) I wou'd scorn to do. For Rents here Fopus to the Country goes, Which when receiv'd, thinks all he meets are Foes, And looking downwards starts at his own Nose; Fears his own shadow dogs him with design To cut his Throat, and take away his Coin. In the mean time, observe the Iangling Clown Trudge as fast up as the gay spendthrift down: 'Tis Term, and he has business at the Hall, Which is to hear some Pettyfogger baul: Litigious Crew! a Monkey, or Jack Daw Has as much sense, why not as much of Law? Thus with a Serjeant's Cant, and a smooth dash Of his Clerk's Pen, he's banter'd out of Cash. Then home returns his Pocket to recruit, And knows not Money does prolong the Suit. So when y'are feeing your Physician still, You do but bribe the Brute to keep you ill. Another's to be marry'd with all speed; But first there must be drawn some tedious Deed, In which more caution's us'd, than if he were Making his Will, or naming of an Heir: A Jointure's setled (Let her laugh that wins) A thousand pound a year to buy her Pins. Unthinking Wretch! that puts it in the Power Of an ill Wife to hasten his ill hour. But say at first she were both chast and true, What is't so much per annum will not do? Many, that have been thought divinely good, For less have dipt their hands in Husbands blood. This thought, at last, works busy in his brain; Drudge on, fond Ass, why shou'd'st thou now complain? Be still Obsequious, give her no offence, Lest she takes pet, and sends thee packing hence. There an Attendance Dancer of the Court, To the Levee's and Couchee's makes resort: Where in more shapes he does his Body screw, Than those that dance through Hoops, or Smithfield Tumblers do. Yet all the while has sense enough to tell Flattery's a Crime, and that he does not well. Now to a Bishop he devoutly bends, Next to an Atheist the same Zeal pretends; Now to a Beef-eater he cringes low, Now to some new rigg'd Bawd, or tawdry Beau, And to ten thousand that he does not know: And all this while so talkative, you'll see His tongue is quite as pliant as his knee. Coward throughout, loves none, embraces all, And thus endow'd is cherisht at Whitehall. Here to the Park an Am'rous Coxcomb hies, To meet his Love among the Butterflies, Which there abound, and swell into a Crowd, Pert, Pocky, Poor, Impertinent and loud: Coming, he finds his Rival in her hands, Her smiles, and all she has at his Command: Then rates himself he ever shou'd believe A perjur'd thing, whose Nature's to deceive: Curses his Fate, nor will put up his wrongs, Till with cold steel the tother probes his Lungs. Another Buffoon, cherisht by the great, Burlesques the Scriptures, and Blasphemes to eat: Nor is this Court-bred Humour strange, or new, For who knows Fan—w, knows it to be true. Thus he drives on, unmindful of the Foe, Nor sees the brandisht Sword above, nor dreadful Steep below. Thus goes, and thus will ever go the Times, Each Age improving on their Fathers Crimes: Sin has abounded since the World begun, And we (on whom the dregs of time is come) Are casting up the mighty, total summ. So exquisite in Villany w'are grown, To blast our Neighbours Credit we expose our own: No Man a safe Retreat from ills can know, Abroad, or, else, at home he finds a Foe; Abroad ill Tongues, at home Thoughts prone to sin; Knav'ry without, and Passions reign within. Or Anger robs him of his Darling Rest, Or Iealousie does rage within his Breast; Unhappy Man that's with that Fiend possest! Distended on the Rack, there to remain Whole Ages, is a yet more moderate pain. O horrid Doom! O worse than Hellish Life! But he deserves it that will have a Wife. While thou, supine, liest in soft Pleasure's Arms; And only such as Thou can find sh' has lasting Charms. Though the wide World with War and slaughter's vext, Thou'rt undisturb'd, secure and unperplext: When dreadful Comets in the Skies appear, Thou'rt not concern'd what they portend us here Did'st thou but live (as long shall live thy Fame) Till the last general Conflagration came, Thou wou'd'st but laugh and warm thee at the Flame. Thou for to morrow never dost prepare, Nor art a Slave to earn thy Bread with Care: By certain Instinct taught, thou eat'st and drink'st, Nor, though thy Fare be course, on better Dainties think'st. Still satisfy'd with what's before thee set, Nor just at twelve, or one condemn'd to eat. Wait'st not till all thy meat is overdrest, Expecting some long-rising, lazy Guest: Free from all Ceremony thou dost live; None does expect it from thee, and thou none dost give. See here a Mother mourning for her Boy Late, all her future hope, and Earthly Ioy; Tearing her Hair, and with Affliction wild, Will not be comforted, or reconcil'd; Unhappy Mother, but O happy Child! Free from the Woes with which thy Parents strive, Whose cruel kindness wish thee still alive. Another here for his dear Father mourns, In vain, alas! the Grave makes no Returns: Thinks Heav'n unkind, that the old man hast past Some fourscore Winters, and must dy at last; When, if we'll own Age weak, and sorrow strong, It is a wonder he cou'd live so long. A Third you'l see sit whining for his Wife, His Earthly Heav'n and Comfort of his Life;— Yet living, she ne'r fail'd to give him strife. This touches not thy Breast; thy Father's gone And Mother, yet who ever heard thee moan? Thy Resignation such, so free from blame, It ev'n deserves a more exalted Name; An Angel's Patience cou'd but do the same! Observe the Man who has all Sin ingrost, And see if he is not the Man, who most Pretends to Wit; but any Fool may see, So plain, 'tis almost obvious to Thee, How his Pretext and Conduct does agree. So eager all that's wicked to retain, You'd think he wou'd not spare the Fools a grain. A very Bugbear, so licentious grown, He is the Standard scandal of the Town. Who more a Fop? and, which is worse, who more A Cully to the Dice, nay worse, a Cully to the Whore? Who, of all men, more pester'd with ill Nature? Who more obnoxious to the Sting of Satyr? Who more a Drunkard? who a greater Prater? Who at Plays sooner, and at Churches later? If this is Wit, e'r such a Wit to be, Who wou'd not, if 'twere possible, be more a Fool than thee? Content's a Blessing; Let us search around, And see, then, where that Blessing's to be found. No Riches like Contentment, there 'tis meant One may be wealthy, and not be content: If Riches cannot make a happy Man, To human apprehension, nothing can. In short, the Rich, the Poor, the Peasant, Cit, Still aim at something, which they have not yet, And still at something more, if that shou'd hit. 'Tis hard, perhaps impossible, to find One that has all things suited to his mind: Something will be amiss, and must be so; For to want nothing, wou'd be Heav'n below. Yet some will think to have it here, and some In search of it around the Globe will roam; Alas! it may be sooner found at home. She lives not in the Court, or noisy Town, But shuns the gilded Roofs, and Beds of Down, And Robes of State, the Ermins that do hide Hypocrisy, Debate, Revenge and Pride. In short, we'll all to this Conclusion bring; If not with thee, there is not such a thing: For true Content, impartially defin'd, (And in thy Breast we see the Blessings join'd) Is perfect Innocence, and lasting Peace of Mind. How much, alas! of our short time we wast In seeking, what we never get at last, The true Religion? or, at least, so get, As to live up to the strict Rule of it. But one Foundation does our Saviour yield, But ah! how many Pinacles we build? Some, guided by false Pastors, go astray; Blinded are such, or will not see their way. Others need not be driven on the Shelves, Foes to the Compass, they will wreck themselves. Some will have the unfailing Chair their Guide, When any Chair wou'd do as well beside, And some the private Spirit, which is Pride. Tomes of Dispute about the World are spread; The living still at variance with the dead: And after all their shifts from this to that, Their unintelligible, endless Chat, Nor we, nor they can tell what 'tis they wou'd be at. While thus their different Tenents they maintain, The Atheist thinks that all Religion's vain, A Pious Cheat, ripn'd, at last, to Law, To sham the Croud, and keep Mankind in awe. Indeed some preach for praise, and some for gain, And some delight in Notions dull and vain, And some in Texts abstruse which Angels can't explain; 'Tis not for Age it self, much more for Youth, From such vast heaps of Chaff to sift the sacred truth. Thus while we in an anxious Laby'rinth stray, Without a Clue, and doubtful of the way, Giddy with turning round, we fall to Death a Prey: Away w'are hurry'd, all our Life a Dream, Or slept away, or spent in the Extreme. Thou art, dear Iack, from this hard Fate exempt, 'Tis thou deserv'st applause, and these Contempt; This Iargon thou not mark'st, or dost not know; Thou without this dost mount, with this we sink below. The Epicureans cou'd not feign their Gods More blest than Thee; for in their bright abodes, In full Fruition of themselves, they lay, And made Eternity one sportive Day: Careless of all our petty Jars on Earth, Which they not minded, or but made their Mirth. So thou, in thy exalted Station plac't, Enjoy'st the present Minute e're it wast, Thoughtless of all to come, forgetting all that's past. Tell me thou man of Knowledge, who hast read What Cicero, Plato, Socrates have said, With all the Labours of the Mighty Dead; Inform me, when the fatal hour comes on, And the last sands are hastning to be gone, What signifies your Wisdom? do you know What the Soul is, or whither 'tis to go? Are not your Minds with dreadful Visions fraught? Are you not lost in the Abyss of thought? But, which is meaner yet, can human wit, Can all in Pulpits taught, in Authors writ, Make you, contentedly, resign your Breath, And free you from the slavish Fears of Death? An Insect's chattring, or a Dog that howls, Your merry Crickets, and your midnight Owls, Makes ye imagine Heav'n has seal'd your doom, And summons you to your eternal home: On every thought the Spleen strict watch does keep, And rides your Haggard Fancy in your sleep. Tell me, deny th' Assertion if you can; Is not my natural Fool the happier Man? Remorse he feels not, which the best must feel, Though guarded with a seven-fold shield of steel; And well he feels it, for who feels it not Has, of the two, a yet more wretched Lot. The Stings of Conscience (and some Authors say Hell Flames are not more violent than they; Nay, which is yet far bolder, some will tell There is no other, needs no other Hell) This Plague thou art not troubl'd with; thy Breast Is with a constant calm of Peace possest, That Wings thee smoothly on to Everlasting Rest. No noisy storms of Nature on the deep Break thy repose, which the same state does keep, Alike, if Winds are still, or if they blow, And shatter all above, and loosen all below. No Clangor frightens thee, or beat of Drum, Or Visions of the dismal day of doom, When, trembling, some awake and cry, 'tis come! 'tis come! With rowling, Haggard Eyes, they gaze around, And think they hear the last, loud Trumpet sound. Start'st not in Dreams, when, lab'ring with short Breath, We think w'are plunging down the Precipice of Death, When Vapours rise, and dreadful thoughts instil Of hissing Fiends, and Fears of future ill: Thou dost not with such dozing Dolts comply, Nor in this worse than dying posturely; For to fear Death's more irksom than to dy: Free from these horrid Apprehensions found, Thy Peace is lasting, and thy Rest is sound. Let thoughts of Death the Coward Restless keep; To dy's no more than to drop fast asleep, To rest from endless toyl, and wake no more To find those ills that tortur'd us before. What wou'dst thou say, dear Iack, cou'dst thou but mind The shifts, the tricks and slavery of Mankind? What wou'dst thou say wer't thou to walk the street, And mark the two legg'd Herd you'l daily meet? To see some passionately hug and kiss, And when past by, put out their Tongues and hiss; Some creep like Snails, and some like Monkeys walk, Some all hum drum, and some eternal talk; Some drest in Silks, and some in double Frieze, And some with Foot-thick Rolls upon their Knees: Wert thou to see 'em drink to an excess, But little Reason, yet will make it less, And when intoxicated, draw and stab, And cling like a lin'd Bloodhound to their Drab: Wer't thou three hours i'th' Theatre to sit, And hear the Fools clap Bombast off for Wit, Farce for true Comedy; and the good sense That Manly speaks, run down for Impudence: Were't thou behind the Gawdy Scenes to go; (The former Age lov'd sense, and we are all for show) There see the Fops to Leonora bending, Like twenty fawning Spaniels on one Bitch attending: Or shou'd'st thou there a base-born Mimick see, Hugg'd and Ador'd by Coxcombs of Degree, With nothing but his hardned Impudence, To recommend him for a Man of sense; Observe his haughty Port, and towring looks, That peddl'd once for Bread, and sold old Books; T' observe him scorn, flusht with a little pelf, Those that were ever better than himself; How big he looks, when any honest Pen Does tell how much he's loath'd by worthy men; But vain's his Anger, impotent his Rage, His Valour all is shown upon the Stage; His Tongue is sharp, and in abuse delights, But blunt must be the Sword with which he fights. Or shou'd'st thou, for diversion, take the pains To go and see the Prisoners in their Chains; What Wretches, doom'd to Durance, thou wou'd'st meet In Kings-Bench, Bridewel, Newgate and the Fleet; The Bench where many won't come out that may, And lesser Knaves that wou'd, are forc't to stay: Bridewel, where Vagrants must work out their Crime; The Gally Slave has a more hopeful time. Newgate, where Villanie's ne'r out of Vogue; Pimp, Padder, Palliard, Parricide and Rogue, Like Swine, are penn'd up battling in their dung, And with a mouldy Shoe, and mournful Tongue, Angle for Farthings as you pass along: What wou'd'st thou say too, shou'd'st thou go to Court, Where all our empty, Pageant-Fops resort, Each scorn'd by all, each making all his sport; There see the Ladies, with their high-heel'd Shoes, Walk as their Hipps were fastn'd on with Scrues; See'em thrust out, taught by some bawdy Mother, Their Buttocks one way, and their Breasts another; Ten times a Minute mending their attire, And mount their Top-Knots a yard high, or higher. Or shou'd'st thou see how many wait in vain, And hope Preferment none but Knaves attain; See Titles bought by Fops unlearn'd and Base: But Honour is as hard to get as Grace; For that's not so deriv'd from Sire to Son, Much more with Money bought, or Flattery won: Show me the Man (for which the Times be prais'd) Who by his own Intrinsick Worth was rais'd: Just to serve Turns of State, put in and out, Him that is now carest, anon they flout; High Office is a constant Slave to doubt. Shou'd'st thou see all this, Iack, and from thy Heart The Truth and nothing but the Truth impart, Wou'd'st thou be any thing but what thou art? No, no; thou rather wou'd'st thank Providence For easing thee of the Fatiegues of Sense. The Knight, Sir Guy, who overcame an Host, Was not so dreadful then, as now a Knight o'th' Post: With thee his perjur'd Affidavits fail; Nor can the Flatt'rer's florid Cant prevail; Destructive both, to human quiet Foes, Th' Eternal Troublers of the Worlds Repose. From Feasts thou'rt also quit and Serenade, (By none but Apes and Am'rous Coxcombs made) And being so, art free from Surfeits, Noise, Which our loose Gallants take for lasting Ioys. Free from the Watchmens Bills, and Bully's stab, And the Embraces of his Pocky Drab; And being so, art free from Purging, Sweating At Spring and Fall, with blist'ring and blood-letting, Nodes, Shankers, Bubo's, Vlcers not forgetting. Nor art thou for thy Actions call'd t' account, Or for a word old Reverend Tripos Mount; Where many of our wisest men have swung, For want of the due Government of Tongue. Taxes and Gabells take no hold of thee; From all State-Impositions thou art free: Pay'st not Excise for wearing of a Head, Thy Hearth, or Oven, that does bake thy Bread. How well are they, then, guilty of our scorn, That say, 'twere better thou had'st ne're been born? That look on thee with a Contemptuous Eye, And sneer and grin when e'r thou passest by? As if thou wert compos'd of courser Clay, Or were not form'd by the same hand as they. But 'tis not Thee, 'tis their own selves are sham'd; Ought that Seraphick Folly be defam'd, That is our Main security from all the ills I've nam'd? The wiser Turks when, by kind Heav'ns Decree, Nature produces such a Fool as Thee, Make him their Care, and as a Saint adore; Their Mahomet himself has hardly more: Think they're oblig'd to cherish, serve and love, What Heav'n so kindly smiles on from above, And fixes in a State, free from the wiles Of Princes Courts, and all Earths fruitless toils; While they, obnoxious to their Tyrants hate, Their barbarous Policy, and turns of State, Are made the Prey, Revenge and Sport of Fate. O let us then, like them, think thee the same, As worthy of the fond embrace of Fame, And to all future Times transmit thy glorious Name! Hail! awful Fool, thou mighty Ideot, hail! Thou Conq'rour against whom nor Men, nor Hell prevail. Thy Shield of solid Dullness but oppose, And streight thou see'st the Backs of all thy Foes; Impenetrable! for w' have try'd it oft, Compar'd with it, ev'n Adamant is soft! What e'r his Holiness may urge in Pride, While on the Necks of Monarchs he does ride, Thy Dullness is a far more certain Guide; What e'r he boasts of an unerring sway, What e'r Monks teach, and hood-wink't Bigots say, H' has no pretence to Infallibility any other way. Great was the wise man's saying (he I mean That wise we call, Stallion of Sheba's Queen, And (beside Wives) three hundred Punks obscene:) And, truth consider'd, it must be confest, Of all his Aphorisms much the best, Eccles. Cha. 1. Ver. 18. Much Wisdom brings much Grief, and while we here This ponderous load of Flesh about us bear, He that increases Knowledge but increases Care. Which is as much as if his Ghost shou'd rise, And thus the Text explain before our Eyes. I knew, while Living, all that Man below, In all his height of Wit, cou'd boast to know; All that our mortal Fabrick can receive, More than e'r Heav'n, before, to Man did give. From the tall Cedars that on Mountains grow, Ev'n to the humble Shrubs in Vales below; All Plants the Fertile Earth cou'd e'r produce, I knew their several Natures and their use. To that exalted pitch my Knowledge flew, 'Twas ev'n unknown to me how much I knew: But having cast to what Account 'twill come, I find all Cyphers for the total summ. 'Tis nothing, nothing! all that we can here Attain with utmost study, search and care, Is but to know (yet knowledge hard to gain) Our Care is fruitless, and our search is vain. Against proud Wisdom 'twere enough to say It raises doubts it never can allay, And, being Blind, presumes to shew the way; Or if not wholly blind, with blinking Eyes Wou'd pry into abstrusest Mysteries, And grasp Incomprehensibilities: Talks but at random, varying to Extremes; Fond of wild Notions, and fantastick Themes, More Incoherent than a Madmans Dreams. Thus it betrays us to ten thousand ills, And, Tyrant like, it tortures e'r it kills: Want pinches, for while thus we Books adore, Our Cash grows less, and Knowledge ne'r the more: Meagre and wan they look, and sleepless nights Is the main Essence of their best delights. Eternal Jangle! who cou'd ever find Two, though of one Religion, of one Mind? Here One on his dear Labours casts a smile, Another streight unravels all his toyl, And shews how course the Grain, how lean the Soyl: Another does the same by him; A Fourth Proves all the third has said of neither force, or worth. And thus the Game is plaid from hand to hand, And made a Medley none can understand. Wisdom's but trifling, then, well understood, And Folly is the only human good. The End of Jack Pavy, aliàs, Jack Adams.

TO JULIAN Secretary to the Muses, A Consolatory Epistle IN HIS Confinement. DEar Friend, when those we love are in distress, Kind Verse may comfort, though it can't redress: Nor can I think such Zeal you'l discommend, Since Poesie has been so much thy Friend: On that thou'st liv'd and flourisht all thy Time, Nay more, maintain'd a Family with Rhime. And that's a mark which Dr—n ne'r cou'd hit, He lives upon his Pension, not his Wit. Ev'n gentle George, with flux in Tongue and Purse, In shunning one snare run into a worse. Want once may be reliev'd in a Mans Life, But who can be reliev'd that has a Wife? Ot—y can hardly Guts from Iayl preserve, For though he's very fat, he's like to starve. And Sing-song Dur—y, plac't beneath abuses, Lives by his Impudence, not by the Muses. Poor C—n too has his third days mixt with Gall; He lives so ill he hardly lives at all. Sh—l and S—le, who pretend to Reason, Though paid so well for scribling Dogrel Treason, Must now expect a very barren Season; But chiefly he that made his Recantation; For Villain thrives best in his own Vocation. Nay Lee in Bedlam now sees better days, Than when applaus'd for writing Bombast Plays; He knows no care, nor feels sharp want no more; And that is what he ne'r cou'd say before. Thus, while our Bards e'en famish by their wit, Thou, who hast none at all, did'st thrive by it. Wer't possible that Wit cou'd turn a penny, Poets wou'd then grow rich as well as any: For 'tis not Wit to have a great Estate, (The blind Effects of Fortune and of Fate) For oft we see a Coxcomb, dull and vain, Brim full of Cash and empty in his Brain. Nor is it Wit that makes the Lawyer prize His dagled Gown, but Knavery in disguise, To pluck down honest men that he may rise. Nor is it Wit that makes the Tradesman great; 'Tis the compendious Art to ly and cheat. The base-born Strumpet too may roar and rail, But 'tis not Wit she lives by, 'tis her Tail. Nor is it Wit that drills the Statesman on To wast the sweets of Life, so quickly gone, In toyling for Estates, then, like a Sot, Dy, and leave Fools to spend what he has got. Nor is it Wit for Whigs to scribble Satyrs, No more than for their Patriots to be Traytors; For Wit does never bring a Man to hanging, That goes no further than a harmless banging. How justly then dost thou our Praise deserve, That got thy Bread where all Men else wou'd starve? And what's more strange, the Miracle was wrought By him that han't the least pretence to thought; And he that had no meaning to do wrong, Can't suffer, sure, for his No-meaning long; And that's the Consolation that I bring: Thou art too dull to think a treach'rous thing, And 'tis the thoughtful Traytor that offends his King.

TO THE Much honoured and my dear Friend, D. D. Esquire. Sent him With my Satyr against Woman. SOme Men do the Fair Sex so much adore, That to dispraise 'em makes 'em do • t the more: Spur'd by blind Appetite they hurry on, Nor see the Precipice a Child might shun: So 'tis but Woman, all, they think, is well, Though she's the steep descent that leads to Hell. Slaves to a smile, for one commanding nod, The Profligates wou'd ev'n renounce their God. Nay some have set their whole Estates to sale, But to redeem a Prostitute from Iayl. To such as these, a Satyr of this kind Wou'd scarce their favour, or acceptance find: But you, Sir, made by your Misfortunes wise, Look on that Sex with more discerning Eyes, By sad Experience, and your Cost you know How little to that treach'rous Sex we owe; Our Natures bane, that give Wings to ill Fate, Which comes too soon, ev'n when it comes but late. Trac'd from their Youth, when vitious deeds begin, Till they're grown old, mature and ripe in sin, They're all a Quicksand, dang'rous, wast and wide, Where if we leave fond Passion for our Guide, We'are soon o'ertaken and o'erwhelm'd by an Impetuous Tyde; Th' inevitable Fate nought can restrain: Who can withstand the anger of the Main, When Winds and Waves, with equal fury, roar And join their strength to beat us from the shore? Such is the Sea when Neptune's pleas'd to lower, And such are Women when w'are in their Power, Sooth us with Calms at first, then, Tempest-like, devour: Now they're all coy, a Maiden blush you'l see, Which some fond Sparks mistake for Modesty; But Modesty they've none, and never had, He that believes 'em modest must be mad, Or else must be in Love, and that's as bad. Woo till your Heartakes, they shall still deny, But then their Conscience gives their Tongues the ly, For meer ill Nature (not want of desire) Makes'em seem cold when they're all flaming Fire. But gain'd, at last, with endless toyl and cost, You'l quickly find your Expectations crost, And your Imaginary Heav'ns all, in a moment, lost. For the strait Gate a gap so wide you'l find, As if it had been leap't by all Mankind; Some well-hung Groom, clasp't in his Brawny Arms, Cropt her First-fruits, and blasted all her Virgin Charms. But marry'd, the poor Slave must be content, He sees his Doom, and does in vain repent: For she that was demure, now talks aloud, Impertinent, expensive, slothful, proud, At once involves you in a Maze of strife, And makes you, like a Packhorse, drudge for Life; Nor with old age does her perverseness cease, But watches your last gasp nor lets you dy in Peace. O Hymen! boast no more thou giv'st us Joy, Thou rather dost all humane Peace destroy; When thou arriv'st, our Pleasures quit their ground, And num'rous cares whirl us an endless round, And no dear Interval of rest is found, But all black Horrour, Sorrow and Despair, All that the damn'd can feel, and all that Sinners fear! Well says the Text, and shows to Man much love, That in the glorious, peaceful Realm above There will no Marriage, fatal Marriage be, No Ty of Conjugal Society: For shou'd those Matches hold, contracted here, 'Twou'd make us stand of Paradise in fear, The very Essence of our Heav'n destroy, And prove a place of pain, but none of Ioy. Happy were poor, deluded, lost Mankind, If they at first, or if they yet cou'd find Some decent way to propagate their kind. Coition, but, methinks, I blush to name That Act, so oft committed to our shame. Have you e'r seen a Dog throw down a Dish Of any sort of Victuals, Flesh or Fish, And mark't how sillily he sneaks away? His tail between his Legs, his guilt and shame display. Just such a thing is Man, when he comes cloy'd From the sallacious Punk he has enjoy'd. A knowing Man, if such a risque he run, Must loath himself, methinks, for what h' has done. Yet after all, say it short Ioy does bring, It is attended with a lasting sting; And all that love t' indulge it, soon will see Th' abhorr'd effects of Goatish Venery. It rots the marrow and consumes the Brain, And all the Spirit of the Blood does drain, That shou'd the Principle of Life maintain; Then fretful pale Consumption does succeed, And, of Diseases, all the meagre breed. O Woman! Woman! every way our bane! Though still of Marriage we must most complain! Ev'n Pox, by fluxing, is in part reliev'd, But fatal Wedlock ne're can be retriev'd! How many Men are sunk upon that score, That hope to see the dawn of Peace no more? The account is endless, and, O gen'rous Soul, I wish I cou'd not add you to the Roll: The Plagues of Marriage you, at large, possess, No Man has more, no Man deserves 'em less. But since 'tis so, and since 'tis, now, too late E'r to reverse the hard decrees of Fate, You'l show the Resolution of a Man, To bear your Cares as calmly as you can. And since to those that are opprest with Grief, 'Tis Charity t' endeavour their Relief, Accept th' enclos'd, and lay it in your sight; It was design'd to do the injur'd right: To read it may divert your pains a while, Suspend despairing thoughts, and, oft, inspire a smile. So they that pick our Pockets, if they're caught, And at the Carts Tail suffer for their fau't, Though we our Money lose, our Anger ends; To see the Rascals lash't does make amends.

TO THE Ingenious, and my Dear Friend, Mr J. Knight. Writ in the Year 1685. WHile I am here in a rich fertile soyl, Which e'en anticipates the Lab'rers toil; A Country where substantial joys abound, And every season with fresh plenty crown'd; Where the blest Natives in firm health appear Till they have weather'd out twice forty year, Yet live and dy without a thought of care; While I remain in such a Clime as this, And take full Draughts of harmless, rural Bliss, I cannot but, with indignation, frown At what is your Delight, the vitious Town: The Town, which you extolev'n to the sky, But I wou'd gladly know your Reasons why. Though you are blest with Honesty and Sense, What more can you say in the Town's defence Than Shepherds in their State of Innocence? Where free from noise, and all tumultuous strife, They make the best of an uncertain Life. Ambition's deadly Rock they wisely shun, Where most Aspiring Spirits are undone. Unnecessary things they ne'r require, Nor beyond Natures wants stretch their desire. To hoard up heaps of wealth they little mind, 'Tis sweet Content they seek, and that they find. Their Mistresses are brown, of Sun-burnt hew, But then, to make amends, they're always true. Here when a Shepherdess does chance to wed, She comes, unsully'd, to the Nuptial Bed; But a new Comet sooner will appear Than any Virgin found that does so there. Through your lewd streets salt Drabs in Legions goe, The Strand has, every night, its Ebb and Flow. Nay, to the City the same Fate arrives, But there the Trade lies most among the Wives: The Husbands they get money by their Wares, The Wives are forc't to give to put off theirs. Like the Court Ladies modesty explode, Keep brawny Stallions (which is now the mode) And scorn to go to Hell the vulgar road. O blessed Sex! O vertuous Womankind! That ev'n in damning strive to be refin'd! I grant indeed that all strict knowing Men Detest their loose embraces, but what then? We see, 'tis obvious, there is a time Vertue may be surpriz'd into a Crime. A thousand ways they have t' enflame desire, And fan the blood into a Lustful Fire: 'Tis best, then, to be absent from the Lure, And here, 'tis only here we are secure: With us that Sex is free from all trapan, They blush if they but look upon a Man: But blushing Maids are out of Vogue with you; The Men there blush to see what Women do. Bastards, we know, with you are daily got, And 'tis as sure they daily go to Pot: No Privy's free; where they in ordure ly, Yet sweeter than their Mother's Infamy. If such a thing does chance to happen here, It is a Theme of Horror for a year: The sad Offender does receive her due; But there they live and glory in it too. There many dwell seven years, and, to their shame, They shall not tell what's their next Neighbour's name: But, in this point, here's a vast difference found; The honest Farmer's known seven Miles around. Divide your Town, one part in three are Slaves, The next and greatest, Mercenary Knaves, The third Buffoons, Pimps, Fops and Empty Braves: The last of which, though they roar, huff and damn; Search 'em, they're tame at bottom as a Lamb. As who swears most is least believ'd of all, So big words shew the Courage to be small. Were these three num'rous herds driv'n from their Folds, We may affirm, you wou'd not meet three Souls, Three honest Ones, from Charing-Cross to Pauls. It may be urg'd, the Country is not free From many spreading Vices, sad to see, Particularly, that of Knavery. But where, alas! where is that Plot of ground In which no wast, no Weeds are to be found? Now, here to root 'em up we daily strive, At London care is taken they shall thrive: They flourish there, grow popular and great; That soil is never without Knaves of State. That this is so we boldly may express, Our late Divisions testify no less, When Royal Power was thought a senseless thing, And he most Popular, that curst the King. Your Lawyers are Incorporate with these, For they, at all times, can be false with ease, Side on both sides, and damn themselves for Fees: And though they shou'd redress and help the poor, Peel 'em quite bare, and make 'em suffer more Than twenty hard, sharp Winters did before. Though all this be deplorable and sad, The Grievance is, in other things, as bad. How many vain Fops buz about the Court Like Butterflies, which nature made in sport? But shou'd they pay the Tradesman what they owe, You'l find the Peacock turn'd into a Crow. Yet these are they who such strange charms impart, They glide unfelt into a Female Heart: To get whose love, much talk and little wit Are two sharp Darts that never fail to hit. Now Coxcombs are, we know, compos'd of these, And that's the reason they are sure to please. Such men that Sex admire, and well they may, For nothing but a Fop's so vain as they. Nor is this all that makes the Town our hate; The very drink it self's sophisticate: For your French Wines (and yet the trash does please) Are grown as dang'rous as the French Disease, Stum'd, mixt, adulterate, for nothing good, But sharpen and corrupt the wholsom blood. Not that I am a Foe to the rich juice, If it be right and free from all abuse, For it helps Fancy, makes it walk as high, (The Muses Friend) as 'twou'd, without it, fly. But as the Age goes now, good Wine's as scarce As Truth in Friendship, or as Wit in Farce. Free from all this, and what ere else we find That shocks the peace and quiet of the mind, The happy Country Swains supinely ly, In the soft Arms of kind obscurity. Nor Death nor Poverty by them are fear'd, Against the worst of ills they stand prepar'd; For a good Conscience is the safest Guard; And that they ever have, as wronging none, And living on that little of their own; And very little is a boundless store, To him who, wisely, does desire no more. More Instances might easily be shown To prove the Country Life excell'd by none; But I shall mention, at this time, but one, One fit to crown the rest, and that shall be Good House-keeping and Hospitality. The Gentry there can dine upon a Dish, Two or three Eggs, or some small scraps of Fish; You think they're frugal, but 'tis all a cheat, And this, in short's the truth of the deceit; They spend so much on Drabs, they are not able To live up to their Birth, and keep a Table: Hence you may guess how they relieve the Poor; Two or three Bones, perhaps, not a bit more, Which Footmen and the Dogs had pick't before: Footmen, I say, for in this Courtly Age, Though they want Bread, they'l have an Equipage. But here 'tis seen, to their Immortal Fame, That Charity is not an empty Name. For to the needy they relief dispence, With a free heart and general Influence. No man can starve, if to the Bounty shown They add some little labour of their own. Consider but these Truths impartially, And I dont doubt but you will soon comply To think as lightly of the Town, as I.

TO My LORD of ABINGDON, &c. My Lord, PLeas'd with the Fate that, from the noisy Town, To this Retreat of yours has charm'd me down; And, at once, freed me from the City Foes, That are so troublesom to Man's repose; The Flatt'rers smiles and the false Friend's embrace (Fiend at the heart though Angel on his Face.) From Tradesmens Cheats, ill Poets dogrel Rhimes, Which now are grown the grievance of the Times: To this, add that which does Mankind most wrong, The Harlot's Tayl, and worse, the Lawyer's Tongue. The Lawyer who can be a Friend to none, False to our Interest, falser to his own; For if a future doom their Errors wait, Where is that One will pass the narrow Gate? The Text that says, a Camel may as well Go through a Needle, as the Rich scape Hell, Was meant of Lawyers; for the ill got store That makes one rich, has made three Nations poor. Had I a thousand Sons, e'r one shou'd be A Member of that vile Society, I'd in the Temple hang him up, nay boil His Quarters, as a Traytor's are, in Oyl, To fright all future Villains from the Soil. Freed from all this, and pleas'd I now am here, Where the fresh Seasons breath their vital air, And all the various Fragrancies dispence, That, with a grateful flavour, charm the sense, On tuneful rapture I my thought employ, And am e'en lost in a Poetick Ioy. As when a Lark, after a gloomy night, The Cloudless Morn indulgent to her flight, Stands glad a while, stretching her airy Wings, Then, with a sprightly vigor, upward springs; So fares my Muse, who, vail'd in darkness long, While the Town Mists obscur'd her humble Song, Does now again her wonted spright resume, And with gay Feathers deck her airy Plume, Looks smiling all around for subject, where T' employ her utmost skill and nicest care, Some worthy Theme, that, with a prosp'rous wing, She, like the Lark, may mount, and mounting sing: But long she need not rove, her Game's in view, Sh' approves my choice, and says it must be you: Whose Praises she has oft long'd to reherse, Her dear Mecaenas, Patron of her Verse; To bless your Choice that here set up your rest, Where Innocence and Honesty's profest, And shun the Vice that does large Towns infest: Where the loose courtly Coxcombs wast their Days In Brawls, in Iilting, Game and Bawdy Plays. While you, in nature prime and vigor's pride, The gaudy fry of Vanities deride, Temptation still have with firm Soul withstood, Nor think your self too Noble to be good: But, with judicious choice, have plac't aright In useful Authors your sublime delight: Such as of Heav'n, of God and Nature treat, Religious, Philosophical and great; These with nice Judgment, and a piercing Eye You search, and into hidden causes pry, Nature explore, make abstruse notions plain, And find what men well learn'd have sought in vain. Ah wou'd the Atheist seriously encline, Like you, to study things that are Divine; Observe how God's high Wisdom does disperse His pow'rful Genii through the Vniverse; How orderly Sun, Moon and Stars advance, Create the Seasons, in their various Dance, And shew their Essence not the work of Chance, But that some Power first made, and is the Soul That actuates and maintains the mighty Whole; Wou'd he but faithfully on this reflect, With just Confusion he'd his crime reject, And, when unprejudic't, by Reason see In the least spire of grass the Deity. But such you rather pity than deride, Led on by Sin, and hoodwink't by their Pride: To say they're Fools they'd think a gross abuse; Yet, if they've sense, alas! where's the excuse, That can put such a Gift to such a use? Than Beasts why are we better, but to know And contemplate the Power that made us so? Though living these let vain expressions fly, And to be Hero's thought high Heav'n defy, They're sordid Cowards when they come to dy; The boldest of 'em shrink; unhappy Men! 'Tis well, indeed, they see their errour then; But ah! that shou'd not be left last to do, For late Repentance scarce is ever true. Happy the Man that to be Vertuous strives, And is prepar'd when the black hour arrives; Ten thousand Fears he daily does eschew, That, in wild shapes, the guilty wretch pursue; His Smooth-pac't-hours glide pleasantly away, His troubles vanish and his Comforts stay: For of all good with which Mankind is blest, That of a clear, untainted mind is best; — Which you enjoy; for all your Actions show The Fountains Purity from whence they flow. In Converse charming, and in courage brave, A lasting Eye-sore to the Fool and Knave: Not rapt with Pleasure, nor with grief deprest, But to your steady temper owe your rest. Honour is talk't of much, and some men think 'Stead of Embalming Names it makes 'em stink, As being oft but nasty popular Breath, A Fume in Life, and nothing after Death: And, to their shame, it in most men holds good, For Honour lives ith' Mind more than ith' Blood. What signifies it, though one boast he brings His Pedigree from Conquerours and Kings, If he debase the Stock from whence he springs, Strips merit bare, prefers the flatt'ring Slave, And is himself a Coxcomb, or a Knave? If he be thus, let what will be his stem, There is more Honour in a Dog than him. He only is the Honourable Man, That ne'r does ought unworthy of his Name. In this Exemplar path, you bravely show How far a true Heroick Soul may go: And then, to make the summ compleat, we find Your Noble Birth proportion'd to your Mind; And they both shine the more, when with each other join'd. By Honour such as this good deeds are nurst, For who has this can never be unjust; And Justice we in all you do may scan, Without which, what a Brutish thing is Man? How undeserving the high name he bears, That can do worse by's Fellow Creatures, than wild Beasts by theirs. Nor must we here forget (what ought to be Admir'd and prais'd by all) your Charity. On those that love the Poor, what Joys attend? But chiefly this, he makes his God his Friend! Who that had Charity e'r was a Slave? Or who e'r wanted the relief he gave? Let those, ye Pow'rs, be poor themselves, that be Regardless of the Sting of Poverty: And, to be plain, what pity can they find From Heav'n, that are so dogged to their kind? Has the rich man a greater God than they? Or can he boast he's made of finer Clay? 'Twas Charity redeem'd us from the Sin Which our first Parents Fall had plung'd us in, Set us within the view of Heav'n; and can We do no more at his Command that did so much for Man? In short, who can, like you, Rich Knaves despise, With dull Buffoons that get their Bread by Lies, And the yet duller Fops that think 'em wise; That hate the Town, the Mart of all false Ware, With all the Villanies that flourish there; Whom Tawdry Courts to Folly can't entice, Those Antick Schools of fashionable Vice: Before all this prefers his Country Seat, And rellishes the sweets of his Retreat; 'Thinks it a Blessing London cannot give; So lives, nay more, and so designs to live: That loaths the sordid Flatt'rer, though he be Belov'd by Kings, and Rascals of Degree: That strives to counter-act the Ages Crimes, And be a good Man in the worst of Times: Who fearless can do all these worthy things, We ought to prize above the wealth of Kings, The mighty Nine united Forces raise, And with a noble flight adorn their praise. Pardon, my Lord, that I have here so long Done both your Vertue and your Patience wrong: On One I have intrench't, but blame my fau't, Nor have describ'd the other as I ought; Yet, since you condescend t' indulge my Muse, What you encourage, you'l, perhaps, excuse, For kindly you on her endeavours smile, And with a Bounteous hand reward her Toyl. O had I strength to ballance my desire, Or wou'd the God Heroick thought inspire, To your high Worth a lasting Fame I'd give;— Nor shall it dy, if what I write does live.

TO The Reverend Mr Francis Henry Cary, &c. Upon my fixing in the Country. THough all Afflictions that ill Fate can send Against our Peace of mind their batt'ry bend, We have a Refuge, if we have a Friend; There we stand safe, his smiles our hearts revive, Suspend Despair, and keep our Hopes alive. Permit me then, if I may dare presume To think your Breast retains for me a room, Who not deserve that Friendship I implore, But will endeavour to deserve it more; Permit me, yet, to hope your pitying Ear, While, by my sorrows past, I paint my present care. Complaining, oft, brings the sad Soul relief, And is a kind of Sabbath to our grief. Young and scarce able yet to get my Bread, My pious Parents mingled with the Dead; Both happy now, free from Misfortunes power. Who did pursue 'em to their latest hour. Industrious, Careful, Frugal still they were; But 'tis not Toyl, Industry, Art or Care, That always gets a Portion for the Heir. Ill Fate to their Endeavours was unkind; They ne'r accomplish't what they oft design'd, Nor left the Orphans a support behind, No method, how to live, no stay, no hold; Such was our Case — and Charity is cold. Money is still an Antidote to Woe, For that's a Friend, who ever is a Foe. Nay, which was yet an equal wretched Lot, The little I had learnt was soon forgot: There was foundation laid for something good, But rac'd before its use was understood. So oft the first Bloom of the Spring is lost, "Nipt with the lagging rear of Winters Frost: But, ah! there's hope, that will again revive, But Learning blasted once, no more will thrive. My springing years, alas! will soon be gone, The Winter of my Age comes rowling on: The Grass does wither, and rough Winds do blow, My head, alas! will soon be crown'd with Snow; Ev'n now the Soil's too bare for such a Plant to grow, Which ought to be well tender'd while 'tis young; The Branches then spread wide, and it takes rooting strong. Thus, e'r I knew to hope, by Fortune crost, Future Preferment and my Hopes were lost. Else I, perhaps, the Holy Badge had born, Which is by you with so much Honour worn, As does redeem it from the Atheist's scorn: At least, some gainful study I had made My choice, nor been to various wants betray'd. Just as the Lark does from the Hobby flee, So Man from Man in his Adversity: When plung'd in Water, if they see we swim, Some pitying hand may pull us to the brim; But sunk, though all have skill, not one will dive, The hapless Wretch comes up no more alive: So when once poor, so tedious are supplies, There's scarce a possibility to rise. Thus, failing here, to servitude I ran, And was a Slave before I was a Man; A Slave to some of Arbitrary Will, Learn'd in the snarling Art of using Servants ill: As if the Hireling were of courser Clay, Brown Earthen Ware; and of right China, they: China, indeed, kept only for a Show, 'Tother's for use, and God wou'd have us so. From thirteen Years to Thirty was I tost In various Stations, and much time was lost, In various Stations, here unfit to name. "Servants of all degrees are but the same. Though some will flutter in their Lords cast Cloaths, The only Coxcomb that my nature loaths: Trick't up in all his Foppery, yet, alas! He's but a tawdry, thread-bare selfish Ass, Abounds in Flatt'ry, Nonsense, lies and noise, Despis'd by men of sense, and mockt by senseless Boys. The servile, Rake-hell French in this excel, And we, as servile, Mimick 'em too well. Among these evils, Poesy, not least, Took full Possession of my Careless Breast, And did my talk, my thoughts, and very Dreams infest; And, as it serv'd old Homer, heretofore, Lent me it's helping hand to keep me poor. However, thus far I my Fate must prize, I saw the World, and did the World despise, Its Vices, Follies, and its Vanities. Some of my time was spent in Plays and sport, And some (my Stars wou'd have it so) at Court, Where the lewd fry of either Sex resort; The Nices and the Flutters there abound, Empty in Sense, and therefore loud in sound: With Parrots, too, the trifling Dames keep touch, Their Wit as little, and their Chat as much. Some time ith' Temple too I past, among That noble Science Fencers of the Tongue; What honest Man wou'd herd with such a throng? Shou'd a poor Country-man in Term-time stand One hour to see 'em crowd along the Strand, He'd swear the Locusts had o'er run the Land. Thus, with strict Eyes, I every Vice did mark; Cou'd tell who was the Punk, and who the Spark That, after ten in Summer, walk't the Park: Cou'd see a Playhouse Strumpet gull a Lord, And fluttring Captains run from a drawn Sword, And Statesmen laugh at breaking of their word: Did hear Vice Vertue, Vertue Vice declar'd, And so believ'd by the unthinking Herd; The Flatt'rer put in trust, and who was just, Cashier'd. Though plac't my self but in an humble sphere, Yet cou'd I mark abuses, see and hear; Nor did an Ass appear through all the Town, But if, indeed, a Coxcomb of Renown, But streight I cock't my Pen, and had him down. Thus Error, in its rise, I strove to quash, And where I spar'd the laugh, I gave the lash; Hoping, at last, the vitious wou'd reclaim, And better grow, either for fear ▪ or shame. But ah! at last, I found, in vain I writ, In vain I threw my Shafts, in vain they hit, No Reformation follow'd, vain my skill; Though every Dart was sharp enough to kill, Yet Folly, Fops and Knavery flourish't still. This made me, from my Soul, abhor the place So prone to Vice, and so averse to Grace; Repin'd at Fate that did condemn me still, To what was most my scorn and irksom to my will; And oft petition'd that I might not be "A Vassal longer to Dependency. O Heav'n! still wou'd I cry, encline thine Ear To a long harrast Wretch's humble Prayer: Riches I do not beg, nor length of days, Which on the Vitals of the Judgment preys; Let me not languish till my Sense decays: But long e're second Childhood does come on, End Lifes preposterous Journey, and be gone. This grant, I may be Master of my self; And live few years in peace, in ease and health; Nor longer in this hated Town abide, Where Factions, Biggotry, Profaneness, Pride, Adultery, Murder, Treason, Fraud are found, And whirl a lewd, fantastick, endless round. In some far-distant Village let me live; A little Income let thy Bounty give, A little, yet enough, and not to spare, For where there's too much cash, there's too much Care: A Beechen Bowl, the Honour of my Hall, Will serve to hold my drink, which shou'd not be too small; Nor yet so strong as shou'd the Senses steep In an unwholsom, and a Death-like sleep, When waking, the loose Epicure, in pains, Finds Tumults in his head, and fire shoot through his veins. There wou'd I sport with what the Season yields; Cold shades, and sunny Banks, and Flow'ry Fields, Green Meadows, chirping Birds, and purling Streams, These, with my Maker's praise, shou'd be my daily Themes. There men are drest in their own native shape, Not like Court Anticks, or the City Ape; This clad in Silks, and, which wou'd make one sick, The other wrapt in Furrs, two handful thick: Cool Searge for Summer they convenient hold, And Frieze, a Fence against the Winter's cold. Design'dly they ne're do their Neighbours ill; The Golden Age is extant with 'em still. Their converse, free and innocent, does tell What our grand Parent was before he fell. Under his Vine each Man supinely lies; While o'er his head the fatal Arrow flies, That strikes th' ambitious in their full Career, And fills the anxious thoughts of Kings with care; Makes 'em despise the glories of a Crown, And ly upon the rack on Beds of Down. A plain Carriage, and an honest Soul, A Friendly Gammon, and a Cheerful Bowl Y'are sure to meet; Unknowing to deceive, They wear their inmost mind upon their Sleeve. If angry, as there's none from Passion free, They'l not dissemble that you may not see, But soon will let you know it, sooner will agree. Thrice happy who the Country's Peace does know; "'Tis an Essay, a tast of Heav'n below. O Blessed Life! and O ye 'Immortal Pow'rs, Here let me pass my few remaining hours, Redeem the time I've lost, e'r the wide Grave devours! Not without Tears, thus wou'd I oft complain, Thus wou'd I pray, nor did I pray in vain: Kind Heav'n at last inspir'd my Patron's mind, Mecoenas, still to Charity enclin'd, Mecoenas, noble, generous, just and kind: Nor shall the grateful Muse forget his Name, Till Vertue cease to be the Theme of Fame: You know his Worth, too copious to be penn'd, The best of Masters, and the kindest Friend! His Bounty here has fixt my wandring thought, And, without asking, gave the thing he sought; Far from the City, far from noise and strife; An easy, frugal, temperate, studious Life. Now, Sir, you may conclude, I thought to find All human things adapted to my mind: The Country like Arcadia I believ'd: Ah! thus too long I thought, and was too soon deceiv'd! In vain we toyl and labour to be blest, And with a swarm of thoughts our minds molest; We grasp but Air when e're we reach at rest: The slippery Wanton sometimes comes in sight, But in a moment mounts and takes her endless flight; And in ascending cries, There is no Peace In City, Country, Waining, or Increase, Till weary Life does end, and all our Labours cease. By sad Experience, now, I find the Swain Is worse than Heathen, more a Slave to gain: His dullness but a politick disguise To cheat those Coxcombs that believe they're wise: Though not so fine, or florid as the Cit, His brutish Cunning baulks the other's Wit. For, like the Town, the Country's Custom's Slave, More full of Fool, and quite as full of Knave: And though Vice here is not so frequent known, Because the Inhabitants are thinner sown, Yet let regard to Quantity be had, Drop Man for Man, and they are e'en as bad. Half void of Reason, and quite void of Shame; Before they know the Person, or his Name, They shall expose, and gibbet up his Fame. Since a good name's so pretious, of all wrongs, The worst is suffering from malitious Tongues, Which prove all Tortures end not with our Breath; For an ill Tongue can wound us after Death. Now what Relief? — yes, I Relief may get, If I cou'd trace th' Example you have set: For seldom, in that Function, have I found; In all things, One so Orthodox and sound. Cou'd I, like you, be Master of my Will, Keep guard on every thought that's prone to ill; Be ever studious of the publick Good (As every true-born worthy Subject shou'd.) Stand fast ev'n now when Popery does prevail, And, but for such as You, wou'd turn the Scale. Cou'd I (were I as able in my store) With the same liberal hand relieve the Poor; Suppress all vain, inordinate desires, And clip the Wings of Love's fantastick Fires: T' Apostasie and Errour be severe, And make the vertuous Man as much my care: Cou'd I be thus, and still be cheerful, gay, And just (as Heav'n avert but that I may) I need not value what the envious say; Dauntless I'd stand their rage, and take the Field; When Vertue's our Impenetrable Shield, The World, the Devil, Flesh and their loose Agents yield. FINIS.