A posie for lovers, or, The terrestrial Venus unmaskt in four poems.

A Poſie for Lovers: OR THE Terreſtrial Venus Unmaskt. IN FOUR POEMS, VIZ I. The Tempeſt, or Enchanting Lady. II. The Luſcious Pennance, or the Faſting Lady. III. The Feign'd Innocence, or the Jealous and Whining Lady. IV. To an Old Gameſome Madam, who Twittingly Askt the Authour, when he Deſign'd to Settle in the World.

Adde quod inſidia ſacris a vatibus abſunt, Et facit ad mores ars quo que noſtra bonos. Nec nos ambitio, nec nos amor urget habendi: Contempto colitur lectus, & umbra foro. Ovid. de Art. Amand. lib. 3.

LONDON, Printed for Thomas Speed, at the Sign of the Three Crowns in Cornhil, near the Royal Exchange. 1694.

To the Little Crooked, yet Sweet and Lovely Roſania.

A Great Pretender to History tells us, That Ann Bulleyn had an Ill Shape, a Yellow Colour, a Gag Tooth, and a Lump under the Chin; but had withal a moſt Delicious Wit, a Graceful Meen, an Obliging Air, and Good Humour: Now, altho' this may ſeem but an indifferent Picture to groſs and vulgar Diſcerners, yet it will paſs for a Beauty in a true Platonical ſenſe; ſince internal Comelineſs ſupplies all other Defects. Accordingly the leſſer Irregularities of your Frame can be no matter of Reproach, ſince your Intellectual Graces are ſo conſpicuous to the World. Your Soul in her narrow Lodging (like an honeſt Dear Friend in a little homely Tenement) is unaccountably entertaining: And your Wit and Perfections may juſtly put Mankind to the bluſh, as they do me to a ſtand, when I conſider my Inſufficiency to deſcribe them.

I hope, Madam, You will never fail to bear witneſs before the World, that I have ever been a juſt (though not blind) Admirer of the good Ones, or (which I hope is all one) the greater part of your Sex: I hate the poynted and licentious Lampoons, that ſeem levell'd at Womankind without any ſort of diſtinction; and which look more like the Rudeneſs of Porters, than the juſt Raillery of a Gentleman: To rake into the Wounds, or expoſe the Frailties of Ladies, is barbarous and inhumane; and for a Man (becauſe he is of a dull and earthy Complection, or has been caſt off by his Miſtreſs for want of agreeable Merit) to rail at the Sex, or blaſt a Woman of Honour, is abuſive and lamentable Cant, and deſerves a greater Caſtigation than that of the Pen. I know, they that are ſtudiouſly wicked, or vicious upon Principle, are commonly moſt ſevere upon the little Frailties of thoſe, that are deſignedly vertuous, and generous in their Aims, but want a uicer Regulation of themſelves: And how eaſie is it for any deſpicable Wretch (that has but an invincible Forehead) to ſnicker or ſhake the Head over the little Lapſes or Misfortunes of their Betters; and with a ſolemn Nod, or decorous Management of Fact, to pity Perſons of Worth and Reputation.

My Deſign therefore, in the following Eſſays, is not in the leaſt to fully the Glories of the Sex, (for why ſhould the ſweet Nightingales and innocent Turtles ſuffer with the obſcene Birds?) but to make an agreeable and juſt Diſcrimination; and to contribute a little towards the Eaſineſs of Humane Life, the Peace of Families, and generous Freedom and Gaity of Converſation. I do freely own, that Woman, while ſhe glitters in her native Innocence and Charms, is the Fair ſide of Nature, and prettieſt brighteſt Ornament of the Creation: She is more wellcome than the Morn, more beauteous than the Spring, and more refreſhing than the Light: And yet if ſhe Degenerates into an Habitual Exerciſe of Black and Ill natur'd Paſſions, (for aſhort Fit may be uſeful and becoming,) ſhe preſently falls from her Soveraignty and Graces, loſes all her Charms, and the fouleſt Vizor a Poet can contrive will rather mend, than heighten her Deformity.

The following Lectures were at first haſtily compoſed, for the ſatisfaction of ſome private Friends; and are now Publiſhed at the earneſt deſire of ſome of your Admirers, who are Perſons well affected to your Sex: Whether I have tranſgreſs'd the Limits of true Decorum, I leave to you Impartially to determine. With all Submiſſion and Gratitude I own your Endearing Favours and Charitable Smiles: And do here lay my ſelf as well as the Hopeleſs Lauſania at your Feet. I am,

Dear Madam, Your Servant and Admirer, Muſophilus.

THE TEMPEST, OR, Enchanting Lady. BOLD are thoſe Men, that with advent'rous Toil Put forth to Sea, and leaving Native Soyl, By Guſts and Waves around the Globe are whirl'd, Like flying Poſts, or Carriers of the World; That with weak Oar advance and force their way Through th' unfrequented Deſarts of the Sea, The Scaly Monſters of the Deep engage, And with frail Veſſel tempt proud Neptune's Rage: Yet bolder they, and ſomewhat more than bold, That ſpend their days with an Imperious Scold; That for their boſom Friend loud Woman have, More Wild than Storms, more Rav'nous than the Grave: For Graves are glutted, Storms are reconcil'd, Waves liſten to a Peace, and ſoon grow mild; But Shrew, the Monſter of the World, do's ne'er Hearken to Charms, to Reaſon lends no Ear, But drives to endleſs Horrour, and Deſpair. Old Sodom's burning Piles, and Noah's Flood, Joyn'd with all Aegypt's Plagues, Compar'd to this were the light Wrath of God; That only doom'd the Wicked, ſpar'd the Good. But here the brighteſt Souls, that e're did wear Mortality, the common Vengeance ſhare; The Wiſe in this black Catalogue we find; Shrew's the Corruption of Faln Womankind, The laſt and greateſt Curſe on Humane Race deſign'd. O the hard Fate of Socrates and Job! How bleſt was he, that liv'd alone in Tub? Happy he ſpent his ſilent flowing Days In Sacred Solitude, and Golden Eaſe: Free from Domeſtick Toil, and Boſom Strife, And that dire Comfort, call'd a clam'rous Wife. If ever Mortal merited this Fate, 'Twas Pedro, of all Men the ſcorn and hate: Pedro a Tiny Wight, but proudly blind, In his own thoughts the rareſt of his kind, Plac't all his Bliſs in Honourable Gain, Title and Pelf ſupply'd the want of Brain: T' Augment his Store, dull Comfort of his Life, The Fop at length wou'd needs trump up a Wife; And, without Nature's call, his Thoughts did bend To Nuptial Banquets, and a Female Friend. His wiſer Friends for Cloe did appear, Cloe the Kind, the Vertuous, and the Fair; But all perſwaſions on the Sot were ſpilt, For he had vow'd to have a Woman gilt. The Fame of Rich Dorinda reach't his Ear, All his Devotion was laid out on her; Fortune ſhe had enough for Woman-kind, And this had ſtruck th' Aſpiring Lubber blind: True, at firſt view he gaz'd, as in a Fright, And ſhrank, as at ſome Viſion of the Night, Her very Form did wound his tender Sight. But Gold, Almighty Gold, (that with its Charms Tranſlates the Dowdy to the Hero's Arms; That Conſecrates a Dunghil, Haggard Race, Gilds the Deform'd, and ſmooths the Wrinkled Face) Soon brought the Miſer to himſelf agen; The Brighten'd Marmo ſoon appear'd a Queen. In ſhort, with Holy Words the Fiends were joyn'd; Their Souls and Bodies decently entwin'd: And ſure the World henceforth will be ſo Civil, To own a Carnal League 'twixt Witch, and Devil. Thus far her Tongue lay cloſe in Ambuſcade, And did not Pedro's Noddle yet invade; That Miſt'ry was reſerv'd for after-times, Women in days of Courtſhip ſhrowd their Crimes: And wiſely for a while their Faults conceal, Which days of Wedlock do too ſoon reveal. Scarce had the Moon her Second Round began, When firſt with Voice ſhe Thunder-ſtruck the Man: Whether inſpir'd with Inſolent Diſguſt, For want of Bridal Fuel to her Luſt, Or ſent by Heav'n to plague the Niggard Clown For his Enormous Vices, is unknown; But ſure no Mortal Wight below the Sphear, Did e're ſo great a Storm of Vengeance bear. Her Mouth like Bay of Biſcay ſeem'd deſign'd, When all things elſe were Calm, there blew a Wind: And all the Barriſters of Billingſgate Seem'd but dumb Orators when ſhe did prate. As when Pandora's Box did open fly, Plagues and Infection gather'd in the Sky; So from her Mouth expanded wide did riſe Such Storms, as did the Neighbourhood ſurprize. No Bell-Mans Midnight Cry, when Sleep invades, Nor an Old Madam ſcolding at her Maids, Nor grunting Spouſe which thro' the Houſe do's bound, E're rais'd ſo fell, and terrible a ſound. Th' ill-boding Owls, and Dogs that bark at Moon, And Cats that ſcream, when the Love-fit comes on, Ne're rais'd ſuch grating Echoes to the Ear; 'Twas Teſt enough to make a Quaker ſwear. In vain did Husband Pray and Sue for Peace, And offer all his Gold for one Days Eaſe: With Holy Words t'appeaſe her he wou'd try; In Holy Phraſe ſhe loudly wou'd reply, And ſtorm his Ears with hallow'd Raillery. Sometimes She'd Hieroglyphically Preach, And with Strange, Antick, and Dumb-Figures teach; The Houſe did then a ſilent Meeting ſeem; She'd turn up Whites, like Propheteſs in Dream; Sit as becalm'd, not moving Hand or Voice, Till bluſtring Spirit riſing made a Noiſe: When rais'd, it grew again as troubleſome, As the fam'd German Pipe, or Devil's Drum: So Men in Lapland, when Hag proves unkind, Wait many hours for a fair Gale of Wind. Of all thoſe Ills, that e're came wing'd from Hell, This Plague oth' Tongue's the moſt incurable: A Magdalene in time may prove a Saint; But none e're cur'd a Woman prone to cant: This was Dorinda's Caſe; and, when grown Old, She ſtill appear'd true Conſcientious Scold: When half depriv'd of little • enſe and Wits, She Rav'd like Woman in Hiſterick Fits. She cough'd out Choler; and rail'd on of Courſe; The Godly Bedlam grunted out a Curſe: Mump't out her Scorn, and grumbled Holy VVords; A Cutler's Shop ſtuck round with glittering Swords Was not ſo dangerous as her Empty Mouth; For Zeal and Grace ſupplyed the want of Tooth; With Jaw diſarm'd, but edg'd with Godly Spite, She'd worſe than the fam'd Turky Granum bite: So long, ſo ſolemnly ſhe'd ſcowl, and cant, Job's Wife compar'd to her, may ſeem a Saint, Who did but once, though with a Vengeance, rant: Like Pliny's Fiſh, ſhe was profuſely hung; You'd think ſhe wore ſharp Teeth within her Tongue. Thus loudly did She Reign to the laſt Day, And puniſh Pedro with her Tyrannous ſway; Her Wakeful Engine could no ſilence keep; Others may Talk, She Scolded in her ſleep, Hag-rid his Soul by Night, and all Day long, Blaſted his Senſes with her fiery Tongue: She laſh't the tim'rous Slave without Remorſe, Till the dull Creature groan'd like Trojan Horſe; Then left him bleeding, panting maim'd, and tir'd, And as ſhe liv'd in Storms, in Storms Expir'd. Anacreon ſure was drunk, when Beauties Charms Were made, by him, Myſterious Woman's Arms; For certainly Horns, Talon, Beaks and Wings, With all th' Artillery of Teeth, and Stings; Thoſe Weapons which to Birds, and Beaſts belong Are harmleſs Toys compar'd to Woman's Tongue: If e're my Fate, unknown to me, decreed That I muſt ſhare the Joys oth' Nuptial Bed; If e're I muſt, for Love of Womankind, Freedom and Philoſophick Eaſe reſign; I only beg the ventrous She may prove A Gentle, Sweet, Good-Natur'd, Houſhold Dove: Tho' She be Crooked, Squint Ey'd, Poor, and Blind, She's welcome, if ſhe's Pleaſant, Calm, and Kind; I'll know no Uglineſs but that oth' Mind: I could without the leaſt Convulſive pain, The ſhock of Honeſt Poverty ſuſtain, If ſhe but ſilent prove, I'll ne'er complain. I could methinks, For my Dear, tender Spouſe, as yet unknown, Part with a mangled Limb, without a Groan: I could without the leaſt reluctant fear The voice of Thunder and of Earthquakes bear, And face the grimmeſt Death without Deſpair. But to be doom'd to loud Domeſtick Strife, To that Rank Bleſſing, call'd a Clam'rous Wife, (of Life; That with her cant and tears ſow'rs the whole draught To fall a dull, unpittyed Sacrifice, To a falſe Woman's Scorn, and dreadful Voyce; Juſt Heavens forbear, as you are kind and good, 'Tis too ſevere a Teſt for Fleſh and Blood: 'Tis Gibbet, Vultur, Wheel, and Rowling-Stone, All the Ten Perſecutions cramm'd in one. 'Tis ſuch a ſignal, and Tranſcendent Curſe, That nothing, but Damnation, can be worſe.

THE Luſcious Pennance: OR The Faſting Lady. LONG had Lauſania, fluſh't with hot deſire, Been the Paſtime of many a Knight and 'Squire; Long had ſhe in their preſence wiſh't and ſigh'd, Look't eagerly, and been as oft deni'd: Next, with a moving Grace, ſhe did relate Her handſom Fortune, Alamode Eſtate, Her beaut'ous Jewels, tempting Gold and Plate. Theſe ſcorn'd to help her Importuning Wants, She ſeem'd to Liſt her ſelf among the Saints; Many long hours diſtreſſed ſhe wou'd dwell In Lonely Cloſet, her Diſconſolate Cell, (Well ſtor'd with Biskets, Wine, and Godly Books) And thence peep forth with Comfortable Looks; Thus a long while ſhe wantonly wou'd pray, Faſt ſweetly, and indulge it ev'ry day. This done, to th' rame ſleek Chaplain ſhe complain'd, With begging look; but was by him diſdain'd: He ſcorn'd to ſoil a Conſecrated Hand. Unhappy ſtate of poor afflicted Maids! When vig'rous warmth, or gay deſire invades! How did Lauſania try with wearied Hands T' Enrich her Face, as Farmers do their Lands; And dung with Paint her wrinkl'd, ſhrivel'd Brow, A Barren Soil, where Beauty ne'er muſt grow? Much better; had ſhe drain'd the wanton Flood, Or with Infuſions chill'd her ſulph'rous Blood; She ſhou'd have ſhunn'd all Hot provoking Meat, And laid aſide cold Tea, and Chocolate; Faſted and pray'd in earneſt all day long, And cool'd at once her Liver, and her Tongue; Happy ſhe might have been had this been done; And out of her the Devil of Luſt had gone. Now, thanks to her dear ſelf, alone ſhe's left, Of Conſolation, as of Charms, bereft: The Finger-butt of Grooms; abhor'd, and fear'd, Like Blazing Star, or Woman with a Beard. Her old Deſpair is now to Madneſs grown, She bites each Man ſhe meets, raves up and down, The celebrated Scold of all the Town. And ſhe, whoſe Talent 'twas to court and woo, Does all Mankind with Raillery purſue. The ſillineſs of Man ſhe does expoſe, And vows ſhe'd ſooner take a Dog for Spouſe, Her am'rous Shock, or darling Monkey chuſe. And ſure a fitter Match was never ſeen; A Puſs with Top-knot wedded to La Chien. Blot of her Sex! All o'er deformed and foul! Her Body's a true Emblem of her Soul: Lanſania! Thy Graces ſhall out-ſhine The glorious Pranks of much fam'd Meſſaline: What ſhe once acted, thou in though haſt done; May all her Praiſe and Merit be thy own. Fair Roſamond, Jane Shore, and all the Fry Of ſuch rare Brittiſh Worthies yeild to thee; Their Vice, were in a fair form Enſhrin'd; But thou art blaſted both in Shape and Mind. Thou art not fit for Nunnery; at beſt Art not a Bait for an Hot blooded Prieſt: He's curſt that with thee in a Church ſhall ſtand, And pennance do with Woman in his Hand. Without a Blot I ſhould not write thy Name, Nor without Scorn thy Pedigree proclaim: Thy Noſe from Mother Shipton ſpeaks thy Race, And ſtands like Palliſadoe on thy Face; As if 'twere meant from thy Embrace to fright Mankind, If ever Incubus by Night On thy Foul Body ſhould deſign a Rape, He ought t'aſſume ſome new Enormous Shape; Elſe with thy uglier Form, and equal Soul, Thou wilt o'er-match the poor Infe • nal Fool. The Northern Bear, that did a Maid compreſs, Had fled at ſight of thy Tremendous Face; Pygmalion too had ſhunn'd thy loath'd Embrace. Waſt thou but landed on the Eaſtern Shore, Thy very Looks wou'd all Arabia ſowr; And had the Pontick King but met thy Breath, Tho' Poyſon-proof, he might have ſuck't in Death. Whenever Nymph, whom Thought could never ſtain, Shall be aſſaulted by ſome luſtful Swain, Whom Thoughts of Hell or Gibbet ne'er could ſcar; O that thy monſtrous Image but appear! The ſight would daſh his villanous Intent, And ſtrike the inſulting Letcher impotent. Hence, to ſome rude wild Indian Climate fly, Where Men to Devils do Allegiance pay, There ſome Reſpect perhaps may light on thee. Fly to ſome Barbarous Coaſt, to Affrick's Sand; Thou haſt no hopes in any Chriſtian Land; Unleſs ſome Puny, Caſt-off, Tawdry Fool, The Sport of Woman-kind, and Nature's Tool, Grow deſperate, and in ſad penſive Caſe Wink hard, and boldly ruſh to thy Embrace. Like moody Saul, who, thrown from all his Bliſs, Rent from all Hope, and ſunk into Diſtreſs, At Endor Courted an Infernal Bitch, And made his laſt Appeal unto a Witch. Pardon ye Nymphs of a Superior Sphear, Whom ſhortly I'll accoſt with awful Fear: I love your Sex; and at your Shrines adore, And next to Heav'ns, your Bleſſings I implore. I feel your Glitt'ring Charms, partake your Joys, And wiſh you Bleſt with pretty Girls and Boys. In all your Toils I bear a mournful part, And each ſad Accent ſtrikes my Tender Heart: When I hear a forſaken Virgin's Cries, My Mother's Softneſs comes into my Eyes; Alas! poor Soul, look how ſhe pines and dies. When a Young Widow by the Grave do's ſtand Of her Departed Dear; I catch her Hand, And willing am the fading Bloom to ſave; And fear leaſt ſhe ſhould drop into the Grave. At Dido's Fate I've often wept, and bled; Nor can I Patient Griſle's Story read Without a Sigh; Nay I could never blame Th' uncommon Ardours of th' Epheſian Dame. Thoſe Errors, which from gen'rous Love proceed, To me but ſmall Apology can need: While others Laugh or Rail, I beat my Breaſt; I cannot turn Misfortunes into Jeſt; But count 'em Spots of Humane Race, that dare Blaſpheme the Glorious Frailties of the Fair. Yet if th' Incarnate Angels chooſe to fall; If their Love ſowrs to Vanity and Gall, Their Pangs and Throws without concern I ſee; All ſuch proud She's Lauſanias are to me. And may Lauſania's blaſted Pride and Scorn A laſting Terrour prove to Nymphs unborn. O that ſhe could beg Pardon and Relent: But that's too much to hope: If ſhe Repent, Furies will put on Mourning, Hell was ne'er So cheated, ſince the Death of R—r.

THE Feign'd Innocence: OR The Jealous and Whining Lady. Horatio a Perſon of Honour, of a Free but Vertuous Temper, Marries Lucinda; a Lady of good Deſcent and Celebrated Beauty, but a little too Affected and Demure: After the ſatisfactory Enjoyment of a few Years in her much lov'd Converſation, be Deſerts her Bed, and denies all Nuptial Communion with her, upon too apparent Evidence of her Diſhonourable Conduct. After ſome Daies of Abſence, the now Diſtreſſed Lucinda ſends him this Complaining Epiſtle. OFT have I in my Tender Non-age cry'd And with a bleeding Heart ſate down and ſigh'd, At the ſad Story of Octavia's Fate, Deſerted by her Antony the Great: Tho' he with ſullen brow from her withdrew, And wing'd with Charms to Cleopatra flew, Urg'd by the Fates againſt Octavia's Will, Yet She, kind She, Lov'd and Enjoy'd him ſtill: (For Lovers live not where they ſigh and move, But where their Paſſion's fixt, and where they Love.) Her Fortune chang'd by Cleopatra's Face, She bore th' Affliction with a moving Grace; Lov'd on with equal conſtant Strains, and ne'er Spoke his Dear Name without a Hymn or Tear: In all the Souldiers Toyls ſhe bore a part, Kept his Surviving Image in her Heart: Aſtrea could not hold the Scales more ev'n; She'd ne'er recal a Love once Seal'd in Heav'n. Sometimes indeed ſhe wrung her hands and cry'd, Her pretty Children weeping by her ſide; Into Complaints and Tranſports ſhe would fly, Call the Fates Cruel, but not Antony: Her glowing Breaſt did with kind Wiſhes burn, And Love within ſtill whiſper'd he'd return. But Antony Perfidious and Unkind, With a Steel'd Heart, and a Falſe Perjur'd Mind, Slighted her gen'rous Faith, her boding Fears, Her Melting Wiſhes, and endearing Prayers; And when from her cold Solitary home With longing Arms ſhe was to Athens come To meet lier Lord, he forc't her back to Rome. I little thought, When I at firſt to your Embrace did run, Too Fond alaſs! And Proud to be undone! That my Malignant Stars would thus combine; That poor Octavia's Fortune ſhould be mine. I languiſhing and hoping Innocence Took all your Words for Oracle and Senſe: When you firſt vow'd I ſecretly comply'd, Tho' by fond cuſtom urg'd I oft deny'd: My Paſſion was too ſtrong to be conceal'd, Each treacherous Glance the Myſtery reveal'd: Tho' my officious Tongue did act its part, My Looks ſtill ſpake the Language of my Heart: Somewhat I felt that did ſtrange Heats inſpire, My Blood was kindled, and my Soul took fire: I thruſt you from me, flew from your Embrace; Yet wore Love's kinder Signal in my Face: I bid you go, and chid at your Delay, But as you went with Smiles I bid you ſtay: When e're you ſpake or look't my Heart was mov'd, And tho' I frown'd and ſcorn'd, yet ſtill I lov'd. I ſcarcely could the pleaſing Shock ſuſtain, You look't like Cupid grown up to a Man: You ſeem'd all o'er Intelligence and Flame, Love was your Centre, your Circumference Fame. I prais'd (Ah! thoſe ſoft Hours I can't forget) Your Form and Meen, but above all your Wit; When I was moſt diſpleas'd, I was moſt true, To every Object blind and deaf but you: When e'er I wak't, or laid me down in Bed, Horatio's Lovely Image by me play'd: When I alone did walk, you cloſe did ſtand, Methought I felt you ſnatch and kiſs my Hand: And then ſuch kind and pretty things you ſaid, Would from a Death-Bed raiſe a drooping Maid: Thus for a while my ſoft and yeilding Breaſt Was with tranſporting Images poſſeſt; My Virgin Fears with warm Affection ſtrove, Till at laſt bluſhing I confeſt my Love. But Oh! With what a ſudden furious Joy You did your Lips, and innocent Arms employ! You melting ſpake, then panting ſtood amaz'd, And without breach of Honour claſp't, and gaz'd: You ſoftly preſs't me, and ſweet Kiſſes join'd, Our very Souls did meet, and were entwin'd: You vow'd by all the Witneſſes above, Nothing ſhould e'er allay ſo pure a Love: In your kind loving Arms you held me faſt, And ſaid we ne'er ſhould part while Life did laſt; That nothing but the unkind Deſtinies Should e'er divide our Arms, our Lips, and Eyes; Nothing but Death ſhould tear us from our Joys. But Ah! how dim and like a Winter Sun, In a few Years is your Lucinda grown? How chang'd from her, whoſe charming Grace and Mien You once ſo much admir'd, and thought Divine? No Luſtre ſtreams from her forgotten Face; No ſweet Endearments flow from her Embrace: No, Leonora now has all the Charms; And cold Lucinda's baniſht from your Arms: She's the new dazling Object you adore, And pale Lucinda's Right muſt be no more. Now Sighs alone employ my fainting Breath; I no Companions have but Care and Death: In a dark Cell I penſive ſit and moan, Since you, and all the Bribes of Life are gone: Or if I walk to th' Melancholly Groves, The former Scenes of our once envi'd Loves, Methink the Birds like ſilent Mourners gaze, Or with ſad Notes falute me as I paſs: Nothing from you arrives to eaſe my Grief, Not one kind Letter comes to my relief: The kindeſt Words cannot your Heart encline; Sure ther's no Balm for any Wound like mine. Juſt Heav'n! What have I merited or done, To be thus ſentenc't to be left alone? Chaſt I have been as e're Penelope, Or any Grecian Dame was fam'd to be; Or as Lavina was before ſhe went To the wanton Baths with innocent intent: If e're I have prophan'd our Nuptial Bed With one Adulterous glance; if e'er I did Cheriſh one Wiſh obſcene, or Thought untrue Since the firſt time I mingled Arms with you; May Midnight Wolves tear out my bleeding Heart, May I dye piecemeal, or feell all the ſmart Grim Tyrants e'er deſign'd; may I live on To a long dreadful ſpace, yet lov'd by none: Then die a branded, unlamented Slave, Hiſs't through the World, and ſpurn'd into my Grave. Why will you then ingulph your ſelf in ill? Why ſhould you thus a Heart-ſick Woman kill? How can you thus with bleeding Honour rove, And wildly Revel in unlawful Love? Where this ſad Change will end I can't foretell; But my poor Soul divines it can't be well: Since no Succeſsful Fate, or Peaceful End The Diſſolute Hero's Life did e'er attend: Though for a while grown obſtinate in Sin, He may out-face the Monitor within; Yet at the length dark and ill-boding Fears Haunt and torment him whereſoe'er he ſteers. Remembrance of paſt Crimes his Soul does fright By Day, and Hag-ride all his Dreams by Night; And how ſhall he Heav'ns mighty Vengeance ſtem, Who cannot bear its Image in a Dream? Each Wind or Eccho his ſick Fancy wounds, And makes his Spirits ſhoot beyond all bounds: The noiſe of Thunder makes him ſtart and rave; Seems a ſhrill Ghoſt to call him to his Grave; And all the Charms of Muſick, Friends, and Wine Cannot allay the ſtorm he feels within: In his own Breaſt are plac't in open View Tribunal, Witneſs, Judge and Sentence too: And thus, though late, he will confeſs with ſhame What 'tis to violate the Nuptial Flame; What 'tis to wrong a ſpotleſs Womans Fame. Pardon this Paſſion of a Heart that bleeds; Pardon this freedom which from Love proceeds. My Soul already haſtens to relent; Forgive me, and I'll teach thee to repent: I'll ne're accuſe thee more; No, firſt I'll lay The blame on Fate, or any thing but thee. But ſure the Injuries to me are giv'n, Are big enough to ſhake a Saint in Heav'n: O my vaſt wrongs! Pity ye Pow'rs above My injur'd Faith, and my neglected Love: Help my poor tott'ring Bark; Conduct me o'er, For pale Lucinda ſhortly is no more. To th' Golden Strand, and Everlaſting Shore. Farewell my much abus'd, and much Lov'd Lord! Ah! that I live to ſpeak the dreadful Word! The Bleſſings of this Life wait on you ſtill, When I am lodg'd in Duſt, or ſome cold Cell: I, like a plunder'd Traveller, ſtript and bare, Expos'd to horrid Damps, and blaſting Air, Lie unregarded here without Relief, Feel nought but want, and nothing taſt but grief: The Doleful Tale of Wretched Niobe, Was ſure ſome Dream, or Propheſie of me; For I with Midnight fears am almoſt grown As ſtiff, as cold, and ſenſleſs as a Stone. Ah, that kind Heav'n wou'd in ſoft ſounds impart And bear my Sorrows to your yielding heart; Or that I might but in your preſence die; And there begin my Immortality: With willing Arms I'd hang upon your Knees; Breath out my Soul in a dear Rapturous Kiſs: But ſure the World will think my Wrongs but ſmall, When one kind parting Kifs attones for all. Once more Dear Object of my Soul farewell: To thee who did'ſt— To thee who dos't excell, Once more, I bid adieu. Yet ſure e'er long, ev'n while time forwards rowls, Before the general Rendezvouze of Souls, We ſhall again Embrace, again Appear All Love, and with a Form more bright and clear, Like Dying Martyrs Kind, and like an Angel Fair.

TO AN Old Gameſome Madam, Who Twittingly Ask't the AUTHOUR When he Deſign'd To Settle in the World. MAdam, I muſt not from my Reaſon fly With the Dull World's Opinions to comply; Nor can I think a Woman's Excellence Conſiſts in Noyſe, fine Dreſs, and want of Senſe: The Anſwer's near at hand; when I can tame Thoſe Riſing Paſſions which divide my Frame, And ſtem the Sallies of undue deſire, Then ſhall I to true Settlement Aſpire: For Settlement ſuppoſes Calm and Eaſe; Ev'n Heav'n conſiſts in Temper, not in place. Angels are ſettled, while abroad they fly, And with ſwift Wings cut the ſoft yielding Sky: And, tho' coarſe Vulgar Souls may count it ſtrange, They reſt at their Bright Home, when wide they range. But he's ne'er ſettled that feels boſom pains, Tho' ty'd at home by Matrimonial Chains: Nor can that Mortal a fix'd State e're find; That wears a Reſtleſs and Aſpiring Mind: Elſe, Men in Bedlam may be ſaid to have A Settled Bleſt Condition while they Rave. Happy's that Man, whoſe Soul is not confin'd To Time or Place; who owns a free-born mind: Who Bleſt with Friends, and Intellectual Peace, Is Nobly Active, and yet lives at Eaſe. That Loves, but do's not Fear a Lady's Eye, Feels the ſweet Wound, but bravely ſcorns to dye. While Lab'rers reſt and Guardian Angels wake, Of Nature's VVorks he can a Proſpect take: And while he treads the quiet, thoughtful round, Eternity alone his thoughts can bound: VVhile others idle ſit at home, abroad He can be Entertain'd, and well Employ'd; Unmov'd be'll be, ev'n while he ſeems to roam, And where he meets his Friend, he is at home. But Madam, can you talk of Settlement, Whom neither God, nor Man could e'er content? Of Wealth you've had, of Husbands too good Store; Thouſands oth' one, and of the other four; And yet you daily pray, and pine for more. Glutted with Humane kind, again you crave, Nor can you ſettled be, 'till lodg'd in Grave. Your gloting Eyes more wantonneſs reflect, Than any high-fed Concubine can act: Your wrigling Soul by working frets its way, Thro' Fleſh and Blood, and doe's it ſelf betray. Your reſtleſs Thoughts from Man to Man ſtill rowl; A B eſſed Symptome of a Settled Soul. When dreadful Fourſcore Years are paſt and gone, When breath grows ſhort, and the laſt hour draws on; 'Tis wondrous pretty in Love's Toils t' Engage, And to be Marri'd in a good Old Age: Wedlock which Youth Adorns, in you's a Sin: Yet you will on; as if you did deſign, By your Stale, wither'd Matrimonial Face, To bring the Dear Lov'd Thing into Diſgrace. For ſhame, Old Chronicle, no longer rove In the wild Myſtick Maze of Lawleſs Love: Hence, and that Venerable Limber lay In ſome dark Vault unknown to Light and Day: There ſigh the ſhort Remains of Life away. There Mourn, confeſs, tell o're the num'rous Scroll, Ranſack each ſecret Corner of your Soul. Shake, turn it outward, rub out ev'ry ſtain; Let your Repentance be oth' Nobler ſtrain. And when your Funeral Pomp, and Rites are paid, O'er Tomb let your Effigies be diſplay'd, And do ſome good, at leaſt when you are dead. Your Looks perhaps may to Devotion call; Like Picture of Old Time upon a Wall. FINIS.

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