Poems written on several occasions by N. Tate.

POEMS, &c.

On His Royal Highneſs's Deliverance from Shipwrack in the Glouceſter, the Sixth of May, 1682. Jamque Dies (ni fallor) adeſt quem ſemper deerbum, Semper honoratum, ſic Dir voluiſtis, habebo. NO Art, no Change of Pencills can diſplay The various Fate of this important Day: Nor knows the Muſe what Numbers to employ Sufficient for its Grief and for its Joy. Conſulting Heav'n determin'd to reſtore Our Royal Heroe to the longing Shore; Which fixt Decree no Chance cou'd countermand, Nor Wind, nor Wave, nor more deſtructive Sand; Nor all the crying Guilt and impious Rage Of a moſt Factious and ingrateful Age; Which yet in part the Bleſſing did deſtroy; Nor could our Crimes admit the perfect Joy: For in our Triumphs at his wiſh'd Return, His Followers moſt diſmal Wreck we mourn. In vain the Muſe would labour to expreſs That fatal Hour's unſpeakable Diſtreſs: Beſides, if any Words ſuch Grief could fit, At beſt 'twere impious Art and cruel Wit: 'Twere Sin to bring the mournful Scene in view, And wound our pious! Heroes Heart anew. Too much the Pangs that then did rend his Breaſt, By his moſt Savage Foes muſt be confeſt. Such Agony that Minute ſeiz'd his Mind, He thought the Care that ſav'd his Life, unkind. Ye mighty Spirits, You that then expir'd With Hearts for any brave Adventure fir'd, Let not your Ghoſts repine that you did yield To ſuch tame Fate without a Foe in Field; Without a Price for ſuch Heroick Breath, And Standards ſeiz'd to ſignalize your Death; Without the Trophies of the Souldiers Toil, Whole Groves of Enſigns gain'd, and Hills of Spoll, Let no ſuch Thought your riſing Joys ſuppreſs, Or make the happy Fields delight you leſs: Such Honours were to former Worthies known, And ev'ry Age has Spoils and Trophies ſhown; But this new ſilent Method of your Fate, Renown yet un-recorded does create: While you from thence unequall'd Glory claim, And ſtand unrivall'd in the Roll of Fame. Then let Applauſe, ſo vaſt, ſo juſt as This, Reach to your World of Joy, and raiſe your Bliſs. Reſt pleas'd, that e'er you periſht, you could ſee Your Royal Maſter from the Danger free; That you his Safety hail'd with lateſt Breath, And had his Tears to conſecrate your Death. Next, for the ſcatter'd Remnant, ſcarce ſecur'd From that ſad Lot their noble Mates endur'd, While lab'ring Heav'n no Miracles did ſpare, To ſecond their indulgent Maſter's Care. Let Angels ſing the Goodneſs he expreſt, Condol'd their Suſſerings, and their Wants redreſt, While ſuch Supplies his Bounty did convey, As almoſt heal'd the Ruines of the day. Such Vertue did Aeneas Breaſt employ, Once more preſerving the Remains of Troy; His ſcatter'd Troop collecting on the Shore, Sav'd now from Floods as from the Flames before. O for a Maro of this Age, to raiſe With equal Verſe, our equal Hero's Praiſe! Nor ſhall ſucceeding Times the Work diſclaim, That ſpeak Great James his Suff'rings and his Fames. How do I curſe the Muſe my Youth withdrew, From gainful Science to the chiming Crew; Yet when on his lov'd Name ſhe lends her Aid, I bleſs my Lot, and think my Grief's repaid. Soon as you pleaſe, ye Pow'rs, my Frame conſound, Blend me with Brother Inſects in the Ground; Diſſolve a Wretch, the Times and Fortune's Slave, O'repreſt with Wrongs, and ſtretching for the Grave: For ever ſhroud me in the peaceful Clay, No more the Scorn of Fools, and Villains Prey. Forgetting and forgotten by Mankind, Giv'n all to Fate, no Atom left behind. But Oh! whatever Songs of mine are grac't With James his Deeds, let their Remembrance laſt: To them, kind Heav'n, immortal Ages give, Let me be loſt; but let thoſe Numbers live.

Indiſpoſed. I. WHat tho' the reſtleſs Sun Already has his Race begun? Already ſummon'd to their pleaſant Toyl, The peaceful Tillers of the Soil; What Comfort in his Luſtre can I find, If yet no chearful Glimpſe begin A glorious Morn within, But Miſts and Darkneſs ſtill oppreſs my Mind? II. What Entertainment can it be, To hear the tuneful Birds from ev'ry Tree, With grateful Songs the riſing day ſalute, Unleſs my Fancy with the Muſick ſuit? If in my Thoughts I find no Harmony, I ſhall (Alaſs!) as ſoon rejoyce, To hear the Raven's doleful Volce; Or be diverted with the Bell, That Rings my deareſt Friends untimely Knell. III. Whilſt in my Breaſt the Weather's Fair, I ne're enquire the Temper of the Air: So Reaſon o're my Appetites bear ſway, I'm unconcern'd what Planet Rules the Day. If huſht and ſilent all my Paſſions lye, The loudeſt Storms that rend the Sky, Invite Repoſe, and make my Sleep more ſound: The Tempeſt in my Breſt Alone can break my Reſt; From Hurricanes abroad leſs harm is found Than from the ſmalleſt Winds lodg'd Ʋnder-ground.

On a Diſeaſed Old Man, who Wept at thought of leaving the World. I. SHame on thy Beard! That thou canſt Bug-bears dread! Fear Death whom thou ſo oft I aſt ſeen, So oft his Gueſt at Funerals haſt been; Thy ſelf, I mean thy Better Half, already Dead! The Tears were juſt, which at thy Birth did flow, For then Alaſs! thou cam'ſt t'engage The Miſeries of Life, but now, Thou art allow'd to quit the Tragick Stage; Now to be careful to prolong the Scene, And act thy Troubles o'er agen, Is Folly, not to be forgiv'n, ev'n in thy doating Age. II. Full Fourſcore Years (bleſs us! a dreadful ſpace) The World has us'd thee ill, Abus'd thee to thy Face; And Doatard, canſt thou ſtill Solicite her Embrace? In vain thou covet'ſt to enjoy The haughty Dame, when Age and Pains Have ſhrunk thy Nerves, and chill'd thy Veins, Who to thy flouriſhing Years, was ſo reſerv'd and coy. III. Can Cramps, Catarrhs, and Palſies be Such charming Company? What Pleaſures can the Grave deprive Thy Senſes of? What Inconvenience give? From which thou art exempted while alive? At worſt thou canſt but have Cold Lodging in the Grave; Nor ly'ſt thou warmer now, tho' cover'd o'er In Furr, till thy faint Limbs can bear no more: Thou ſleep'ſt each Night in ſo much Sear-Cloth bound, Thou'dſt need no more to lodge thee under-gruond. IV. Go, lay thy ſenſeleſs Hopes of Health aſide; No longer Potions take, No more Inciſions make: Let thy dull Fleſh no more be ſcarify'd: Reſign, reſign thy tainted Breath; Conſult with no Phyſician more, but Death: When all thy Surgeons Inſtruments prove vain, His never-failing Dart Will bleed thee gently at thy Heart, And let out Life, the Sourſe of all thy Pain! Let then thy Funeral Pile be made, With Roſemary and Cypreſs grac't, Aloft on it thy Carcaſs plac't; Beſide thee too thy Crutches laid: Thoſe Ʋtenſils will thus oblige thee more, Fomenting the kind Flame, then when they bore Thy crazy and decrepit Limbs before!

TO Mr. FLATMAN, On his Excellent POEMS. STrange Magick of thy Wit and Stile, Which to their Griefs Mankind can reconcile! While thy Philander's tuneful Voice we hear, Condoling our diſaſtrous State, Toucht with a ſenſe of our hard Fate, We ſigh perhaps, or drop a Tear; But he the mournful Song ſo ſweetly ſings, That more of Pleaſure than Regret it brings, With ſuch becoming Grief So ſweetly ſad, the Trojan Chief Troy's Conſlagration did relate, That ev'n the Suff'rers in the Fire drew near, And with a greedy Ear Devour'd the ſtory of their own ſubverted ſtate. II. Kind Heav'n (as to her Darling Son) to thee A double Portion did impart, A Gift of Painting, and of Po • ſie: Nor ſecond to the Beſt in either Art. Thy happy Pencills more than Pictures give; Thy Drafts are more than Repreſentative: For, if we'll credit our own Eyes, they Live! Ah! worthy Friend, could'ſt thou maintain the State Of what with ſo much Eaſe thou do'ſt create, We might reflect on Death with Scorn! But Pictures like th'Originals decay! Of Colours thoſe conflſt, and theſe of Clay; Alike compos'd of Duſt, to Duſt alike return! III. Yet 'tis our Happineſs to ſee Oblivion, Death, and adverſe Deſtiny, Encounter'd, vanquiſh'd, and diſarm'd by thee. For if thy Pencils fail, Change thy Artillery, And thou art then ſecure of Victory; Employ thy Quill, and thou ſhalt ſtill prevail. The grand Deſtroyer Time it ſelf will ſpare, The meaneſt things that bear Th' Impreſſion of thy Pen: Tho' ne'er ſo courſe and Cheap the Mettal were, Stampt with thy Verſe, he knows they're ſacred then. He knows them by that Character to be Predeſtinate, and ſet apart for Immortality. IV. If Native Luſtre in thy Theams appear, Improv'd by thee, it ſhines more clear: Or if thy Subject's void of native Light, Thy Fancy need but dart a Beam To guild the darkeſt Theam, And make the rude Maſs beautiful and bright. Thou vary'ſt oft thy Strains, but ſtill Succeſs attends each Strain: Thy Verſe is always lofty as the Hill, Or pleaſant as the Plain. How well thy Muſe the Paſtoral improves! Whoſe Nymphs and Swains are in their Loves, As innocent, and yet as kind as Doves. But moſt, ſhe moves our wonder and delight, When ſhe performs her looſe Pindarick Flight; Oft to their utmoſt reach ſhe will extend Her tow'ring Wings to ſoar on high, Then by at juſt degrees deſcend, And oft with wanton Play hangs hov'ring in the Sky. V. Whilſt Senſe of Duty to my artleſs Muſe, Th' ambition wou'd infuſe To mingle with thoſe Nymphs that Homage pay, And wait on thine in her triumphant way: Defect of Merit checks her forward Pride, And makes her dread t'approach thy Chariot ſide; She knows what rude indecency It were, at beſt, if not profane, T'appear at this Solemnity Unwreath'd, among the Lawrell'd Train. But this She will preſume to do, At diſtance to attend the Shew, The ſcatter'd Bays to gather, and with thoſe A Vulgar Coronet compoſe; A needful Ornament to hide Her Nakedneſs, and not for Pride: Such was the artleſs, haſty Dreſs The firſt offending Pair did frame Of platted Leaves, not to expreſs Their Pride, but merely to conceal their Shame.

ON THE Preſent Corrupted State OF POETRY. I. WRite thy own Elegy, Apoſtate Art, Thou Angel once of Light; But, ſince thy Fall, a Fiend of Night, Mankind (alas too prone.) contriving to pervert. At firſt, to th' Altar's Service thou wert bound, With Innocence inſtead of Lawrel Crown'd; Anthems and Hallelujahs did'ſt reſound: But now forgetful of thy bright Deſcent, Thy proſtituted Pains ſoment, And feed the Vices of the Age, Flatt'ring in Court, and Rev'lling on the Stage. That Poeſie, that did at firſt inſpire Devotion and Seraphick Fire, For Hell her Talent now employs, The very Bawd to ſenſual Joys, Suſtaining with forc'd Heat Love's languiſhing deſire. II. The wiſeſt and moſt Potent Kings of Old Embrac'd the Faculty; nor did diſdain To leave their Royal Names enroll'd Among th' inſpired Train: They thought Succeſs in Arms of leſs Renown, And priz'd the Poet's Wreath above th' Imperial Crown. But then the celebrated Nine, Pious as Sybills, chaſte as Veſtals were, The Graces were not more divine; But now deform'd, and bloated they appear: Nyctimene ſuſtain'd no Change ſo foul, A beauteous Nymph transform'd into a glaring Owl. III. In happy Ages paſt, when Juſtice reign'd The Muſes too their Dignity maintain'd, Then Poetry embalm'd ſome worthy Name, And gave Deſervers only Fame. But now ſhe's grown a mercenary Trade, Heav'ns Sacred Gift the Price of Gold is made; For Lucre, with Encomiums ſhe'll purſue The worſt of Men, and praiſe their very Vices too, While Luſt, Extortion, Sacrilege go free, She arms her Satyr, Vertue, againſt thee, And turns on Heav'n its own Artillery. IV. Who has the largeſt Share in her Applauſe, But ſome aſpiring Prince that drowns the Field With humane Blood, who boaſts of Thouſands kill'd, And ne'er conſults the Juſtice of his Cauſe? If to deſtroy can challenge Fame, Famines and Plagues the largeſt Trophies claim; But theſe the Muſes ſmalleſt Errors are, And cannot with their blacker Crimes compare: Long ſince they were immodeſt grown, and vain; But are (Oh! Heay'n) at laſt become profane! Atheiſm and Blaſphemy have dar'd to preach, Religion of Impoſture to impeach; Thoſe Sacred Truths which they themſelves to the rude World did teach. Nor has Heav'ns juſt Revenge regardleſs view'd But with a ſignal Rage their Crimes purſu'd. A conſtant Curſe of Poverty attends The wretched Man, whom any Muſe befriends. All who in this deluding Art engage, Set out with Pleaſure, weary reach their Stage; Frollick in Youth, diſſatisfy'd in Age! Thus (neer learn'd Cam's fair Current Penſive (laid) Th' Ill-treated Cowley did his Muſe upbraid: Ah! who'd credit that Surveys The Love and Dalliance of their youthful Days, That e're this peaceful Bard, and gentle Muſe, Cou'd quarrel thus, and mutually accuſe? So, whilſt ſome ſeeming Happy Pair (Who Hymens Fetters wear) In Publick fond as Turtles are, Th' Ʋnwed with Envy their Careſſes view; But Ah! What wou'd they do, If (as they ſee their open Loves) their private Strife They knew?

The Search. I. COnfeſs ingenuouſly, O Man, The Upſhot of thy Toyl and Pain, The Product of thy Brain; Since firſt thy buſie Race began, Canſt thou produce one Evidence, To prove thy boaſted Reaſon, Thought or Senſe? Yes—Gradually each Age has been Reſin'd, By never-ceaſing Labours of man-kind; The Labours of their Hand, and of their Mind; Ev'n wilye Nature, with her vary'd Shapes, But rarely from their Search eſcapes; Long ſhe reſiſts, but ſtrictly preſt, Reſigns at laſt the Secrets of her Breaſt. Bold Mortals rob with Eaſe Her richeſt Coffers, be they laid In deep Receſſes of profoundeſt Seas, Or to the Caverns of the Earth convey'd; Rather than live contemn'd and Poor, They'l plunge and dive for Gems that ſleep On Beds of Rock beneath the Deep, And Travel Ʋnder-ground for Golden-Oar. II. Enough! — if we'll lay claim, From theſe Performances, to Fame, Where will the Volume of our Praiſes end? For, thouſand Inſtances beſide Will vindicate our Pride, And ſtill the Triumphs of our Wit extend. Such are the Conqueſts which we daily gain On Learnings Ʋndiſcover'd Parts: Our active Fancies ſtill create new Arts; Create new Arts, and what is more, Ev'n from the Dead reſtore Arts, that in Ages paſt have bury'd lain. I grant all this, yet juſtly ſtill ſuſpect Our Glorie's Weight will fail, And Vanity be found the heavier Scale: Impartially if we reflect, We ſhall perceive there's wanting yet The Richeſt Crown our Triumphs to compleat; In vain we boaſt Diſcoveries, Whilſt we return without the nobleſt Prize; The Art of Happineſs ſtill undiſcover'd lies. III. Oh Happineſs! (if Happineſs be ought Beſide a wild Chimaera in the Thought) To what cloſe Nook art thou conſin'd? What diſtant Continent, or Iſle, That thou canſt ſtill beguile The reſtleſs Search of all Mankind! Ev'n in this Vale of Miſery, Some Rivulets of Bliſs we taſte; But Rivulets half dry, And tainted with the Soil through which they paſt. Ah! that ſome friendly Seraph wou'd convey, Or point me out the way To thoſe glad Lands, where Happineſs flows pure; Where I might drink ſecure At Pleaſure's Fountain-Head; No Surfeit wou'd I dread; But quaff the Cordial Flood, Till mingling with my Blood, And circ'ling through each Part, It ſhould like Balſom eaſe my Smart; Like Nectar, cheriſh my dejected Heart! IV. In various ways deluded Mortals toil, All buſi'd i'th' Diſcovery of Content; Content the Game we all-purſue; But hunt it ſtill on a cold Scent; The wary Prey ne'er comes in view, But ſculks aloof and leaves us at a Foil: Yet where's the diſappointed Man will ſay, He now deſpairs of being bleſt? For tho' at preſent unpoſſeſt Of his dear Hope, he's yet in a fair way; That now his Project wants but carrying on As 'tis begun, And then the mighty Task is done: Done, ſay'ſt thou, credulous Man? Yes! So the Babel Builders heretofore, Raiſing to Heav'n their proud Tow'r, lackt no more Than carrying on the Work as they began. But, grant thy Years of Drudgery were paſt, 'Tis odds thou art impos'd upon at laſt: Thou, like the Syrian Husband-man of Old, Believ'ſt thy ſelf to hold The beauteous Rachel faſt in thy Embrace; And tho' the pleaſing Error laſt a Night, Be ſure the next returning Light Shall fright thee with an unexpected Face, And ſhew thee Blear-ey'd Leah in thy Rachell's place.

The Proſpect. FRom a tall Praecipice on the Sea-ſide, A Rev'rend Hermite view'd the ſpreading Tide: The Flood tho curl'd with a becoming Wave, No Sign of any riſing Tempeſt gave. A goodly Ship was coaſting by the Place, Like a proud Courſer foaming in her Pace: With flatt'ring Courtſhip the laſcivious Gails Her Streamers furle, and wanton in her Sails. The Waves divide to give the Pageant way; Then cloſing, with rais'd Heads the Pomp ſurvey. Whilſt the grave Man this Spectacle intends, Pleas'd with the Scene a ſuddain Storm deſcends, That in one Inſtant rifles all the Boat, Whoſe ſcatter'd Streamers on the Billows float. Reflects at large on this diſaſtrous Sight, Then, to his Cell return'd, the Anchorite Of earthly Greatneſs weighs th' uncertain State, Which, in its faireſt Bloom, and proudeſt Height, Stands moſt expos'd to Storms of ſuddain Fate.

The Requeſt. SO may you Spring, and ſo Heav'ns choiceſt Dew, In Nightly-Show'rs diſtill, fair Plants, on you; As You on Me your rankeſt Venom ſhed, Whil'ſt at Your Feet I make my graſſie Bed. And Thou, O Goddeſs, (whoſe obliging Womb Affords the Living Food, the Dead a Tomb) Permit me, e'er I die, to dig my Grave; 'Tis all my ſtarv'd Ambition has to crave. I rob Thee not; for, tho' my delving Spade Diſlodge thy Mould, there's yet no Treſpaſs made: For I the petty Damage ſhall repay, Filling the vacant Ground with my own Clay.

The Inſtallment. I. LOng have I languiſht in the Fire Of an unquenchable Deſire; And will it not ſuffice Thee, Love, That I thy ſilent Martyr am, Unleſs thy Worſhip I improve, Converting others to thy Flame? If I the Practiſe not neglect, Thou canſt no more from Me expect; Not gifted for a Teacher in the Sect. II. My Gifts of Nature are too ſmall; I own it, and pretend no Call: Beſide, I've found at laſt the Cheat; The Flame that does thy Prieſts inſpire, (Pretended for Seraphick Heat) Is meer Enthuſiaſtick Fire. When Heav'n inſpires, the Mind no Trouble knows; But Love's wild Extaſies (like thoſe Of Pagan Prieſts) torment and diſcompoſe. III. And 'tis no more than their Deſert, That theſe Impoſtors thus ſhould ſmart; By whoſe falſe Wiles we are betray'd To Love's curſt Tyranny and Rage: For they, when once his Captives made, Streight fall to ſinging in their Cage: Mean while from far the wond'ring Flock repairs, And liſt'ning to their Charming Airs, Inſenſibly are caught in equal Snares.

The Penance. NYmph Fanaret the Gentleſt Maid That ever happy Swain obey'd, (For what Offence I cannot ſay) A Day and Night, and half a Day, Baniſht her Shepherd from her Sight: His Fault for certain was not ſlight; Or ſure this tender Judge had ne'er Impos'd a Penance ſo ſevere. And leſt ſhe ſhould anon revoke What in her warmer Rage ſhe ſpoke, She bound the Sentence with an Oath, Proteſted by her Faith and Troth, Nought ſhou'd compound for his Offence, But the full Time of Abſtinence. Yet when his Penance Glaſs were run, His Hours of Caſtigation done, Shou'd he defer one Minutes ſpace To come, and be reſtor'd to Grace, With ſparkling threatning Eyes ſhe ſwore, That Failing wou'd incenſe her more Than all his Treſpaſſes before.

Laura's Walk. I. THE Sun far ſunk in his Deſcent, Laid now his Tyrant Rays aſide, When Laura to the Garden went, To triumph over Natures Pride. II. The Roſe-Buds bluſht with deeper Dye, Envying Lillies paler grew; The Violets droopt with Fear to ſpie On Laura's Veins a richer Blew. III. She ſtoopt and gather'd as ſhe went, But whilſt ſhe ſlaughter'd ſweetly Smil'd; As Angells tho' for Ruine ſent, Appear with Looks ſerene and mild. IV. But now grown weary with her Toyl, A Garland for her Brow ſhe frames: Thus with proud Trophies made o'th' ſpoil, Her Conqueſt o'er the Spring proclaims.

The Ʋſurpers. I. USurping Paſſions held a long Conteſt For the ſupream Dominion of my Breaſt; But whilſt in mutual Broyls the Tyrants rag'd Whoever by the Battel gain'd, I ſtill the certain loſs ſuſtain'd; For they ne'er fail'd as oft as they engag'd, To waſte the Province where the War was wag'd. II. Whilſt ſuch wild Havock in my Breaſt was made, Reaſon firſt came to tender me his Aid; And ſure with that moſt potent Prince ally'd, Had I but play'd the Man i'th' Fight, My Paſſions had been put to flight. But I not only to aſſiſt deny'd; But treacherouſly fell to th' Enemy's ſide. III. Then from the Powers of Love redreſs I crav'd; But was by that Allyance worſe enſlav'd: For tho Loves Forces quickly did degrade Theſe proud Uſurpers of my Breaſt, Yet was I not hereby redreſt, For Love himſelf prov'd falſe, when Victor made, And ſeiz'd the Province which he came to aid. IV. But heavier now the Bondage I ſuſtain, Then during my tumultuous Paſſions Reign. 'Twere now no ſmall Preſumption to implore Indulgent Fates to ſet me free, As in my Native Liberty. Thoſe Hopes are vaniſht, let them but reſtore My former Tyrants, I demand no more.

The Amuſement. Strephon. WHy weeps my Sylvia, prethee why? Sylvia. To think my Strephon once muſt die; To think withall poor Sylvia may When He's remov'd be doom'd to ſtay. Streph. Nymph, You'r too laviſh of your Tears, To waſte them on Fantaſtick Fears. Sylv. No, for when I this Life reſign, (If Fate prolong the Date of thine) The Tears you'l give my Funeral, Will pay me Intereſt, Stock and all. Streph. Mot ſo, for ſhou'd this ſetting Light Ne'er riſe again in Sylvia's ſight, Without a Tear in mine I'd view Her Dying Eyes. Sylv. 'Tis falſe. Streph. 'Tis true. Sylv. Not weep, falſe Shepherd? Swear. Streph. I Swear I wou'd not give thy Hearſe a Tear. Sylv. Break ſwelling Heart! perfidious Man! Can you be ſerious? Swear agen, Yes, Swear by Ceres and by Pan. Streph. Let then great Pan and Ceres hear, And puniſh if I falſely ſwear. Sylv. Gods! Can ye hear this and forgive? You may; for I have heard and live! Streph. Rage not, raſh Nymph, for I've decreed When Sylvia Dies— Sylv. Speak, what? Streph. To bleed. I'll drain the Life-blood from my Heart; But no cheap Tear ſhall dare to ſtart. Sylv. Kind Shepheard, cou'd you Life deſpiſe, And bleed at Sylvia's Obſequies? Streph. To Ceres I appeal, for ſhe Knows this has long been my Decree. Sylv. Since then you cou'd your Vow fulfill, Swear, Swear once more you never will.

The Amoriſt. SEe where enamour'd Thirſis lies, And cannot ceaſe to gaze On his Lariſſa's ſparkling Eyes; But takes delight to ſee thoſe Comets blaze, Whoſe Luſtre ſtill is fatal to the Swain, O'er whom they Reign, For by their Influence the poor Shepheard Dies, Or (more to be lamented) lives in Pain.

The Surprizal. IN the ſtraight Paſſage of a Grove, Whom ſhou'd I chance to meet but Love? I ſeiz'd the Elf, and ſaid, at laſt, I've caught thee, and I'll hold thee faſt: Now by thy Mothers Doves and Sparrows, I'll rob thee of thy Bow and Arrows: I'll chain thee up, and chp thy Wings, Or ſtrangle thee in thine own Strings, Unleſs thou inſtantly relate The Reaſon of my Celia's Hate. Then thus the Boy reply'd,—Fond Swain Vex not your ſelf and me in vain; That Celia anſwers not your Flame, Neither of us are to blame. Returns of Love can only be From Beauty of a leſs Degree; But Celia, ſo divinely grac'd, To be ador'd, and not embrac'd.

The Ʋnconfin'd. SONG. BElieve me, Nymph, you ſtrive in vain My Paſſion to confine: 'Tis Noble, and muſt needs repine, To wear the ſervile Chain. Your Beauty's Pow'r, if you would ſee, Bid Mountains to remove; Your Charms may there ſucceſsful be, But never fix my Love.

DIALOGUE, Alexis and Laura. Laura. Alexis— Alex. Deareſt. Laura. Take a Kiſs. Alex. What means this unexpected Bliſs? A Bliſs which I ſo oft in vain Have crav'd, and now unaskt obtain! Laur. When to my Swain reſerv'd I ſeem'd, I lov'd him, kiſt him, leſs eſteem'd! Alex. Dear Nymph, your female Arts forbear, With one already in the Snare. 'Tis, Laura, an unjuſt Deſign To treat ſo plain a Soul as mine With Oracles; ſuch myſtick Senſe Religion fitly may diſpenſe; But theſe dark Riddles marr Love's Joy, As Clouds Gems in their worth deſtroy. Laur. Then take it on your Peril, Swain, (Since you compell me to be plain) The Kiſs I gave you was in lieu Of all Love-debts from Laura due. Alex. What Crimes can I have wrought to force This ſuddain, and ſevere Divorce? Laur. Recall, falſe Shepheard, what to day I heard you to Dorinda ſay. You ſaid ſhe did Noons Light out-ſhine, That Beauty's Queen was leſs Divine; You vow'd reſpect to her Commands, And (Heav'n forgive you) kiſt her Hands. Alex. You wrong me, Nymph, by Pan you do; That Courtſhip was Reſpect to you. Dorinda's Beauties well are known To bear ſuch Likeneſs to your own, That when I made my late Addreſs, 'Twas in that gentle Shepherdeſs The ſweetneſs of thoſe Charms to taſte, Which ſo divinely Laura grac't. Laur. Weak Nymphs with Men contend in vain, Who Thus their Errors can maintain. Chorus. Wiſe Nature's Care is here expreſt, That neither Sex ſhould be oppreſt; Who, when to Nymphs ſhe did commit Commanding Charms, gave Shepherds Wit, With Arts and Cunning to allay, And temper Beauty's powerful Sway.

The Reſtitution. HEr keen Diſdain pierc'd deep my Breaſt, And with a ſuddain Breach diſmiſt The deareſt Drops my Heart contain'd: I ventur'd to her, and complain'd, To eaſe my Smart and ſtill my Fears; She wept, and bath'd my wound with Tears. Blood will have Blood (they ſay) and be Repaid in Kind: 'Tis falſe in me. For Sylvia wound me yet more deep, If after you vouchſafe to weep; 'Twill more than recompence my Wrongs, and▪, Bleeding to Death, ſhall Sylvia's Debtor die.

The Eſcape. ON a Streams Bank I ſaw her ſtand, A plyant Angle in her Hand. I markt how ſhe diſguis'd the Hook, And caſt her Bait into the Brook. The Sport ſucceeded to her Wiſh; For ſtraight ſhe hung a maſter-Fiſh; But Ah! too eager on her Prey, Refus'd to give the Captive Play, Till tir'd, himſelf he would reſign; Who checkt too raſhly, broke the Line. Away he ſhoots; but while he thus regains His Liberty, the bearded Steel remains, And galls his tender Gills with reſtleſs Pains. II. Like this poor Fiſh with me it far'd; When firſt by her bright Charms enſnar'd: For ſo I gorg'd the Bait ſhe caſt, While with the ſame impatient haſte, She fiercely came to ſeize her Prey, That with hard ſtruggling broke away. But to what purpoſe am I free, Living in painful Liberty? In vain I boaſt that I ſurvive the Dart, Whoſe Venom'd Pile lies feſtring in my Heart, And (tho it kill not) galls with reſtleſs ſmart.

The Politicians. HOw groſly do the Learn'd and Wiſe Miſtake in Love's State-Policies! Who ſeeing Me and Celia jarr, Expect forthwith an open War: So little does their Wiſdom gueſs, What makes a Lover's Happineſs, That Anger fanns the Fire, and Strife, The Bleſſing of the Lovers Life. So Turtles, to encreaſe the Bliſs, Coo and murmur while they kiſs. Love like Lightning ſhines more fair In Storms than in ſerener Air. Let, Celia, None our Judges be; But ſuch as love to our Degree; Whoſe wedded Paſſion holds the ſame, As when we burnt in Virgin Flame. Sometimes like parting Streams we ſtray, And ſeem to take a ſundry way; But meet ere long, and ſo united move, Till we are loſt in a full Sea of love.

The Vow-Breaker. CLoſe by a Moſſie Fountains Side, A ſpacious Marble Baſon ſtands; Paſſing that way, Ardelia there I ſpy'd; Oft-times and oft ſhe waſht and dry'd her Hands. Bleſs me! I could not chuſe but ſmile At her fantaſtick Toil; For from her Arms the Waters purer fell, Than when ſhe took them from the Well! So Vapours rais'd from Earth, renew, And take in Air a fairer hue; The Ev'ning Miſt deſcends in Morning Dew. II. Ah! I'm undone; the Fear was juſt That checkt me when I gave my Heart To this fair Nymph, who ſtorm'd at my diſtruſt, And ſwore from the dear Pledge ſhe'd never part. A while ſhe lodg'd it in her Breaſt, Where, like a Turtle in its Neſt, It ſlept, till ſhe (wou'd you believe ſhe cou'd) Imbru'd her Hands in its warm Blood? Then waſhing here, deſign'd to ſtain The harmleſs Fount; but ſtrove in vain; Her Hands the Conſcious Dye retain. III. Henceforth let none your Beauty prize, But ſuch as can be falſe as you; You who admit no Hearts your Votaries, Save what you make (like mine) your Victims too; 'Tis evident what you deſign, You'd be in earneſt thought divine. Then, Goddeſs, know your Rites amiſs proceed, Your Victims burn before they bleed; But you theſe Impoſitions lay, To try how tamely we'll obey, E'er you erect your Arbitrary Sway.

The Tear. HOld, Julia, ſave that precious Tear, That ev'n adorns thine Eye; The Meteor ſparkles in that Sphere; But fall'n to Earth 't will die; Yet in its Orb it cannot ſtay; For ſee the Sun-beams come in ſwarms to prey, And ſip the rich delicious Juice away. II. Into this Viol let it fall— See Julia, how it ſparkles through! Well may thoſe Eyes prevail on all, Whoſe Tears have killing Glances too. If ſolid as a Gem it were, No Gem could vie with this tranſparent Tear; The Eye that wept it only cou'd compare. III. It ſhall be ſo, I will convert This Tear to a Gem, 'tis poſſible: For laid near Julia's frozen Heart, 'Twill to a Diamond congeal. Theſe Tears of Julia's can fore-bode no Ill,; The Froſt is breaking when ſuch drops diſtill.

The Diſcovery. WHen firſt Love's Vot'rie I became, (Charm'd with the Luſtre of his Flame) My Youth his God-like Form admir'd, And fondly thought his Prieſts inſpir'd. 'Mongſt them I proudly ſought a Place, And was by Chance allow'd the Grace; But once admitted to his Shrine, That Love whom I eſteem'd Divine, More terrible than Moloch ſtood, His Altars ſtain'd with Humane Blood. The wounded Lover lives in Pain, Lies neither curable nor ſlain, Till his keen Sword ſheath'd in his Heart, Compleat the Slaughter of the Dart. Others to quench their Calenture, Have tane a ſpeedy Courſe and ſure; Whilſt from ſome Precipice's Brow, They plung'd into the Floods below. To Deſarts others have retir'd, And penſive there in Caves expir'd: What Place, or Age, or Sex is free From this Uſurper's Tyranny? The populous City he frequents, And pitches in the Camp his Tents. In Courts and Palaces he Reigns, And proudeſt Monarchs wear his Chains. Yet he that thus the Scepter awes, Diſdains not to impoſe his Laws On Cottages, and there deſtroys The Nymphs and Shepherds native Joys. Their purer Air methinks ſhou'd be, From Love's ſevere Contagion free; But all their Meads and Gardens bear No Herb t' aſſwage this Feaver there! Far from his Flock Alexis weeps, Neglects to feed, and rarely ſleeps; His once ſure Charm for ev'ry Grief, The Pipe affords him no Relief; Gaſping at Sylvia's Feet he lies, Whilſt ſhe for ſcornful Strephon dies. How wretched is the Lover's State, Preſt on all ſides with ſome hard Fate? His Hopes alike it will deſtroy, Not to ſucceed, or to enjoy. For if he lawleſly embrace, He's then unhappy, as he's baſe; And he that honourably loves, Leſs wretched, but not happy proves! To him that waits his Nuptial Day, The Hours paſs lazily away; Falſe Dreams of Bliſs his Thoughts employ, Impatient therefore to enjoy, Raſhly he bargains for a Wife, And with her weds the Cares of Life; But wrought to Expectations Height, His fancy'd Bliſſes vaniſh ſtrait: For leapt into the Marriage-bed, With Briars and Thorns he finds it ſpread, Repents too late, and envies the unwed.

The Parting. HEre do I fix my Foot, and farewel Love! I will no further move. When firſt in Error's miſty Night I loſt my ſelf, and rov'd about; This Ignis-fatuus found me out; Before me roll'd with wanton Play, And ſeem'd to bring me on my Way. Raſhly I follow'd the ſeducing Fire Through briny Floods of Tears, 'Mongſt thorny Jealouſies and Fears, O'er Precipices of Deſpair, And where no Paſſage did appear, Oft have I forc'd a Path; but now I tire. What Glimpſe was that which ſtruck my Eye From that far-kindling Sky? Welcome bright Harbinger of Day; By thee I know the Sun is on his way. What Deſart's this?—Alaſs! I fear I'm ſtray'd, And after all my Toil and Fright In this tempeſtuous Night, By my officious Guide betray'd. Oh! when ſhall I arrive at the Abode Of happy Souls (ſince they that ſooneſt ſtrive To reach that Stage are late e'er they arrive) I, who am cumbred with ſo vaſt a Load Of vain Deſires, and have Alaſs! So many weary Steps to paſs E'er I retrieve my Strays, and get into the Road.

On an Old Miſer that Hoarded His Treaſure in a Steel Cheſt, and bury'd it. CAnſt thou in Dungeon ſmother up that Pelf That's dearer to thee than thy ſelf? Th' ill-treated Pris'ner is debarr'd the Sight Of its own cheerful Parent light. In ſuch ſtrict Ward thy Gold thou doſt retain, As Pagans did their Idols chain; Leſt ſome audacious Foe by Force ſhould ſeize, Or charm away their Deities. In vain from others Reach thou doſt conſine What is no leſs reſerv'd form Thine! So Merchants, rather than reſign their Goods To Pyrats, ſink them in the Floods. Dull Miſer, know, no part of all thy Gains Falls to thy ſhare, beſide the Pains. Dull wretched Aſs, to ſtarve beneath a Pack Of Provender that breaks thy back. Think not thou doſt lik Nature to Interr Thy Gold, cauſe 'twas Interr'd by Her; The Cell which Nature gave it was a Womb, To breed the Oar; but thine it's Tomb.

The Viſion. Written in a dangerous Fit of Sickneſs. DIſſolv'd in Slumber by complaining Streams, My Fancy labour'd with important Dreams: Methought I was with Fury born away Through diſmal Vaults, whoſe Caverns did convey To Death's ſad Courts; the Brazen Gates I paſt, Which on my Entrance were again made faſt. The dreadful Cell with Horror I ſurvey'd, For deadmens Bones in Heaps were round me laid, And Skulls of largeſt ſize the Pavement made. The Sun to this dark Manſion darts the Ray, But glim'ring Lamps make all the feeble Day. By their faint Light I ſearch't the Cave around, And in each Nook amazing Objects found. Small Tablets hung by Threads on either Hand, By each a Glaſs that meaſur'd Time with Sand: In bloody Letters they the Name explain'd The Number of whoſe Years the Glaſs contain'd. Grim Fate ſtood by to watch the lateſt Grain, And cut the ſlender Thread of Life in twain. Then down the Tablet dropt to Streams below, That with ſwift Paſſage into Lethe flow. While thus through ſecret Deſtiny I pry'd, My own Name on the ſuddain I deſcry'd: But Oh! the Pangs and Agonies that rent My panting Breaſt to find my Glaſs near ſpent! The Tragick Scene begins (Forgive me Fate, That I reveal the Secrets of thy State.) Strait was I ſummon'd to receive my Doom; For Death with horrid Grace approacht the Room, Array'd Majeſtick in a mourning Robe, A Dart his Scepter, and a Skull his Globe. He ſate, th' Attendants on his Perſon ſtood, All arm'd for Slaughter, and diſtain'd with Blood. Diſeaſes next were plac't, a numerous Train, Producing each a Volumne of his ſlain. No ſooner were my ſcatter'd Thoughts reſtor'd, But I with mental Pray'rs Heav'ns Aid implor'd; Then thus with hollow Voice the Tyrant ſpoke— In vain, fond Youth, Heav'n Succour you invoke; Stand to the Bar, and hear th' Indictment read: For e'er thou dy'ſt, thou art allow'd to plead: Thy Charge is deep; but for thy ſelf reply. Oh, I am guilty, and deſerve to Dye! My Years in Vanity's Purſuit I ſpent, Too oft tranſgreſt, too rarely did repent: Some Vices (Heav'n aſſiſting) I ſuppreſt, And laſting War proclaim'd with all the reſt; But in the Combat oft drew back and fled, By Paſſions oft ſurpriz'd, and Captive led. But are this Courts Proceedings ſo ſevere, That Youth can challenge no Indulgence here? For if my Life to riper Years had mov'd, Perhaps my Skill and Courage had improv'd. Mortal thy Doom already is decreed, (The Judge reply'd) and Sentence muſt proceed. This Court's Records with Inſtances abound Of younger Brows than thine with Conqueſt crown'd; Approach, ye Miniſters of Fate, and bear Th' Offender hence to Regious of Deſpair; In Liquid Flames of Sulphur let him roul, In ſharpeſt Torments of a Hell-wreckt Soul. Thus let him howl Eternity away, Ever in Flames, yet never more ſee Day. Confuſion now my tortur'd Boſom fill'd; Cold Sweat from all my lifeleſs Joynts diſtill'd. A Guard of Daemons at the Tyrant's Call, With hideous Yellings ruſht into the Hall, Monſtrous of Shape, of Size prodigious tall. In this Diſtreſs behold a Heav'nly Ray, Around me did his chearful Light diſplay. The Lamps grew pale, and ſhrunk into their Caſe, The frighted Daemons vaniſht from the Place; The haughty Tyrant's Self confus'd appear'd; A ratling Noiſe amongſt the Bones was heard, As ſummon'd to the Univerſal Doom, They juſtled with each other in their Tomb. Not daring yet to hope Relief, I ſpy'd My Guardian Angel ſmiling by my Side: A ſilent Joy through all my Vitals ran; Whilſt thus in charming Language he began, Rejoyce my Charge, for from Heav'ns Court I come With gracious Orders to revoke thy Doom. Thy Sun is ſet, thy Life-glaſs almoſt run, Thy Vertue's Race imperfectly begun. Yet in Compaſſion to thy ſickly pace, My Wing ſhall bear thee to the diſtant Place. To Heav'n and him my humbleſt Thanks I paid, And beg'd to be to thoſe glad Seats convey'd; But firſt admit the Lot of all Mankind, And leave (ſaid he) that Load of Earth behind; Pris'ner's abſolv'd, leſs gladly quit their Chain Than I this Fleſh that did my Soul detain. But when her ſelf unmantled, ſhe ſurvey'd Leprous and foul by Sin's Contagion made; She bluſht, and ſought to cover her Diſgrace, Retreating back to her forſaken Caſe. The Guardian Spirit her fond Attempt withſtood, And ſtraight with Hyſſop dipt in Sacred Blood, Baptiz'd her; and behold, whilſt I enquir'd, The Ceremonie's Drift, I grew inſpir'd With mental Joys, and now deſcry'd no more Thoſe Blemiſhes that ſtain'd my Soul before: Thought of New Worlds my mind had ſo ingroſt, That all Reflection on the Old it loſt: That Body too (which once I fondly thought Cou'd never be from my Remembrance wrought) Had now quite 'ſcapt my Mem'ry, till I ſpy'd The pale and lifeleſs Engine by my Side, Bleſs me (ſaid I) what ghaſtly thing lies there? Was this the Manſion where ſo many a Year I lingred 'twixt ſucceſſive Hope and Fear? Was this the thing I took ſuch Care t' improve, Taught it to cringe, and in juſt meaſures move? The thing that lately did in Buſineſs ſweat, That talkt ſo much of being Rich and Great! That ſought with Verſe to make its Love renown'd, And hop'd e'er long to ſee its Paſſion Crown'd; Behold where the deſigning Engine lies, Prey to thoſe Inſects it did once deſpiſe. Suppoſe that Body now lay cover'd o'er In Perfumes brought from Ormus Spicie Shore; What courteous Female wou'd vouchſafe the Grace To curl thoſe Locks, or kiſs that ghaſtly Face? Why is the Corps ſo long detain'd from Ground; 'Tis more than Time thoſe Hands and Feet were bound. Haſte, let the Fun'ral Peal be rung aloud, In Winding-Sheets th' offenſive Carkaſs ſhrowd And in ſome Nook the uſeleſs Lumber crowd. Inſulting thus I ſpake, and more had ſaid; But was by my Aſſiſtant-Angel ſtay'd; My Charge, ſaid he, (theſe gloomy ſhades withdrawn) Behold of Everlaſting Day the Dawn: At Entrance to th' Elyſian Land (a Grace Conferr'd on Souls when they arrive the Place) The happy Throng are met to welcome thee To their fair World of Immortality. He ſaid, and ſtraight his threatning Wandup-heav'd, The Neighb'ring Walls obey'd the Stroke, and cleav'd; With ſuch a Pow' • ful Blow the Hebrew Guide Prevail'd, and forc't his Paſſage through the Tide; The Waters there congeal'd, and ſtood in Walls, The Building here like breaking Water falls: But now the parting Seene brought Heav'n in view, When (Fatal Chance!) my charming Dream withdrew. The grateful Slumber from my Temples fell; I view'd the Grove around, and thought it Hell; Aloud I call'd my Guide, obligingly The Ecchoing Rocks a while kept up the Cry; But the falſe Viſion fled without Reply.

ODE. To my Ingenious Friend, Mr. Flatman. AS when the fam'd Artiſicer of Grece, With wondrous Art, but ill Succeſs Contriv'd his own, and captiv'd Son's Eſcape, By Wings which he by inſpir'd Craft did ſhape: He taught the Youth how ſafely he might glide, And keep a Mean betwixt the Sun and Tide: So you (Learn'd Friend) with equal Art To me the Wings of Poeſie impart; Before me through the ſpacious Sphere A ſteady wondrous Courſe you ſteer, Shun all Extreams, while I unfortunate, Like Icarus die, but with leſs glorious Fate! He ſoaring fell, I flag below, Where with damp Wings diſabled to purſue, I yield my ſelf for loſt, and plunging down In deep Oblivion drown.

The Banquet. DIſpatch, and to the Myrtle-Grove convey What e're with Nature's Pallat ſuits, The Dayrie's ſtore with Sallads, Roots and Fruits; I mean to play the Epicure to day! Let nought be wanting to compleat Our Bloodleſs Treat; But bloodleſs let it be; for 'tis decreed The Grape alone for this Repaſt ſhall bleed. But Love be firſt expell'd the Company, With unmixt Wine our Mirth as pure and free, From Thoughts of any ſcornful little She. Come Sirs, a whetting Glaſs, and do not ſpare, By Jove delicious Fare! Speak Friends, was ever Monarch's Table ſtor'd Like this our Rural Board, Where, with the Bleſſings of the Field, is ſent The Diet of the Gods, Content.

The Match. BY what wild Frenzy was I led, That with a Muſe I muſt needs wed? Whoſe Dow'r conſiſts of empty Fame, The ſhort Poſſeſſion of a Name! Yet with that Trouble and Debate The owner holds this poor Eſtate; Where after long Expence and Toil He ſtarves on the ungrateful Soil. The Fields and Groves which Poets feign The curious Fancy entertain, But yields no timely Grain or Fruit, The craving Stomach to recruit. With thirſty Tongue the Rhymer ſings Of Nectar and Celeſtial Springs. And ſuch I fear the Faiery Ground Of our Elyſium will be found. A meer Fools Paradiſe, and fit For ſuch as will be Men of Wit.

The Diſconſolate. MY lab'ring Soul no longer can ſuſtain; But ſinks beneath th' encreaſing Pain: I wiſh, contrive, attempt and rage in vain! Down by theſe falling Springs I'll lay My weary Limbs, and ſigh my troubled Soul away! To theſe lone Fields my Griefs I will impart, Oh my diſtracted Head! Oh my afflicted Heart! But ſtay, why ſhou'd I mournfully recite My Grievances, to fright The feather'd Poets of theſe Streams? To interrupt their Mirth and Peace, Whilſt Philomel her long-lov'd Song ſhall ceaſe, And from my Sorrows learn more Tragick Theams! No! No! I will conceal my weighty Ills, Seal up my Lips, nor looſe them ev'n to pray; But all my Plaints in Mental Pray'rs convey, That ſhall to Heav'n as ſilent riſe, as Dew from thence diſtills. II. Dream I? Or is't a real Prodigy? Behold a Breach in that unclouded Skie: The Azure Curtains are drawn wide, And to my wondring Eyes diſcloſe Elyſian Lands, where happy Souls reſide: See where the Spring of Pleaſure flows, On whoſe fair Banks the Bleſt take ſoft Repoſe: Free from Thought of Miſery They ſing, and ſmile, and rove, And feaſt on Joys in ev'ry Grove; Their Paradiſe has no Forbidden Tree.

Sliding on Skates in a hard Froſt. HOw well theſe frozen Floods now repreſent Thoſe Chryſtal Waters of the Firmament! Tho' Hurricanes ſhou'd rage, they cou'd not now So much as curle the ſolid Water's Brow; Proud Fleets, whoſe ſtubborn Cables ſcarce withſtood The Fury of the late tempeſtuous Flood, In watry Ligaments are now reſtrain'd, More faſt than when in binding Ooze detain'd. But tho their Service does at preſent fail, Our ſelves without the aid of Tide or Gale, On Keels of poliſht Steel ſecurely ſail: From ev'ry Creek to ev'ry Point we rove, And in our lawleſs Paſſage ſwifter move Than Fiſh beneath us, or than Fowl above.

Strephon's Complaint on quitting his Retirement. I. BƲſineſs!—Oh ſtay till I recover Breath, The dreadful Word puts all my Senſe to ſlight; Buſineſs to me ſounds terrible as Death; As Death to Lovers on their Bridal Night. Free as Air, but more Serene The Courſe of my paſt Life has been; But I, uncuſtom'd to the Yoak, muſt now In ſtubborn Harneſs Toil at the dull Plow. II. Then farewell Happineſs, ſweet Peace, farewell! You come not where poor Strephon muſt reſide, For you, like Haleyons on calm Waters dwell; But Buſineſs is a rough and troubled Tide: Few Suns have paſt ſince I was bleſt, Of God-like Liberty poſſeſt; But now Employment's Slave without Repoſe, And Ghoſt-like hurry'd where my Daemon goes. III. But Buſineſs to Preferment will direct, And 'tis ev'n neceſſary to be Great. Ah! have I then no more than this t' expect? My ſtinted Hopes will ſtarve on ſuch thin Meat. Impertinents! Content I crave, And wildly you of Greatneſs rave! If Life's at beſt a tedious rugged Road, What muſt it be with State's encumbring Load? IV. Condemn'd to Town, Noiſe and Impertinence, Where Mode and Ceremony I muſt view! Yet were the Sight all, Strepkon cou'd diſpenſe; But he muſt there be Ceremonious too. I fear my Rural Soul's too plain, To learn the Town's diſſembling Strain; For whilſt I practice the ſly Courtier's Art, I ſhall forget my ſelf, and ſpeak my Heart. V. When firſt the diſmal Tidings I receiv'd, That I muſt bid my peaceful Shades adieu; Scarce was I by my Fellow-Swains believ'd, Till ſtreaming Tears prov'd my ſad Story true. Then penſive they my Doom reſent, As 'twere to Death or Baniſhment; But Oh my Panalthaea's tender moan Surpaſt her Sexes Kindneſs, and her own. VI. Thus ſpake ſhe, with a fore't Frown on her Brow, Will you be gone? Falſe Strephon, will you go? Then go thy way; go, for I hate thee now! But tell me, are you ſerious, Swain, or no? This is ſome jealous Trick, to prove The Truth of my too tender Love: But whilſt of mine this feign'd Suſpect is ſhown, You wou'd ſuggeſt that you've renounc'd your own. VII. Thy Love, chaſte Nymph, deep in my Breaſt I laid, When firſt the precious Pledge I did receive; Nor have I thence the ſacred Store convey'd; Here! break the Cabinet, and you'l believe! You'l ſee with what a bleeding Heart, From theſe dear Shades, and thee I part; But cruel Fate— then on her Virgin Breaſt I lean'd my drooping Head, and wept the reſt. VIII. Oh Floods and Groves, beneath whoſe ſacred Shade I ſat as happy as firſt Mortals were; For when Diſtractions did my Breaſt invade, Some skillful Shepherd's Song redreſt my Care. But 'bove the Flights of other Swains, I priz'd my Aſtragon's ſoft Strains: For (Turtle-like) my penſive Aſtragon Is ſweetly ſad, and charming in his Moan.

The Gold-hater. WEll, I perceive the Antipathy Is mutual now 'twixt Gold and Me; For that flies me as faſt as I The falſe pernicious Metal fly. So wild a Prey why ſhou'd I trace, That yields no Pleaſure in the Chaſe? A Prey that muſt with Toil be ſought, And which I prize not when 'tis caught. Gold I contemn when rude in Oar; But in a Crown deſpiſe it more. No Crown can any Temples fit So well, but 'twill uneaſie ſit. By an Eternal Law of Fate, Vexations ſtill attend on State; Inſep'rable by Humane Art, A Crown'd Head, and an aking Heart.

The Miſtake. DUll Mortals with the ſame prepoſt'rous Breath We bleſs Love's Darts, and curſe the Shafts of Death. The Author of out Ills, a God we ſtile; But the Redreſſer of thoſe Wrongs revile. Yet gentle Death, (tho rudely treated) ſtill Perſiſts in generous Charity to kill, And cure th' ingrateful ev'n againſt their Will! Ah, ſhould be once in juſt Reſentment give Our Wiſhes, and permit us ever live; What ſhou'd we do when Soul and Body jar, And loath each other like an ill-wed Pair? But friendly Death abſolves us from this Curſe, And when the Parties claſh, makes a Divorce.

Diſappointed. I. FRom Clime to Clime with reſtleſs Toyl we Roam, But ſadly ſtill our old Griefs we retain, And with us bear beyond the ſpacious Main The ſame unquiet ſelves we brought from Home! Can Nature's plenteous Board Spread wide from Pole to Pole, Sufficient Treats afford, To ſatisfie our craving Soul? Produce what Wealth the Sea contains, Or ſleeps in Indian Veins, Th' inſatiate Mind will gorge the Store, And call for more. II. The Food of Angels of immortal kind, Can only feaſt the Hunger of the Mind. To thoſe bright Seats let me aſpire, Where ſolid Joys remain, So firm they can ſuſtain, And ſtand the full Career of chaſt Deſire. Th'Enjoyments we purſue So hotly here below, Are charming Daphnes in the Chaſe, And (Daphne-like) transforming, fool us in th' Embrace!

Lib. 1. Epigr. CX. De Iſſa Catellâ Publii. Iſſa much to be preferr'd To Catullus amorous Bird; Chaſter thou than Stella's Dove, Yet fond as Girls when firſt they love. Iſſa worth both Indies Treaſure, Iſſa Publius's Life and Pleaſure. Iſſa mourns if he complain, Iſſa ſhares his Health and Pain. All Night on his warm Neck ſhe lies, Not ſtirs till He's diſpos'd to riſe: Unleſs conſtrain'd by Natures call, And then the cleanly Animal; Still wakes him with her gentle Moan, Entreating to be handed down. But paſſing other Vertues by, Such is Iſſa's Modeſty, She ne'er cou'd love, tho' daily woo'd By Shocks of Quality and Blood. But mindful of her Mortal State (Form nor Vertue's free from Fate) To countermand the rigid Law, Publius did her Picture draw, Where Art with Nature ſo does ſtrive, You'd ſwear they're Pictures both, or both alive.

The Confinement. OFt have I for m'd Idea's of Content; But by Experience knew not what it meant. At length I ſtrove to Counter-plot my Stars, And free my Soul by ſome kind Charm from Cares. Beneath a Jeſſimine Shade my Lute I ſtrung, Where with diverting Airs I play'd and ſung; The grateful ſounds compos'd my Cares to ſleep, And o'er me now they ſeem'd no Watch to keep. Thrice bleſt (ſaid I) this long expected Hour, That frees me from my cruel Goaler's Pow'r. I fled, but ſoon was by the waking Guard Purſu'd, o'er-tane, and laid again in Ward. Since which Eſcape more hardly I am us'd, A Pris'ner's common Courteſies refus'd; Preſt with more Chains, with ſtricter Guard detain'd, From Sleep, the vileſt Slave's Relief, reſtrain'd.

On Snow fall'n in Autumn, and diſſolv'd by the Sun. I. NAture now ſtript of all her Summer Dreſs, And modeſtly ſuppoſing 't were unfit For each rude Eye to view her Nakedneſs, Around her bare Limbs wraps this ſnowy Sheet. II. The wanton Sun the ſlender Shroud removes, T'embrace the naked Dame, whoſe fertile Womb Admits the luſty Paramour's warm Loves, And is made big with the fair Spring to come.

Melancholy. I. MAlignant Honour, Poyſon to my Blood! Bane of theſe Spirits that were wont to glide And ſport within the Circling Tide; As Fiſh expire in an infected Flood. When all th' Horizon of my Soul is clear, And I ſuſpect no Change of Weather near, Streight like a ſuddain Storm I find Thy black Fumes gath'ring in my Mind, Transforming all to Egyptian Darkneſs there; Darkneſs where nothing comes in ſight But Flaſhes more amazing than the Night, And ſiery Spectres through the troubled Air. II. Sleep that in other Maladies brings Eaſe, Feeds and enrages this Diſeaſe; For when my weary Lidds I cloſe, And ſlumber, 'tis without Repoſe. This Fury ſtill into my Dreams will creep, To hagg my tim'rous Fancy while I ſleep; Through Charnel Houſes then I'm led, Thoſe gloomy Manſions of the dead, Where penſive Ghoſts by their lov'd Reliques ſtay, And curſe the Breaking Day. Sometimes by cruel Foes purſu'd and tane; Oft Ship-wreckt on the Main, Beneath the Floods I ſeem to dive; In Sarra's Deſart oft engage Some Savage Monſter's Rage. Or (Typhon-like) beneath a Mountain's Weight I ſtrive! III. Might I the Book of Fate peruſe, To read the Lot for me deſign'd, I ſhould perhaps auſpicious find Thoſe Planets I accuſe; But whilſt for Information I Conſult the falſe Aſtrology Of Melancholly Fear, Dark and o'er-caſt my future Days appear: All poſſible Misfortunes while I dread, I draw all poſſible Misfortunes on my Head; Who ſeeks for Happineſs with niceſt Care Muſt watch its Seaſons, and frequent its Haunt. Delight is a rich tender Plant That ſprings not in all Soils, and all the Year: 'Tis like the Manna that in plenty lay, If early ſought, around Each Hebrews Tent; but if till Heat of Day Their Search they did delay, Th' Ambroſial Food was no where to be found.

On a Grave Sir, retiring to Write in Order to undeceive the World. SUrely of all well-meaning Fools thy Fate Is moſt deplorably unfortunate. Hadſt thou Domitian-like in catching Flies Employ'd thy Privacy, thou hadſt been wiſe; For what ſhou'd hinder thee, but thou mayſt catch As faſt as he, and be the Emp'rour's Match? But whilſt thy ſolitary Hours are ſpent In ſcribling tedious Syſtems, to prevent The Worlds Miſtakes, its Follies to reform, Thou may'ſt as well pretend to lay a Storm. Go, cut the Caſpian Lake a Road to th' Ocean; Contrive an Engine with perpetual Motion: Make Politicians of the Wappin-Rout, Jilts conſtant, Brokers honeſt, Bawds devout; But prethee never fondly thus deviſe To make this Hair-brain'd World grow ſtaid and wiſe. In Youth, or Prime, when likelieſt to improve, No Precepts this beſotted World cou'd move; And wilt thou at theſe Years begin to School (Dull Moraliſt!) the crazy doating Fool? Go, dreaming Stoick, once again retire; And ſince the Name of Wiſe thou doſt aſpire, To ſhew thy Judgment, ſet thy Works on Fire.

On a deform'd Old Bawd, deſigning to have her Picture drawn. I. THy Picture drawn, foul Beldame, Thine! What Frenzy haunts thy mind, And drives Thee on this vile Deſign, T' affront all Woman-kind? II. For whilſt thy ſwarthy Cankard Face Poſterity ſhall view, They'll loath the faireſt of the Race, For ſharing Sex with you. III. To ſome forlorn Church-yard repair, And Haggard thou ſhalt ſee The ſierceſt Goblin will not dare To ſtand the Sight of thee. IV. Thoſe Ghoſts that ſtrike with Pannick-Fear The Breaſts of ſtouteſt Braves, At thy Approach will diſappear, And Burrough in their Graves. V. Fix thy Eſſigies on the Shield Of ſome bold Knight in Arms, Twill aid him more to win the Field, Than all his Lady's Charms.

Advice to a Friend, publiſhing his Poems. FOrbear, my Friend, this raſh Deſign t' engage An ignorant ill-natur'd Age; In vain your labour'd Numbers ſhall excell, Where Clinch and Dogril ſerve as well: For were the Poets Buſineſs but to pleaſe, There were no Task of greater Eaſe. Where Midas is the Judge, let none admire Pans's Pipe preferr'd to Plaebus Lyre. The gawdy Painting takes the vulgar Sight, Whilſt artful Pieces leſs delight. In vain is Nature repreſented well, Where, not the Workmanſhip, but Colours ſell. Ev'n ſo, if popular you mean to be, 'Faith ſpare your Pains, and write extempore.

The Ignorant. AN Ignorant I am, And Glory in the Name. I know not what of yore The hot-brain'd wrangling Heroes did, Nor what the dreaming Sages ſaid: I cannot run a Liſt of Old Rome's Triumphs o'er. 'Twas Knowledge firſt to Ruine led us on; For with this mortal Itch poſſeſt The happy Pair tranſgreſt. Needs muſt they know; they knew, and were undone! Then plodding Mortal ceaſe To boaſt your dear bought Faculties: For ſince with Knowledge Sorrow muſt encreaſe, Let ſuch as on thoſe Terms can Science prize, Improve in Science; but for me, So I may ignorant and happy be, I'll ne'er repine, or look with envious Eyes, On the unhappy learn'd, and miſerable wiſe.

The Beldam's Song. APpear, my Kib welkin, dear Spirit appear In the Shape Of an Ape, A Fire-ſpitting Dragon, or Clump footed Bear. Madge has whoopt me twice from her Ivy-bound Oak, And twice have I heard the dull Night-raven croak. Let me ſtride thee, my Welkin, and poſt it away E'er the Moon Reach her Noon: For the Night is the Way-ward Siſters Day. Through the Air let us take our fantaſtical Round, And ſip of the Dew While 'tis new, E'er the Honey-drops fall to the Ground. But when we are mounted, and in our Career, Make neither Hault nor Stay; And to none give the way, Tho Hecat her ſelf ſhould be rounding the Air. For once I'll encounter, And try to diſmount her, Pitch her Heels over Head, To ſome Quag-mire below, and reign Queen in her ſtead. Buſtle, buſtle, my Kib, and be ſure e'er we part, Thou ſhalt ſuck at the Dugg that is next to my Heart.

The Inconſtant. A Paraphraſe on the XV. Epod of Horace. PReciſely I remember all, 'twas Night, Calm Sky, and the Full Moon ſhone bright, When firſt you ſwore that bleating Flocks ſhou'd feed With Wolves, no other Keepers need; That boyſtrous Winds huſht in Eternal Sleep, Shou'd ceaſe to revel on the Deep; You vow'd, that theſe, and Prodigies more ſtrange Shou'd falle'er your ſixt Heart cou'd change. Yet (Woman-like) to your new Fav'rite now, Unſwear as oft as you did vow! Ah! if I cou'd (and ſure if half a Man, Or ſomewhat leſs than half, I can) Cou'd I in juſt Reſentment quit your Chain, And with more Caution chuſe again; Nymph, you'd repent my Wrongs, when flying Fame Shou'd publiſh to your Grief and Shame, How your wrong'd Swain had found a Nymph more true And equal in her Charms to you. But treach'rous Rival, you that reap my Toils, And pride your ſelf in my ſtol'n Spoils, The Time ſhall come (and to encreaſe your Fear, Know, Wretch, that fatal Time is near) When you ſhall periſh by th' Inconſtancy, Of her that firſt learn'd perjur'd Faith from thee; Whilſt from the ſafe Shore your ſad Wreek I ſee.

Of the Ape and the Fox. A Paraphraſe on one of the Centum Fabulae. TO his four footed Subjects through the Nation, The King of Bruits thus iſſues Proclamation, Being well informed we have incurr'd Diſgrace By harb'ring in our Realm a ſcandalous Race, A Sect that have no Tails; theſe Preſents are Te'njoyn ſuch Miſcreants, All and ſingular, Strait to depart our Land, or on demurr, The Penalties of Treaſon to incurr. Sly Reynard ſtrait ſifts out this State-Deſign, Turns Goods and Chattels, All to ready Coyn. The unprojecting Neighbour-hood Admire, And Flock, th' Occaſion of his March t'Enquire. Where 'mongſt the Reſt the ceremoneous Ape Accoſts him with Grimmace and formal Scrape. Bon jour Monſieur! You paſs for a prime Witt; But in this Project give ſmall Proof of it. We of the Curtail'd-Tribe by ſtrict Command Of our great Cham prepare to quit the Land; But why Sir ſhou'd you Budge, Whoſe Poſterns bear A Swaſhing Train well furrd to guard your Rear? Had Nature lent me but an Inch of Dock, A Tuft to ſhade, or Scutt to grace my Nock, I ſhou'd Preſume I had no Obligation, From the late Act to take this Peregrination. Then thus the Fox—You've ſpoke an Oracle,! Doubtleſs your Gravity reads Machiavill. I muſt Confeſs I've no pretence to rail, Or Curſe my ſtars for ſtinting me in Tail; But grant my Train might with a Commet's meaſure, Suppoſe withal that 'twere his Highneſs Pleaſure To ſay I've None? which if he once Aſſert, Nere doubt but he has Sycophants will ſwear't; Thus charg'd, ſhou'd I attempt my own Defence, (To give his Lawleſs Tyranny Pretence) 'Tis Odds but I am Dockt upon the Spott, And then for want of Tail poor Reynard goes to Pot.

The Round. HOw Vain a thing is Man whom Toyes Delight, And ſhadows Fright! Variety of Impertinence Might give our Dotage ſome Pretence; But to a Circle bound, We Toil in a dull Round: We ſit, move, Eat and Drink, We Dreſs, Undreſs, Diſcourſe and Think, By the ſame Paſſions hurri'd on, Impoſing or Impos'd upon: We paſs the time in Sport or Toil, We Plow the Seas or Safer Soil: Thus all that we Project and Do, We did it many a year agoe. We Travel ſtill a beaten way, And yet how eager riſe we to purſue Th'affairs of each returning day, As if its Entertainments were all new.

The Male-Content. MOngſt winding Rocks (his ſwelling griefs to lay) The diſappointed Thirſts took his way. In whoſe Wild Clifts a nat'ral Uaut he found With Moſs and Ivy Cheaply deckt around. He ruſht into the Solitary Nook, Where into theſe Pathetick Sounds he broke. Oh when will Nature take the life ſhe gave. And Lodge me free from Troubles in the Grave! Sleep there alone deſerves the Name of Reſt, No frightful Dreams the ſleep of Death moleſt. Whilſt ſhrouded in this marble Cell I Lye, What can be more Commodious than to Dye? Each Object Here wears ſuch a mournful Face, That Dying ſeems the Buſineſs of the Place! Here from the wrangling World I will Retire, And as I Liv'd Unknown, Unknown Expire. Then let that hanging Rock that ſhades my Head Sink down, and ſhut this Vaut when I am Dead: Rude as it is, this Marble Cell wou'd ſave Th' expenſive Rites that formal Burials crave, It ſelf my Coffin, Monument and Grave.

The Dream. BEneath the Syc'more Shade, Amintas ply'd his Tuneful Reed, (His Amaril beſide him laid) The liſtning Ewes forgat to Feed. The ſporting Lambs gave ore their Play, And to their Maſters Song attentive lay: The Song as ſoft, and Innocent as They. Mean while ſoft Slumbers did ſurprize, The Nymph's more gentle Eyes. 'Till with a Sigh and ſuddain ſtart She woke and Cry'd—Heav'n ſave my Swain! Are you not hurt—I will provide a Dart, And if the Bruit approach again, I'le drench it in the Savage Monſter's Heart. What means (Amintas ſmiling ſaid) This Rage? I dreamt (ſaid ſhe) a ruthful Bear Had broke into our Fold, and ſlaughter'd there; And while you ran t' Engage (Ah! why were you ſo Raſh?) th' unequal Foe, The Rav'nous Monſter Seiz'd on you! At which my ſelf between I threw, And ſcarcely yet believe the Dream Untrue!

Amor Sepulchralis. IN a Large ſtately Cave (of old the Court Of Rural Gods, as neigbouring Swains report) Interr'd the dear Remains of Damon lay, Converted now into their Native Clay. Each wiſhing Nymph the living Swain approv'd, The Shepherd fair Emmoria only Lov'd. Their mutual Paſſion's Kindling Flame was more Then ere inſpir'd Conſenting Hearts before; But was with time Improv'd to that Degree, 'Twas now no longer Love, but Extaſie. Endearments ſuch as Fate cou'd not divorce, Nor Death it ſelf reſtrain their Entercourſe. The Nymph to living Swains did ſtill preferr Her Damon's Duſt, and ev'n that Duſt Lov'd Her. At Damon's Tomb the Chaſt Emmoria kept Perpetual Watch, and ore his Aſhes wept; (Fit emblem of her grief) a ſprigg of Yew She planted there, the Branch took Root and grew. The Sun to this cloſe Cell, no Beam cou'd guide. No Rain or Dew the thirſting Leaves Supply'd; Say then, from whence the Growth and Verdure came, The Aſhes ſtill retain'd their Maſters Flame. Whoſe Am'rous Warmth the abſent Sun Supplies, And never-ceaſing Showrs Emmoria's Eyes. This Heat and Moiſture kept the Plant alive, And Tempering ſtill each other, made it Thrive.

The three Firſt Verſes of the 46th Pſalm Paraphas'd. I. OUr Strength, is the Omnipotent; We cannot therefore condeſcend to Fear. Tho danger in its gaſtlieſt ſhape appear; Tho Mountains from their marble Roots were rent, And Head-long to the Ocean hurl'd, Their violent Career might ſhake the World; But our fix'd Feet ſhou'd keep their Ground, Our Heads ſhou'd o'er-look the Floods where Hills lay drown'd. II. What tho the Sea whoſe moſt capacious Womb Gave the ſubverted Hills a Tomb? What tho' its raging Waters roar, And ſwell in Mountains vaſt as thoſe Which their unfathom'd Depths had gorg'd before? This moſt impertinently angry Main, With its own Rocks fierce Combat may maintain, But can no more our Paſſions diſcompoſe, Than when ſome ſhallow Fountain we ſurvey, Conteſting with each Pibble for its Way.

The Mid-Night Thought. NOw that the twinkling Stars eſſay A faint Reſemblance of the Day, Shewn fairer now for being ſet In Night (like Diamonds in Jett) Let me (repos'd within this Grove) The ſolemn Seaſon once improve. Reſtleſs, Alſs! from Sun to Sun, A Round of Buſineſs I have run: Whilſt others ſlept, projecting lay, My Night as thoughtful as my Day; Yet thought not once to what Account All thoſe Thinkings did amount! How long ſince I did meditate Of Life, of Death, and future State? Approaching Fate his Pace will keep, Let Mortals watch, or let them ſleep. What Sound is that?—a Paſſing Bell! Then to Eternity farewell! Poor Soul, whoſe Doom one Hour ſhall ſhow Eternal Bliſs, or endleſs Woe! If Vertues Laws thou haſt deſpis'd, How wou'd that Vertue now be priz'd! Or ſay, thou didſt in our looſe Age On her forſaken Side engage; Would'ſt thou the dear Remembrance now For the Worlds Monarchy forgoe? What other Medicine canſt thou ſind T' aſſwage the Fever in thy Mind? Now, wakened Conſcience, ſpeaks at large, And envious Fiends enhaunce the Charge! Let the bold Atheiſt now draw near, And try thy drooping Heart to chear: His briskeſt Wine and Wit to thee Will now alike inſpiid be. In Death's Arreſt the Hector's Sword As little Service can afford; Who hopes for Reſcue here, will fail, And the grim Serjeant Takes no Bail.

The Counter-Turn. BEhold that Pile of Skulls; but chiefly there That Moſſy Skull ſurvey; Obſerve if the Sage Front does now diſplay Plots, Projects, and Nocturnal Care. Methinks it ſhou'd; for once it did belong To one whoſe Policy cou'd ſhake a State, And truſted he cou'd baffle Fate. Who wou'd have ſought that Head-piece in this Through? He promis'd once that Skull a Crown. In loweſt Earth he founded the Deſign, With Heav'n the tow'ring Roof did joyn; 'Till with a ſuddain Storm of Fate o'erthrown, The Fabrick fell on the Contriver's Head, And cruſht th' aſpiring Politician dead.

The Voyagers. WHilſt ſtemming Life's uncertain Tide Toſt on the Waves of Doubts and Fears, If to frail Reaſon's Conduct we confide We ſtrive in vain The happy Port to gain; For, oft as clouded Reaſon diſappears We cannot fail to rove afar, Miſtaking each falſe Meteor for our Star. How diſmal are the Perils we engage, When (grown t'a Hurricane) Our boiſt'rous Paſſions rouze the ſleeping Main? But Ah! how few have periſht by the Rage Of Storms, if numbred with the daily Throng, Whom Syren pleaſures as they ſail along Seduce to that dead Shore, Where they themſelves ſaw others wreckt before.

The Choice. GRant me, indulgent Heav'n, a rural Seat, Rather contemptible than great; Where though I taſte Life's Sweets, ſtill I may be Athirſt for Immortality. I wou'd have Buſineſs, but exempt from Strife; A private, but an active Life. A Conſcience bold, and punctual to his Charge; My Stock of Health, or Patience large. Some Books I'd have, and ſome Acquaintance too; But very good, and very few. Then (if one Mortal two ſuch Grants may crave) From ſilent Life I'd ſteal into my Grave.

On Sight of ſome Martyrs Sepulchres. HEre lies Duſt confuſedly hurl'd; But Duſt that once ſhall judge the World! Bleſt Saints, when Foes miſtaken Rage Releas'd your Spirits from their Cage, But can no more our Paſſions diſcompoſe, Th' ambitious Fire ſtrove to convey Your Souls on their triumphant way; But wing'd with Glory they aſpir'd, And left the Flames behind them tir'd.

Of Vice and Vertue. LEt Vice no more in her full Train take pride, Who follow Vertue chuſe a ſuff'ring Side. She's exil'd now, and 'tis not ſtrange to ſee Mean Souls deſert afflicted Majeſty: But when juſt Heav'n (and ſure that time draws on) Reſtores this Empreſs to her Starry Throne, With Crowns ſhe will enrich her Loyal Few, Whilſt Shame and Vengeance cruſh the Rebel Crew.

To a Deſponding Friend. REpine not, penſive Friend, to meet A Thorn and Sting in every Sweet; Think it not yours, or my hard Fate, But the fixt Lot of Humane State. Since then this Portion is aſſign'd By the Great Patron of Mankind, (Though ne'er ſo darkly underſtood) We ſhou'd preſume the Method Good. Heav'n does its rendreſt Care expreſs, Conducting through a Wilderneſs, Leſt Sluggards we ſhould take our Stand, And ſtop ſhort of the promis'd Land.

Diſſwaſion of an Aged Friend from leaving his Retirement. IN Life's unactive Wane your Shades forſake, And into th' World a Sally make! Deluded Friend, what Surfeit have you tane Of Bliſs, that now you long for Pain? The Favourites of this hard World are few, And they have their Diſaſters too. What therefore muſt your Entertainment be That have profeſt Hoſtility? You have not learnt to ſlatter and careſs The Great for faithleſs Promiſes: When diſappointed, thankful to appear, And ſay, How much oblig'd you are! For Lucre you muſt practiſe every Wile; Defraud, and do it with a Smile. Worldlings with many Vices muſt be fraught, Which you, my Friend, were never taught. Well, you may roam, but ſoon return diſtreſt, Wounded and maim'd to your Old Neſt.

Recovering from a Fit of Sickneſs. I. WHen late the Fev'riſh Malady With intermitted Rage, And certain Symptoms did preſage My ſuddain Health, or Diſſolution nigh: Falſe World (ſaid I) that ſteal'ſt my real Joys, And ſhuffleſt in their ſtead thy changeling Toys: Begone, I'll not be brib'd at any rate, To ſell my coming Fate, And now reſume that toilſome Task to live. I prize not Greatneſs, and I know (Were I thy Fav'rite, as I am thy Foe) What I affect thou never canſt beſtow. I'd have Content; but that was never thine to give. Remove that Taper from my Sight, The uſeleſs and offenſive Light Preſents no grateful Object to my View: Ev'n thoſe fair Eyes that Planets once appear'd, Whoſe Influence above the Stars I fear'd, To my dim Sight have loſt their Luſtre too. II. Thus muſing as I lay, to my Bed ſide (Attir'd in all his Mourning Pride) The King of Terrors came: Awful his Looks, but not deform'd and grim; (He's no ſuch Goblin as we fancy him) Scarce we our ſelves ſo civiliz'd and tame! Unknown the Doom aſſign'd me in this Change, Tho juſtly I might fear Heav'ns worſt Revenge; Yet with my preſent Griefs redreſt, With curious Thoughts of unknown Worlds poſſeſt, Enflam'd with Thirſt of Liberty, Long lov'd, but ne'r enjoy'd by me, I ſu'd for Leave the fatal Gulf to paſs: My vital Sand is almoſt run, And Death (ſaid I) will ſtrike anon; Then to dull Life I bid a long Farewell; And ſtretcht for flight—But as the laſt Grains fell, Death fail'd my flatter'd Hopes, and turn'd the Glaſs.

The Challenge. YE Sages that pretend In Science to tranſcend The dull illit'rate Crowd; You that of Ignorance impeach, (E'er your Pretences be allow'd) Define that Prudence which you teach: I fear 'tis much above your learned Reach. Prudence has no ſixt Being; but depends On Perſon, Time and Chance, And every petty Circumſtance. Actions directed to the ſelf-ſame Ends, May prudent one, the other faulty be: For what would prove diſcreet in thee Perhaps were wild Extravagance in me. The Ants are wiſe, that from their Summer Hoard Supply their Winter Board; And doubtleſs full as wiſe as they The Graſhoppers that play, And revell all their Harveſt Days away: For 'twere in them a ſenceleſs Drudgery To toil for a Supply In Winter's Dearth, that muſt e'er Winter die.

The Cure. A DIALOGUE, Claius and Coridon. Claius. COme Coridon, ſit by me, gentle Swain; Thy Cheek is pale, ſpeak Shepherd, where's thy Pain? Cor. Say, Claius, Prieſt of our Great Pan (for you The utmoſt Bounds of Humane Science know) Is Phyſicks Power to Bodies Uſe confin'd? Have you no Medicine for a troubled Mind? Claius. Yes, For as Balſoms raging Pains appeaſe, Sage Counſels to diſtemper'd Souls give Eaſe, Ev'n Love is no incurable Diſeaſe. Ha Swain! What meant that ſuddain Bluſh and Start? Have I gueſt right, and toucht the tender Part? Cor. I wou'd conceal't, but have not learnt to feign— You gueſt, and while you nam'd it, wak'd my Pain. Claius. Then to the Cure we'll take the ſafeſt Courſe, And trace the Malady to its firſt Source. Cor. When from ſeverer Buſineſs I withdrew, Twixt Love and me a fatal Friendſhip grew. With my Hearts Blood our Covenant we Seal'd A ſolemn Contract ne'er to be repeal'd. Then all Delights young Sorcerers enjoy, A while did my deluded Soul employ. Love fed my waking Thoughts with glorious Theams, And bleſt my ſlumbers with tranſporting Dreams. When at an awful diſtance I ſurvey'd My Nymph, tranſported, to my ſelf I ſaid, Ah charming Fair! O excellent Divine! Whilſt Love in Whiſpers anſwer'd—Swain ſhe's thine. Claius. Why therefore, Shepherd, are you not poſſeſt? Cor. Force not ſh' unwilling Secret from my Breaſt; Let it ſuffice that on a Barren Soil I've loſt of many Years th' Expence and Toil. Claius. Do's the falſe Nymph— The Wages you ſo dearly earn'd, refuſe? Cor. My ſelf I cannot, will not her accuſe. But my Relief muſt from your Counſels riſe: Examine not, good Claius, but adviſe: Bring your beſt Art (for 'twill your beſt require) T'unſpell my Soul from Love's tormenting Fire. Claius. Call Reaſon to your Aid, you'll put to flight The Foe not to be quell'd by other Might. Of happieſt Love's Delights ſumm up th' account, And learn to what the Total will amount: Then in the Ballance Love's Vexations weigh, How certain theſe, and how uncertain they. Such ſordid Joys, and of delight ſo nice, That Female Coyneſs only gives them Price. There are that from large Dow'rs derive their Flame, And theſe in full Career purſue their Game: They wreck their Wits the Golden Prize to gain; But dream not how that Gold is wrought into a Chain. Cor. When late the falſe Suggeſtions I obey'd, 'Twas in purſuit of Happineſs I ſtray'd. Claius. Miſtake not Swain, I would not quench your Flame, But fly your Paſſion at a nobler Game. Wave ſenſual Joys; and with a Flame refin'd Court thoſe Diviner Pleaſures of the Mind. To ſacred Vertue next make your Addreſs; Confeſs you've no Regard of Happineſs; Or live henceforth of Vertue's Service proud, The brighteſt Beauty, and the beſt endow'd. She'll guard your Youth from Paſſions baneful Rage, With peaceful Thoughts divert the Pains of Age. But then in largeſt Streams her Bleſſings flow, When Love, grown Bankrupt, can no more beſtow. When rig'rous Death ſhall check your circling Blood, And Life expire within the frozen Flood, Your mourning Nymph, at large may tell her Grief, But to your reſtleſs Soul give no Relief: 'Twill lurk a penſive Ghoſt in Caves all day, And to its Reliques Mid-night Viſits pay. But pious Souls by Death are Gainers made, By Vertue to th' Elyſian Seats convey'd; There Mirth, and Peace, and ſofteſt Tranſports reign, Delights refin'd from all Allays of Pain. If Love can bleſs beyond theſe Heights, return To drag his Chain, and in his Fever burn: Take leave of God-like Immortality, Chide my officious Zeal to ſet you free, And court the Frowns of ſome imperious ſhe. Cor. Deſtroy not thus your gen'rous Courteſies By this unfriendly, and unjuſt Surmiſe; Heav'n ſends me Freedom, and to ſell the Pledge, Muſt brand me with the fouleſt Sacriledge. 'Gainſt Love and Beauty I'll maintain the Fort, And ſix a Guard of Vertues in my Heart. Claius. If Beauty's Force too raſhly you deſpiſe, 'Tis odds, but you are ruin'd by Surprize. Wou'd you live free from Female Tyranny? Ne'r parly with the tempting Sex, but fly. Their very Tears are Fewel to Deſire, And with their Sighs they'll fan th'expiring Fire. Their Mirth, and Grief, their Kindneſs and Diſdain Are fatal all, and work poor Shepherds Pain! Nature and Art conſpire to arm the fair; For in the charming, all things charming are; Their Glances Darts, and ev'ry Curl a Snare.

The Hurricane. WHat cheer my Mates? Luſ • ho!—We toll in vain! That Northern Miſt fore-bodes a Hurricane. See how th'expecting Ocean raves, The Billows roar before the Fray. Untimely Night devours the Day; I'th' dead Eclipſe we nought deſcry, But Lightnings wild Caprices in the Sky, And Scaly Monſters ſparkling through the Waves; Ply, each a Hand, and furl your Sails. Port, hard, a'port—The Tackle fails. Sound ho!—Five Fathom and the moſt. A dangerous Shelf! ſh'as ſtruck, and we are loſt. Speak in the Hold—ſhe leaks amain—give ore; The crazy Boat can work no more. She draws apace, and we approach no Shore. A Ring, my Mates, let's joyn a Ring, and ſo Beneath the Deep embracing go. Now to new Worlds we ſteer, and quickly ſhall arrive: Our Spirits ſhall mount, as faſt as our dull Corpſes dive.

The Grateful Shepherd. WHilſt by his grazing Flock a gentle Swain, His vacant Hours to entertain, Perus'd a Volume, where each Tragick Page Diſcours'd of ſome Intrigue of State, Of Rebel Inſolence and Rage, And ſome unhappy Monarch's Fate: The Youth in theſe tranſported Sounds brake forth, What Vertue of my Anceſtors So much oblig'd you, moſt indulgent Pow'rs, That in theſe ſilent Shades you gave me Birth? You might have made me Fortune's Sport, Doom'd me to ſome corrupted Court, Where I this rural Bliſs had never known; My Cottage might have been a Throne, My Crook a Scepter, and my Wreath a Crown: Some Tyrant-Prince I might have been, (By your Indulgence now a peaceful Swain) My Chloris ſome proud cruel Queen, The tendreſt Nymph of our Arcadian Plain.

On the Aſſembling of a New Parliament the 6th. of March, 1682. BReak, Sacred Morn, on our expecting Iſle, And make our Albion's ſullen Genius ſmile, His brighteſt Glories let the Sun diſplay; He roſe not with a more important Day Since Charles return'd on his triumphant Way. A joyful Bridegroom then our Eyes he drew, And now ſeems wedded to his Realms anew. Methinks our Fears already are o'erblown, And on our En'mies Coaſt the Terror thrown. You ancient Bards that Britain's Glory wrote, As warmly as our Britiſh Heroes fought, Be ſtill aſſiſting to your Countrey's Fame, And in my daring Song revive your Flame. Now I behold the bright Aſſembly plac't, And with our Monarch's Sacred Preſence grac't; Tranſported with a Viſion ſo ſublime, My Thoughts review the Infant-Pride of Time: I think how at the new Creation ſate Th'Eternal Monarch in his Heav'ns freſh State; The Stars yet wondring at each others Fires, And all the Sons of Glory rankt in Quires. As various Streams from diſtant Regions fall, And in the Deep their Gen'ral Council call, Conveying thence Supplies to every Source, And fail not to maintain the rowling Courſe; Our Senate thus from every Quarter met, And with our Peers in awful Council ſet, Diſpence their Influence to each Province round, And in our Iſle no Barren Spot is found. Juſtice as plenteous as our Thames ſhall flow; In Peace the Sailer ſteer, and Peaſant plow. Our Publick Safe from Foreign Wrongs ſhall be, And private Rights from Home-Oppreſſors free. Proceed, brave Worthies then, to your Debates, Not to decree alone our private Fates; But to judge Kingdoms, and diſpoſe of States. From you their Riſe, or Downfal they aſſume, Expecting from our Capitol their Doom: You from their Peace and War, as you approve, They joyn in Leagues, or to fierce Battel move. And tho the Pride of France has ſwell'd ſo high, A warlike Empire's Forces to defie, To cruſh united States confed'rate Power, And ſilence the loud Belgian Lion's Roar; Yet let their Troops in ſilent Triumph come From conquer'd Fields, and ſteal their Trophies home, Take care their Canon at juſt diſtance roar; Nor with too near a Volley rouze our Shore, Leſt our diſdaining Iſlanders advance, With Courage taught long ſince to conquer France; Seizing at once their Spoils of many a year, And cheaply win what they oft bought too dear. Their late Succeſs but juſter Fears affords; For they are now grown worthy of our Swords: Howe'er 't muſt be confeſt, the Gallick Pow'rs Can ne'er engage on equal Terms with ours: In Nature we have Odds; they dread, we ſcorn; The Engliſh o'er the French are Conqu'rers born. The Terror ſtill of our Third Edward's Name, Rebukes their Pride, and checks their tow'ring Fame. Nor can the Tide of many rowling Years Waſh the ſtain'd Fields of Creſſey and Poictiers. A conſcious Terror ſtrikes their Boſoms ſtill, When they behold that famous ſatal Hill, Where Edward with his Hoſt Spectator ſtood, And left the Prince to make the Conqueſt good. The Eagle thus from her fledg'd Young withdraws, Each Bird a Match for Troops of Kites and Daws. Nor has the black Remembrance left their Breaſt, When our Fifth Harry to their Paris preſt; While France wept Blood for their hot Dauphin's Jeſt. Such was the Vertue of our Anceſtours, And ſuch on due Reſentment ſhall be ours: Our remper'd Valor juſt Pretence requires, As Flints are ſtruck before they ſhow their Fires.

The Deſpair. I. REtir'd from any Mortal's Sight The penſive Damon lay; He bleſt the diſcontented Night, And curſt the ſmiling Day. II. The tender Sharers of his Pain, His Flocks forbore to graze; But ſadly fixt around the Swain, Like ſilent Mourners gaze. III. He heard the Muſick of the Wood, And with a Sigh reply'd; He ſaw the Fiſh ſport in the Flood, And wept a deeper Tide. IV. In vain the Summer's Bloom came on; For ſtill the drooping Swain Like Autumn Winds was heard to groan, Out-wept the Winter's Rain. V. Some Eaſe, ſaid he, ſome Reſpite give. Why, cruel Pow'is, Ah! why Am I too much diſtreſt to live, And yet forbid to die? VI. Such Accents from the Shepherd flew, Whilſt on the Ground he lay; At laſt ſo deep a Sigh he drew, As bore his Life away.

MEDEA TO JASON. THE ARGUMENT.

Jaſon arrives with his Companions at Colchos, where the Golden Fleece was kept, which before he can obtain, he is to undertake ſeveral Adventures; firſt, to yoke the Wild Bulls, then to ſow the Serpent's Teeth, from whence ſhould inſtantly riſe an Army, with which he muſt encounter; and laſtly, to make his Paſſage by the Dragon that never ſlept. In order to this, he ſolicits Medea Daughter to the King, and skilfull in Charms, by whoſe Aſſiſtance (on Promiſe of love) he gains the Prize; then flies with her: The King purſues them: Medea kills her little Brother, ſcatters his Limbs; and whilſt the King ſtays to gather them up, eſcapes with her Lover into Theſſaly, where ſhe reſtores decrepit Aeſon to his Youth. On the ſame Promiſe perſwades Pelias his Daughters to let out their Fathers blood; but deceitfully leaves them guilty of Parricide. For this and other Crimes Jaſon caſts her off, marries Creuſa, Daughter to Creon, King of Corinth, on which the enrag'd Medea, according to the various Tranſports of her Paſſion, writes this complaining, ſoothing, and menacing Epiſtle.

YEt I found leiſure, though a Queen, to free By Magick Artsthy Grecian Friends and thee; The Fates ſhou'd then have finiſh'd with my Reign, The Life that ſince was one continued Pain. Who wou'd have dreamt the Youth of diſtant Greece, Shou'd e'er have ſail'd to ſeize the Phrygian Fleece! That th' Argo ſhou'd in view of Colchos ride! A Grecian Army ſtem the Phaſian Tide! Why were thoſe Snares, thy Locks, ſo tempting made! A Tongue ſo falſe, ſo pow'rful to perſwade! No doubt but he that had ſo raſhly ſought Our Shore, with the fierce Bulls unſpell'd had fought, And fondly too th' Arms-bearing Seed had ſown, Till by the Crop the Tiller were o'erthrown. How many Frands had then expir'd with Thee! As many killing griefs remov'd from me! 'Tis ſome Relief when ill returns are made, With Favours done, th' Ingrateful to upbraid; This Triumph will afford ſome little Eaſe, Falſe Jaſon leaves me this— When firſt your doubtful Veſſel reacht our Port, And you had Entrance to my Fathers Court: There was I then, what now your new Bride's here, My Royal Father might with her's compare. With Princely Pomp was your arrival grac'd, The meaneſt Greek on Tyrian Beds we plac'd. Then firſt I gaz'd my Liberty away! And date my Ruin from that fatal day! Fate puſht me on, and with your Charms combin'd; I view'd your ſparkling Eyes 'till I was blind. You ſoon perceiv'd, for who cou'd ever hide A flame that by its own Light is deſery'd? But now thy Task's propos'd, and thou muſt tame The Bulls with brazen Hoofs, and Breath of Flame. With theſe the fatal Field thou art to Plow, From whence a ſudden Hoſt of Foes muſt grow. Thoſe dangers paſt, ſtill to the golden Prey The baleful fiery Dragon guards the way. Thus ſpake the King; your Knights ſtart from the Feaſt, And ev'n your cheeks a pale deſpair confeſt. Where then was your ador'd Creuſa's Dow'r? And where her Fathers Creon's boaſted Pow'r? Sad went'ſt thou forth; my pitying Eyes purſue, I ſigh'd, and after ſent a ſoft Adieu! In reſtleſs Tears I ſpent that tedious night, Preſenting ſtill thy dangers to my ſight; The Savage Bulls and the more Savage Hoſt, But the dire Serpent did affright me moſt! Thus toſt with Fear and Love, (Fear ſwell'd the Flame) My Siſter early to my Apartment came; Sad and dejected ſhe ſurpriz'd me There, With Eyes diſtilling and diſhevelled Hair, On your behalf ſhe ſought me, nor cou'd crave My Aid for you, ſo freely as I gave! A Grove there is, and awful gloomy ſhade, Too cloſe for ev'n the Sun himſelf t'invade; Theſe Woods with great Diana's Fane we grac'd, I'th' midſt the Goddeſs on high Tripods plac'd. There (if that place you can remember yet, Who have forgotton Me) 'twas there we met. Then thus in ſoft deluding ſounds you ſaid— "Take pity on our ſufferings, Royal Maid! "Reſt pleas'd, Thou haſt the Pow'r to kill; but give "Proofs of Diviner might, and make us Live! "By our diſtreſſes (which thy Art alone, "Has Pow'r to ſuccour,) By th' all-ſeeing Sun, "By the Chaſt Deity that Governs Here, "And what e're elſe you Sacred hold or Dear, "Take pity on our Youth, and bind us ſtill "Eternal ſervants to Medea's Will! "And if a Strangers Form can touch your Mind, "(If ſuch bleſt Fate was e're for me deſign'd!) "This Fleſh to Duſt diſſolve, this Spirit to Air, "When I think any but Medea Fair "Be Conſcious Juno, witneſs to my Vow, "And this dread Goddeſs at whoſe Shrine we Bow. Your Charming Tongue ſtopt here, and left the reſt, To be by yet more powerful Tears expreſt. I yield—and by my Art inſtruct you now, To yoke the braſs-hooft Bulls, and make them Plow, Then with a daring Hand you ſow the Field, That for an Harveſt do's an Army yield; Ev'n I look'd Pale, that gave the powerful Charms, To ſee the wondrous Crop of ſhining Arms! Till th' Earth-born Brothers in fierce battel joyn'd, Their ſudden Lives more ſuddenly reſign'd: The Serpent next, a yet more dangerous Toil, With ſealy Boſom Plows the yielding Soil, O'reſhades the Field with vaſt expanded wings, And brandiſhes in Air his threatning Stings! Where was Creuſa at this needful Hour? Where then were her fam'd Charms and matchleſs Dow'r? Medea, that Medea that is now Deſpis'd, thought Poor, held guilty too by you, 'Twas ſhe that Charm'd the wakefull Dragons ſight, Gave you the Fleece, and then ſecur'd your Flight: To merit you what cou'd I more have done? My Father I betray, my Country ſhun, And all the Hazards of an Exile run! Tho, whilſt I yield me thus a Robbers prize, My tender Mother in my Abſence dies, And at her Feet my breathleſs Siſter lies. Why left I not my Brother too? —cold fear Arreſts my Hand, and I muſt finiſh here! This Hand that tore the Infant in our Flight, What then it dar'd to Act, dreads now to Write. To the rough Seas undaunted I repair, For after Guilt, what can a Woman Fear? Why ſcap'd our Crimes thoſe Seas? we ſhou'd have dy'd; For falſhood Thou, and I for Paricide. The juſtling Iſles ſhou'd there have daſh'd our Bones, And hung us piece-meal on the ragged ſtones; Or Scylla gorg'd us in her rav'nous Den, Wrong'd Scylla thus ſhou'd uſe ingrateful Men! Charybdis too ſhou'd in our Fate have ſhar'd, Nor ought of our ſad wreck her whirl-pool ſpar'd. Yet ſafe we reach your Shore; the Phrygian Fleece Is made an Oſſ'ring to the Gods of Greece. The Pelian Daughters pious bloody Deed I paſs, that raſhly made their Father bleed: Your Safety 'twas that drew me to this Fraud, The Guilt that others blam • , you ſhou'd applaud! But 'ſtead of Thanks, your Court I am ſorbid; Your ſelf forbad me, faithleſs Jaſon did! With none but my two Infants I depart, And Jaſon's Form, that ne'er forſakes my Heart; At length thy Rev'ling Nuptial Songs ſurprize My wounded Ear, thy Nuptial Torch my Eyes. The Rabble ſhout, the Clamour nearer drew, And as it came more near, more dreadful grew: My Servants weep in Corners, and refuſe Th' ingrateful Task of ſuch unwelcom News. I yet forbear t' enquire, tho ſtill my Breaſt The dreadful Apprehenſions did ſuggeſt. My youngeſt Boy now from the Window ſpy'd The coming Pomp, and jocund thus he cry'd, "Look, Mother, look! ſee where my Father rides, "With ſhining Reins his Golden Chariot guides. At this my pale forſaken Breaſt I tore, Nor ſpar'd the Face whoſe Beauties charm no more. Alas! what did I ſpare; Scarce cou'd I ſpare My Honour, ſcarcely thee, cou'd ſcarce forbear To force my Paſſage to thy Chariot now, And tear the Garland from thy perjur'd Brow. Offended Father, now thy Griefs diſcharge; My Brother's Blood is now reveng'd at large. The Man (for whom I ſled and injur'd thee, Whoſe Love ſole Comfort of my Flight cou'd be) Th' ingrateful Man has now forſaken me. I tam'd the Bulls, and cou'd the Serpent bind; But for perſidious Love no ſpell can find: The Dragon's baleful Fires my Arts ſuppreſt; But not the Flames that tage within my Breaſt. In Love my powerfull'ſt Herbs are uſeleſs made, In vain is Hecat ſummon'd to my Aid: I ſigh the Day, the Night in Watches ſpend, No Slumbers on my careful Brows deſcend: With Poppies Juice in vain my Eyes I ſteep, And try the Charm that made the Dragon ſleep. I only reap no Profit for my Charms! They ſav'd, but ſav'd thee from my Rival's Arms. There, 'cauſe you know the Theam will grateful be Perhaps you'r ſo unjuſt t' exclaim on me! To tax my manners, rally on my Face, And make th' Adultreſs ſport with my Diſgrace. Laugh on • roud Dame; but know thy Fate is nigh, When thou ſhalt yet more wretched be than I! When wrong'd Medca unreveng'd ſits ſtill, 〈…〉 forgot to kill. If Prayers the ſlinty Jaſon's Breaſt can move, My juſt Complaint will ſure ſucceſsful prove. Stretcht at thy Feet a ſuppliant Princeſs ſee; Such was thy Poſture when ſhe pity'd thee. And tho a Wife's diſcarded Title fail, My Infants ſtill are thine, let them prevail. So much they'r thine, ſo much thy Likeneſs bear, Each Look I caſt is follow'd by a Tear. Now by the Gods, by all our paſt Delights, By thoſe dear Pledges of our am'rous Nights, Reſtore me to thy Love I claim my due; Be to my Merit, and thy Promiſe true. I ask thee not what I perform'd for thee, To ſet me from fierce Bulls and Serpents free; I only crave thy Love, thy Love reſtore, For which I've done ſo much, and ſuffer'd more. Do'ſt Thou demand a Dow'r?—'twas paid that day When thou did'ſt bear the Golden Fleece away: Thy Life's my Dow'r, and thy dear Followers health, The Youth of Greece; weigh theſe with Creen's wealth. To Me thou ow'ſt that thou art Creon's Heir, That now thou liv'ſt to call Creuſa, Fair! You've wrong'd me All, and on you All— but hold, I form Revenge too mighty to be told! My thoughts are now to th'utmoſt Ruin bent! Perhaps I ſhall the fatal Rage repent, But on—for I (what e're the miſchief be) Shall leſs Repent than that I truſted Thee! The God alone that Rages in my Breaſt, Can ſee the dark revenge my thoughts ſuggeſt; I only know 'twill ſoon effected be, And when it comes, be Vaſt and Worthy Me.

Ʋpon the Marqueſs of Worceſter's defending his Seat of Ragland Caſtle; the laſt Garriſon that held out for the King. WHen civil Diſcord through the Realm had reign'd, And Engliſh Swords with Engliſh Blood were ſtain'd; When out of Zeal, Religion was expell'd, And men for Conſcience 'gainſt their Prince rebell'd; The beſt of Princes—when the Power Divine (On purpoſes too deep for Reaſon's Line) Gave Rebell Arms Succeſs, and ſeem'd to bring Diſtreſs at once upon our Saint and King: Not Jeſſe's Son ſeem'd better form'd to reign; Nor were his Worthies of a nobler Strain. But what Relief can boldeſt Valour lend, Where Heroes not with Foes, but Fate contend? The Age's Crimes for no leſs Curſe did call; And 'tis decree'd the Royal Cauſe muſt fall: Of Conqueſt thus by Deſtiny beref • , Our blaſted War has yet one Garland left, Alone the Foes united Strength to fight, And ſtrike the laſt fam'd Blow for Royal Right. This Honour to the Noble Worc'ſter fell, Who, always brave, himſelf do's now excell, His Friends, his Troops, his Houſe, his Cittadel. Here, tho reduc'd to laſt extreams, he lies, His cheerful Canon ſtill the Foe defies; The more diſtreſs'd, the more his Vertue ſhines, His Courage riſing as his Strength declines; Oft from unequal Force he guards his Walls, Oft in fierce Sallies on the Leaguer falls: Thus while expir'd the other Members lie, Woreſter ſtus laſt, the Heart of Loyalty.

Catullus. Epigr. II. De paſſere mortuo Lesbiae. WEep, Venus, weep, bid all the Race Of laughing Loves weep now apace; Let Mortal's Sorrow be as deep; Bid the nobler Mortals weep: All that have the Soul or Senſe For Fate of ſuch a Conſequence. Never was ſuch Cauſe to moan, Lesbia's Sparrow's dead and gone. The Darling ſhe was wont to prize Above the Conqueſts of her Eyes. That educated Bird, I mean He that was ſo ſlick and clean; Whoſe Wit and Judgment did excell; For he my Lesbia knew as well As ſhe her own dear Mother knew, And to her Arms as fondly flew. No more Alaſs, ſhall he do ſo! But wanders through the Shades below, His Everlaſting Reſidence; For never Soul eſcapt from thence. You have him Fates, and we allow Your Groves the Seats of Pleaſure now, My Lesbia's Bird has made them ſo. But ours, as if their Soul were fled, Are wither'd all ſince he is dead. Clouds of Tears o'er-caſt the Skies; I mean the Heav'n of Lesbia's Eyes.

After beating his Miſtreſs. Ovid. El. Lib. CHains, Straw and Darkneſs! There's no Remedy, But Bedlam for a Wretch ſo mad as I! Periſh theſe Hands, ſo ill could Beauty treat, And on a trembling Miſtreſs Blows repeat. Diſtracted Ajax once with Sword and Shield, For Foes, drove bleating Flocks about the Field. Such was my Rage when I her Treſſes tore; Nor ſeem'd ſhe then leſs charming than before. Diſorder call'd freſh Beauties to her Face, Fair as Diana, panting from the Chaſe. With ſuch an Air wrong'd Ariadne lay, When Winds bore Theſeus Sails and Vows away. Speak, you that were Spectators of the Deed, What Eye forbore to weep, what Heart to bleed! You call'd me Mad-man, curſt the Savage Brute, All but the injur'd Nymph, and ſhe was mute. Whoſe Silence yet more ſharply did upbraid, Her Tears beyond all Speech my Guilt diſplay'd. Strange Recompence for Love, ſuch Savage Wrong, Why was I to my own Deſtruction ſtrong? Tydides only with my Rage can vie; He m • de one Goddeſs bleed, another I; But he much better may his Crime defend, That Goddeſs was his Foe; but mine my Friend. Go, Conqueror, triumphant Arches raiſe, Make Altars flame, and bind your Brow with Bays; While thus the waiting Crow your Fact proclaim, He fought a Woman, and he overcame: And that your Pomp may yet appear the more, The wounded Beauty led in Chains before. Whoſe Cheeks ſhou'd only prints of Kiſſes bear, Her Necks the Marks of raging Pleaſure wear. The leaſt ſharp word (her Tenderneſs is ſuch) Had been enough, an angry Look too much: What then were Blows, and what to ſee that Hair All torn, that Goddeſſes with Pride might wear? Amaz'd ſhe ſtood, nor any Breath retain'd; And but the Statue of her ſelf remain'd. Yet ſtill each panting Limb confeſt her Fear, Such Tremblings as in Poplar Leaves appear; Such as when Zephyres blow in Reeds we find, Or Floods fann'd lightly with a Southern Wind. Her Eyes were fixt, while yet her Tears did flow, more fair than Pearl, more free than melting Snow. That Mirrour ſhew'd me my foul Treſpaſs firſt; The Stars and Fates; but moſt my ſelf I curſt; For Sacriledge like mine, what Recompence? Thrice at her Feet I fell for my Offence, While ſhe, Alas, as oft drew back for fear, And durſt not truſt my cruel Hands ſo near.

Propert. Lib. 1. Eleg. 4. CHarming and ſoft as Ariadne's Sleep, When faithleſs Theſeus cut the falſer Deep; Was that which late my Cynthia did o'ercome, When I with Troops of Links came reeling home, Half laid, half ſitting, and the more to charm, Her Head ſupported on her yielding Arm; My Soul ev'n then her wonted Pow'r confeſt, In ſpite of Bacchus raging in my Breaſt. For without Noiſe I crep't to her Bed-ſide, Though by my ſtagg'ring Feet but ill ſupply'd. I gaz'd, but dar'd no nearer to entrude; Nor Wine it ſelf had Power to make me rude; For ſtill the ſleeping Beauty I forbore; Fixt like a Midnight Miſer by his Store: The Wretch ſo fain wou'd ſeize, but wants the Pow'r; Yet what his Hands forbear, his Eyes devour. I took the genial Garland from my Head, And wantonly on Cinthia's Temples ſpread. Sometimes her Treſſes with more Gemms I grace't, A ſtarting Curl ſometimes in Order plac't: Her half-ſhut Hands with downy Peaches fill'd, While Show'rs of Jaſſmine on her Brow diſtill'd. Heapt all Delights the fragrant Seaſon bore, And Sleep was never treated ſo before. Roſe-Leaves and Bloſſoms on her Breaſt I threw, Remov'd as faſt with ev'ry Breath ſhe drew. But Oh, what Fears oft-times I did ſuſtain, (Ye Powers of Love bear Witneſs to my Pain) When in more deep Repoſe ſhe loſt her Breath, To ſee a Sleep ſo much reſembling Death. What Terrors oft my tender Breaſt did rend, Leſt with ſome frightful Dream ſhe might contend. At laſt the clouded Moon her Beams deny'd, That were by Cinthia's waking Eye ſupply'd. Soon as ſhe ſpy'd me, with a Sighand Tear, She cry'd, what makes this lewd Companion here? To this late Hour, where have thy rambles led; Where haſt thou roar'd, and drank the Stars to Bed? But know, perfidious Man, the Pow'rs above Have large Revenge in ſtore for injur'd Love. By dear Experience may'ſt thou know my Pain, Expecting all the tedious Night in vain! Sometimes with Books I cheat the Hours away, With Muſick next—but when you longer ſtay, I know that Night's on new Intreagues employ'd, Too long a time for Beauty once enjoy'd. 'Tis thus the weary Minutes I engage, Toſt with divided Thoughts of Love and Rage; Till Sleep, that gives to other Ills Relief, Renewsand doubles in ſad Dreams my Grief.

To the Conceal'd Author of ABSALOM and ACHITOPHEL. HAil, Heav'n-born Muſe, Hail every ſacred Page, The Glory of our Iſle, and of our Age. Th'inſpiring Sun to Albion draws more nigh; The North at laſt ſeems with a Work to vie With Homer's Flame, and Virgil's Majeſty. While Pindus lofty Heights our Poet ſought, His raviſht Mind with vaſt Idea's fraught, Our Language fail'd beneath his riſing Thought. This checks not his Attempt, for Maro's Mines He drains of all their Store t'enrich his Lines, Through each of which the Mantuan Genius ſhines. Once Rocks obey'd the Powerful Hebrew Guide, Their flinty Breaſt diſſolving to a Tide: Thus on our ſtubborn Language he prevails, And makes the Helicon in which he ſails. The Dialect as well as Senſe invents, And with his Poem a new Speech preſents. Hail then, thou matchleſs Bard, thou great Unknown, That give your Country Fame, yet ſhun your own, In vain; for ev'ry where your Praiſe you'll find, And not to meet it you muſt ſhun Mankind. Your Loyal Theam each Loyal Reader draws, And ev'n the Faction give your Verſe Applauſe, Whoſe Light'ning ſtrikes to ground their Idol Cauſe. The Cauſe for whoſe dear ſake they drank a Flood Of Civil Gore, nor ſpar'd the Royal Blood. The Cauſe whoſe Growth to cruſh our Prelates wrote In vain, almoſt in vain our Heroes fought; Yet by one ſtab of your keen Satyr dies; Before your Ark their ſhatter'd Dagon lies. Oh, if unworthy we appear to know The Sire to whom this wondrous Birth we owe, Deny'd our ready Homage to expreſs, And can at beſt but thankful be by gueſs; This Hope remains,—may David's God-like-Mind The unknown Author of theſe Numbers find; And having found, ſhow'r equal Favours down On Wit ſo vaſt as cou'd oblige a Crown.

On the Meddal. ONce more our Poet ſallies to engage The threatning Hydra-Faction of the Age: Once more prepares his dreadful Pen to wield; While every Muſe attends him to the Field. By Art and Nature for this Task deſign'd, Yet modeſtly the Fight he long declin'd; Forbare the Torrent of his Verſe to pour, Nor loos'd his Satyr till the needful Hour. His Sov'reign's Right by Patience half betray'd, Wak'd his avenging Genius to its Aid: Bleſt Muſe, whoſe Wit with ſuch a Cauſe was Crown'd, And bleſt the Cauſe that ſuch a Champion found! But like a Prince, by Subjects forc't t' engage, Secure of Conqueſt, he rebates his Rage: His Fury not without Diſtinction ſheds, Hurls Mortal Bolts but on devoted Heads. To leſs offending Members gentle found, Spares them, or elſe pours Balm into the Wound. This gen'rous Grace th'ingrateful Tribe abuſe, And treſpaſs on the Mercy of his Muſe. Their wretched dog'ril Rhimers forth they bring, To ſnarle and bark againſt the Poet's King. A Crew that ſcandalize the Nation more, Than all their Treaſon-canting Prieſts before. On theſe he ſcarce vouchſaf't a ſcornful Smile; But on their Powerful Patrons turns his Stile; A Stile ſo keen as from the Faction draws The vital Poiſon, ſtabs at Heart their Cauſe. Take then, Great Bard, what Tribute we can raiſe, Accept our Thanks for you tranſcend our Praiſe.

To my ingenious Friend Mr. Creech, on his Tranſlation of Lucretius. TWas bold for youth Lucretian heights to ſtorm, But Youth alone had Vigour to perform; The ſtately Fabrick ſtood by all admir'd, While none to Coppy the vaſt Frame aſpir'd. All own'd ſome Sacred Power the Work did guide, Aids which our Author to the World deny'd; What to attempt had drawn a gen'ral Blame, Perform'd ſo well muſt Challenge greater fame: Lucretius Engliſh'd!—tis ſo rich a Prize, We gaze upon't and ſcarce believe our Eyes! We read and ſee the Roman Genius ſhine, Without Alley in each bright Page of thine, Then pauzing with freſh Doubt, again repair; Again we find the Learn'd Lucretius there. Thy Pains oblige us on a double ſcore, True to thy Author, to Religion more, While learnedly his Errours thou doſt note; And for his Poyſon bring an Antidote, From Epicurus Walks thus weeding vice, No more the Garden but a Paradice.

The Battle of the B—d's in the Theatre Royal, December the 3d 1680. GIve ore ye Tilters of the Pit, give ore, Frighten the Boxes and your ſelves no more: Two Amazons of Scandalous renown, Have with dire Combat made this Field their own. Their fray on no ſlight Grounds (like yours) was made, But for precedence in their famous Trade; Both for the publique break their Midnight ſleep, And open Courts for lated Mortals keep. Zeal for the Publique did their rage excite, But who can ſpeak the Horrour of the fight! The Oaths, the Banns, the Sweat, the Duſt, the Blood Is not to be expreſt, nor underſtood. Strong Sarcenet Scarf with Hood of Gauſe more ſlight, Promiſcuouſly lay ſcatter'd in the fight: Necklace and Pendants periſh't in the fray, And rev'rend Point that did the Art diſplay, Of Ages paſt had now its fatal Day. Our upper region raviſh't at the ſight, With dinn of clatt'ring Sticks applaud the fight; Nay ev'n our Squires oth' Pit like Trojans true, Made a fair Ring, and ſtood Spectators too: Some ſide Box Nymphs ('tis true) made Proteſtation. This War would prove the ruin of the Nation: Which to prevent Bellona interpos'd, And with a partial Hand the Battel clos'd. S—nce the vanquiſht, S—nce quits her Ground, The Conqu'ring Str—rd is with Myrtle • rown'd, And Drury-lane all loyal Wh—es reſound.

Hor. Ode 5th. lib. 3. Quis multâ gracilis te Puer in Rosâ. SAy, perjur'd Maid, What tender Youth with Perfumes on his Head, And Roſes for his Bed, Alike by Nature's Sweets and thine betray'd; What unexperienc'd Youth does now employ Sighs, Tears and Oaths to reap the fatal Joy? To what new Lover do'ſt thou now unfold Thoſe Amber Locks? For thy Undreſs can charm, Thy looſe diſhevell'd Treſſes warm, Beyond the Glances ſhot from Gemms and Gold. Ah! thoughtleſs Wretch, how oft ſhall he in vain Curſe perjur'd Faith, and to the Gods complain? Thoſe Gods by whom the fair Deceiver ſwore; When he ſhall hear the Tempeſt fall, The Billows waking at the Thunder's Call, Who ne'er ſaw Wave, nor heard a Storm before! How oft ſhall he bewail his Error paſt, Who thought the ſmiling Calm wou'd always laſt, That he alone, and always he Of Phillis Heart ſhall owner be, And fix of Woman's Love th'inconſtant Sea? So curſt are all that ſee thy Smiles, And view thy Beauty e'er they know thy Wiles! Thrice wretched they for whom remains this Fate; But me Experience dear and late, Has with a ſtrange Eſcape ſent back, Reſolv'd for Sea no more; And hanging on the Rocks of this falſe Shore, (That none hereafter the like Error make) My Garments drencht, and dropping with the Wreck.

To the Tranſlator of Father Simon's Critical Hiſtory. AS Eſdras once did into Order draw, And to the new-freed Tribes revive the Law, So you, from Chains of Darkneſs which they wore, The Captive Oracles again reſtore. Hail, Inſpir'd Father, who couldſt force thy way Through Night's dark Empire to the Realm of Day. Your ſelf creates the Sun that gives you Light, And forms the Hiſtory by which you write. One Age diſſolves (ſuch force your Judgment bears) The ſettled Cloud of many thouſand Years. This works firſt Fame was thine who did create, The ſecond his that could ſo well tranſlate. From whoſe joyn'd Beams a perfect Light we draw The Ʋrim and the Thummim of the Law.

The Charge. SONG. I. TEll my Strephon that I die; Let Ecchoes to each other tell, Till the mournful Accent fly To Strephon's Ear, and all is well. II. But gently break the fatal Truth, Sweeten ev'ry ſadder Sound; For Strephon's ſuch a tender Youth, The gentleſt Words too deep will wound. III. The gentleſt Words will wound too deep The dear relenting Swain, Then let my Griefs in Silence ſleep, And never more complain. IV. Fountains Ecchoes all be dumb; For ſhould I coſt my Swain a Tear, I ſhall repent me in the Tomb, And grieve to buy my Reſt ſo dear.

PROLOGUE. To the Enchanted Lovers. YOu've met us in defiance of the Weather; How has our Magick conjur'd you together! The Play is new—there doubtleſs lay the Charm, That drew to our forſaken Hive this Swarm. What more to ſooth your Humor cou'd we do, Than when the Play is new, an d Poet too. He, though an early Treſpaſſer in Rhime, Ne'er climb'd the Stage before; and judg'd this time For his Adventure ſafeſt when the Road Was clear, the Pirate Wits diſperſt abroad. He hop'd while you toth' Country were withdrawn, T'have found an eaſie Jury of the Town; But is ſurpriz'd to ſee an awful Pit, Met to arrraign him by the Laws of Wit; Laws ne'er perform'd by mortal Writer yet. Witches and Spells the former Age believ'd, And as authentick on the Stage receiv'd; Our Poet fears they'll hardly paſs with you, Who no charms but in Beauty will allow. Yet ſince ſuch Lovers Knaves and Fools have been, Shewn on the Stage, as elſewhere ne'er were ſeen; Why ſhou'd his Haggs fore't Characters appear? Cauſe your nice Reaſon doubts if Witches are. He with a trembling Hand their jargons wrote; The Entertainment of his Mid-night Thought: Mean while his Fancy, like a tender Bride, With th'Exerciſe lay pleas'd and terrify'd: With Eaſe his Belldam's Tempeſts raiſe and lay; But could contrive no Spell to ſave the Play.

EPILOGUE. WHat no Attendance in this World? make way. Where are our noiſy empty Hectors? they That hear no Scene, and yet damn all the Play, Run down by Maſque, to their old ſhift they flee, And rail at us for want of Repartee. Well, Gentlemen, howe'er you doom too Night, Methinks this Company's a bleſſed Sight, And ſhews the Realms Diſorder coming Right. With us as with the Publick it does paſs, The Theatre's the Nations Weather-Glaſs; Where, like the Quick-ſilver our Audience ſtill, As the State goes is found to ebb or ſill. Shall I inform you one thing, Gallants?—We In our Vocation with the Saints agree: For as their Holders-forth their Flock enchant, So we our Audience Charm with Noiſe and Rant. 'Tis thus we pleaſe, and I dare take my Oath, That Decency and Sence would break us both.

EPILOGUE. NOw we expect to hear our raw Blades ſay, Dam me, I ſee no Sence in this dull Play: Tho much of it our abler Judges know Was famous Senſe 'bove forty Years ago. Sometimes we fail to pleaſe for want of Wit I'th' Play; but moſt for want of 't in the Pit. For many ruin'd Poet's Work 'twould ſave, Had you but half the Senſe you think you have. Poets on you Fore-fathers ſhamm'd dull Plays, And ſhrewdly you revenge it in our Days. In troth we fare by 't as your Tradeſmen do: For while they raiſe Eſtates by cheating you, Into Acquaintance with their Wives you fall, And get 'em graceleſs Sons to ſpend it all. 'Tis plain they'r your's, 'cauſe all our Arts miſcarry: For, juſt like you, they'll damn before they'll marry. Of honeſt Terms I now almoſt deſpair, Unleſs retriev'd by ſome rich Yeoman's Heir, In Grannam's Ribons, and his own ſtraight Hair. What Comforts ſuch a Lover would afford! Joynture! dear Joynture, Oh, the Heav'nly Word; But—e'er of you, my Sparks, my Leave I take, For your Unkindneſs paſt, theſe Prayers I make, So very conſtant may your Miſſes be, Till you grow cloy'd for want of Jealouſie; Into ſuch Dullneſs may your Poets tire, Till they ſhall write ſuch Plays as you admire, May you, inſtead of Whoring, Gaming, Drinking, Be damn'd to your Averſion,—Books and thinking; And for a laſt wiſh—what I'm ſure you'll call The Curſe of Curſes—Marriage take ye all.

The PROLOGUE. To the Hiſtory of King Lear, reviv'd, with Alterations. SInce by Miſtakes your beſt Delights are made, (For your own Wives can pleaſe in Maſquerade) 'Twere worth our while t' have drawn you in to day By a new Name to our old honeſt Play. But he that did this Ev'ning Treat prepare, Reſolv'd before-hand frankly to declare Your Entertainment ſhould be moſt Old Fare. Yet hopes, ſince in rich Shakeſpear's Soil it grew, 'Twill reliſh ſtill with Palats that are true; And his Ambition is to pleaſe a few. If then this Heap of Flowers ſhall chance to wear Freſh Beauty in the Order they now bear, Ev'n this is Shakeſpear's Praiſe—each Ruſtick knows, With various Flowers a Garland to compoſe; That ſtrung by his courſe Hand may fairer ſhow; But 'twas a Pow'r Divine firſt made 'em grow. Why ſhou'd theſe Scenes lie hid, in which we find What may at once delight and teach the Mind? Morals were always proper for the Stage, But are ev'n neceſſary in this Age. Poets muſt take the Churches teaching Trade, Since Prieſts their Province of Intrigue invade; But we the worſt in this Exchange have got, In vain our Poets preach, while Church-men plot.

EPILOGUE. INconſtancy, the reigning Sin o'th' Age, Will ſcarce endure true Lovers on the Stage: You hardly ev'n in Plays with ſuch diſpenſe, And Poets kill 'em in their own Defence. Yet one bald Proof I was reſolv'd to give, That I could three Hours Conſtancy out-live. You ſear, perhaps, while on the Stage we're made Such Saints, we ſhall indeed take up the Trade; Sometimes we threaten—but our Vertue may For Truth, I fear, with your Pit-Valour weigh. Where (not to ſtatter either) I much doubt, When we are off the Stage, and you are out, We are not quite ſo coy, nor you ſo ſtout. We talk of Nunneries—but to be ſincere, Whoever hopes to ſee us Cloyſter'd there, May hope to meet our Criticks at Tangier. Well—ſince ye are for bluſt'ring in the Pit, This Play's Reviver humbly does admit Your abs'lute Power to damn his part of it. But ſtill ſo many Maſter-Torches ſhine Of that great Hand that firſt laid this Deſign, That in great Shakeſpear's Right he's bold to ſay, The Play your Judgment damns, not you the Play.

To Mr. L. Maidwell, on his New Grammar. THus early for that Homage we make way, Which late Poſterity ſhall better pay. To form a Verſe as perfect as our Theam, The Air of Pindus and Pirene's Stream Aſſiſt too feebly; our Recourſe muſt be For juſt Expreſſion to thy Book and thee. From thy own Stores thy Tribute we muſt raiſe; For who beſt learns thy Precepts, beſt can praiſe. How heavily till now our Youth were bred; With painful Progreſs to the Muſes led; Through Clouds of Terms to Science did proceed, Nor learnt their Grammar's Uſe till paſt the need. Who ſped the beſt, but late arriv'd the Coaſt, The greater part on Rocks of Error loſt. So ignorant the Pilot ſtill appear'd; So falſe the Card it ſelf by which they ſteer'd: Till thou in gen'rous Pity didſt impart To weeping Youth this perfect Scheme of Art; Whoſe ready Method doubly eas'd their way, More ſhort the Journey, and more bright the Day. Thy Art, like Moſes, on the Mount appears, Shews at one View the Search of many years. So ſhort and clear all thy Inſtructions lie, They teach the Mind, not load the Memory. Thy Tree performs for Boys more Wonders now, Than for the Heroe Virgil's Golden Bough: With this bright Charm each cheerful Youth invades The Muſes World through darkeſt Authors Shades. What Progreſs then in Learning muſt be made, When half the Building's in the Baſis laid?

An Attempt on the Ode of Aſſumption, By Mr. Craſhaw. I. HEark, ſhe is call'd, the parting Hour is come, Poor World, take thy Farewell; Heav'n muſt on Earth no longer dwell; Take Leave poor world; for Heav'n muſt now go home; Heav'ns Bride muſt home, then all the Stars more bright Whoſe Lamps for her Arrival deck the Sky; See where her Chariot mounts, whilſt in her Flight She gives the Cryſtal Sphere more glorious Light, And wakes into broad Fire, the ſleeping Galaxie. II. Heark ſhe is call'd the dear Immortal Dove! Sighs to his Silver-Mate, riſe up my Love; Ariſe my fair, my ſpotleſs one, The ſtormy Winter's paſt, the Rain is gone; The Spring is come, the Flow'rs appear, No Sweets but thou are wanting here. Then come away my Love; The Pomp, the Court of Heav'n are come, With all the Starry Hoſt to wait thee home: There's not one Guardian Seraph left above. The Glories of the Spring appear, Or quickly would if thou wert here: The Spring is come, or if it ſtay, 'Tis only to keep Time withthy Delay. The Rain is gone, except ſo much as we Retain in Tears to weep the want of thee. The gloomy Water's paſt; Or if he make leſs Haſte, His Anſwer is, that ſhe is ſlow; If Summer come not, how can Winter go? Come my Love, make haſte away; The ſhrill Winds chide, the Waters weep thy ſtay, The Fountains murmur, and each lofty Tree Bends low his Leaſy Top to look for thee. III. She's call'd again, and ſhe will now away Heav'n will not, and ſhe cannot ſtay. Go then, riſe glorious on the Golden Wings Of Heav'ns bright Youth, while each thy triumph ſings, Whoſe Numbers yet a Flight more lofty take, Than what their own immortal Pinions make. And tho our Notes are far leſs ſweet and ſtrong, Yet our beſt Harmony we'll ſend Her riſing Glories to attend; And ſtrive at leaſt to reach her with our Song. In Heav'ns own Anthem we will bear our parts, Hail, Holy, happy Queen of humble Hearts, Maria, Men and Angels ſing, Maria, Mother of th' Eternal King: Live, Queen of Heav'n, the Cherub's ſacred Mirth, Reſtorer, and Protectreſs of the Earth; Live, thou that gav'ſt Eternity a Birth. Thus far our Numbers which with Grief we ſee, Short of our own Deſires, much more of thee. And now our Mortal Airs have done their beſt, Divineſt Angels come and ſing the reſt.

The Three Firſt Chapters of Job.

The Firſt Chapter. THe Land of Ʋzz by Nature much was bleſt; But more, that Righteous Job her Soil poſſeſt. None worſhipt Heav'n with ſuch Religious Care, Nor of its Bleſſings held ſo large a Share. Sev'n Princely Sons, three beauteous Daughters grac't The Patriarch's Court, his Field increaſt more faſt. His Flocks and Herds in thouſands he could ſee; The plenteous Eaſt knew none ſo rich as he. The Sons to weekly Treats each other call, And in their Courſe appoint the Feſtival: As oft did Job his pious Prayers renew, And Sacrifices to their Number ſlew, Leſt in the warmth, ſaid he, of Mirth and Wine, The Youth forget, or curſe the Pow'r Divine. Such was his Practice—Now approacht the Day, When all Jehovah's Sons in ſolemn way Appear'd before him. Satan too was there: For what will not induſtrious Malice dare? From whence (ſaid God?) From ranging far and wide Thine Earth for Prey, the ſullen Fiend reply'd. And haſt thou (ſaid th' Almighty) haſt thou found In all the Search of that thy ſpacious Round, A Saint-like Job, my Servant, ſcarce in Thought Tranſgreſſing?—And does Job ſerve God for nought? The Fiend returns—Are not thine Arms his Fence? Stands not his Houſe hedg'd round with Providence? What wants thy Servant Man can happy call? Well may he yield thee Praiſe, who giv'ſt him all, Peace, Plenty, Power, what can he cover more? My own black Tribe could bleſs on ſuch a Score. But check thoſe vaſt Rewards that makes him juſt, Conſume his Subſtance, lay his Pomp in Duſt, Afflict his Perſon, load him with Diſgrace, Thy Saint that hour ſhall curſe thee to thy Face. Prove then his Truth (ſaid God) this very hour All but his Life we leave within thy Power. Hells Agent ſmil'd: the Genial Day was ſet Once more, when Job's glad Sons and Daughters met, While to the Rev'rend Sire, a Meſſenger, Breathleſs with Haſte, and half expir'd with Fear, Theſe Tidings brought—While we the Plow did ply, Our Oxen york't, the Aſſes grazing by, Sabean Troops upon the Cattel fell, And of thy Servants I ſurvive to tell. Imperfectly was this Relation told, When heavier News a ſecond does unfold: Thy Flocks and Servants Fire from Heav'n has ſlain, And I alone to tell their Fate remain. While yet he ſpoke a third was heard to ſay, The Camels are become the Chaldee's Prey; On us thy Servants in three Bands they fell, And I am ſcarce eſcap't with Breath to tell. Nor had he finiſht, when the Fourth expreſt The Loſs that like a Sea devour'd the reſt: This day (ſaid he) thy Sons and Daughters met, With num'rous Trains about the Banquet ſet; Thy Beds firſt Pledge, the Eldeſt was their Hoſt; But Ah, too dear the Entertainment coſt! For lo! a Whirlwind from the Deſart blew, That at one Blaſt the Palace overthrew: Beneath the Pile thy Off-ſpring all lie ſlain, And of thy Servants I alone remain. At this the Saint his Garment rent around, And falling proſtrate, worſhipt on the Ground. Thus bare, (ſaid he) thus naked was I born, And naked thus I ſhall to Earth return. Heav'n gives, and Heav'n with Juſtice may recall, So Heav'n be prais'd whate'er to man befall. In ſuch Diſtreſs thus patient he remain'd; Nor fondly once of Providence complain'd.

The Second Chapter. THe ſolemn Time was now return'd, once more, When with the reſt ſtood Satan, as before: From whence, ſaid God? From ranging far and wide The ſpacious Globe, the ſullen Fiend reply'd. And haſt thou (ſaid th' Almighty) haſt thou found A Saint like Job in all thy ſpacious Round? Who ſtill our Laws and Service does attend, Nor all his cauſeleſs Griefs have made offend. To this th' Accuſer—ſlight is yet his Pain; Nor would my Tribe for ſuch Diſtreſs complain: But touch his Fleſh with thy afflicting Rod, And to his Face the Saint ſhall curſe his God. Try (ſaid th' Almighty) wreck thy Vengeance here, Afflict his Body; but his Life forbear. Hell's Factor ſtrikes him now with Boils all o'er; His ulcer'd Fleſh but one continued Sore. The patient Saint in Aſhes ſtill remains, And with a Potſheard ſcrapes his ſwelling Blanes. Retain'ſt thou ſtill thy found Integrity? His Wife exclaims, give o'er, curſe Heav'n and die. Forbear (ſaid he) ſuch impious Blaſphemies; What blacker Guilt could Belial's ſelf adviſe? Ingrateful! ſhall we from the Pow'r Divine Receive Life's Sweets, and at its Griefs repine? From both our Duties Tribute let him raiſe, For theſe our Patience, and for thoſe our Praiſe. Thus far the utmoſt Rage of Hell was vain; For ſtill his Vertue triumpht o'er his Pain. This wondrous Change fill'd every Breath of Fame, And to his Friends in diſtant Regions came; Who, Thunder-ſtruck, by joint Conſent repair To comfort, or at leaſt his Trouble ſhare: Far off a mournful Spectacle they view, Three Friends; but none his Old Acquaintance knew. At laſt, when Job appear'd through Griefs diſguiſe, Each rent his Garment, and the Air with Cries; With Duſt they ſtrew'd their Heads, and ſeated round, Seven Suns beheld them weeping on the Ground; All ſpeechleſs; for they fear'd to urge the Grief They ſaw too mighty to admit Relief.

The Third Chapter PARAPHRAS'D. I. LEt the Day periſh; let it periſh quite, That brought a wretch like me to light: Infernal Vapors blaſt the Morn, In which 'twas ſaid, behold a Man-child born. The Night that did me firſt to Life betray; The Night that uſher'd in that fatal Day; Infernal Horrors overtake that Night! Let diſmal Shades the Day o'ergrow, More black than Darkneſs let it prove; Let Hell confound it from below, And let not God relieve it from above. Deepeſt Sables ſhroud the Earth, And Death poſſeſs the Day that gave me Birth. Amongſt his Brethren let not that appear, Nor have a place within the circ'ling Year. The Night that for the wretched Birth made way, The Night that uſher'd in the fatal Day; All ſolitary let it be; No Sound of Joy be heard therein; Let Mourners curſe it, all that mourn like me; From its own Darkneſs let it ne'er be free, But ever wait the Dawn that never ſhall begin. II. Becauſe it did aſſiſt the lab'ring Womb, And to theſe Sorrows me betray'd: Why was I not from Birth to Death convey'd? And why was not my Cradle made my Tomb? Why did the careful Midwife cloſe, And mold this Head for ſuch a Maſs of Woes! Why did the Knees prevent my Mother's Throws? And when their Offices did ceaſe, When want of Food had ſoon reſtor'd my Peace, Why did the Breaſt afford Relief, And foſter up the Drudge and Slave of Grief? Who elſe had lain at Reſt, and found In common Earth my Sleep of Death as ſound, As Kings and Princes that in Wealth abound. Who in the very Tomb a Palace have, And lay whole Empires out upon a Grave. In equal Quiet I had lain, With things unborn, and things retir'd, With Babes by Death reſtor'd to Reſt again; Or ſuch as on their way to Life expir'd, Convey'd to Bliſs before they taſted Pain. O Grave! O Manſion of the Dead! Wondrous things of thee are ſaid! The wicked ceaſe from troubling there, And there the weary are at Reſt. Pris'ners, of Liberty poſſeſt; And Slaves th' Oppreſſor's Voice no longer hear. Life's Tyrant there Diſtinctions took away, And Servants mingle with their Maſter's Clay. III. Why is the better Soul detain'd in Bands Of hateful Fleſh; why forc't to live? Why ſhou'd the Sun to him his Luſtre give, Who at Defiance with all Comfort ſtands? What does the Son of Ruin here, Among the cheerful Race of Men? A Wretch that ne'er muſt taſte of Joy again. Why ſhou'd he ſee the Changes of the Year, Who in all Nature's Bleſſings has no Share, Abandon'd and devoted to Deſpair. He calls for Death his weary Lids to fold, And courts the Terrour of Mankind: He ſearches for him, diggs more deep to find A Grave, than Miſers do for Gold. Why does his riſing Day the Beams renew On him that has no Comfort to purſue? Why is he forc't to look abroad agen, And meet the World where he has nought to do? Cut off from all the cheerful ways of Men. With blackeſt Terrors hedg'd around, Whoſe Doom is paſt, his Ruin ſeald, With Sentence ne'er to be repeal'd; Whom God has left, and laſt Deſtruction found. My Sighing comes before I ſeed, And Deluges of Tears ſucceed: My roaring overcomes the Main, And Seas are huſht when I complain. The Trouble which I fear'd, without Controul Has ſeiz'd upon me the long-dreadful Ill; The Thought whereof my Blood ſo oft did chill, And ſhot with Midnight-Trembling through my Soul. Tis come—Yet Heav'n bear Witneſs what I bore, How far remov'd from Happineſs before. Among the Sons of Sorrow I was Chief; But former Woes were Pleaſure to this Grief: Then urge me, Friends, with vain Advice no more, Deſpairing and defying all Relief.

The Charnell-Houſe. THis Treaſury of Death Survey, Where Poor and Rich like Tribute pay. See what Acquaintance thou canſt ſpy Amongſt thoſe Skulls, I prethee try: Man of Science, prethee ſhow Thy darling Friend, or deadly Foe. Mankind by thee alive are read, And know'ſt thou nothing of the Dead?

To the Memory of Sir Richard Raynsford, Lord Chief Juſtice. Qui Conſulta Patrum, qui Leges, Juraque ſervat, Quo magnae multaeque ſecantur Judice lites. Hor. WHen Princes have to Fate reſign'd their Sway, And a low Grave receiv'd the Royal Clay, Then ev'n a Second Death they ſeem to have, More bury'd in Oblivion than the Grave; The Charm of ſome diviner Poet's Flame From Darkneſs has redeem'd their ſully'd Name, And ſixt 'em ſhining in the Roll of Fame. Not thus, Learn'd Raynsford, do we write of thee, As we could add to thy bright Memory: For while thy wondrous Vertues we rehearſe, We praiſe not thee; but thou adorn'ſt our Verſe. The Muſes from their barren Mountains come To ſtock themſelves with Lawrel at thy Tomb; Which, like a ſacred Shrine they ſind prepar'd, Where Fame and Honour keep eternal Ward. Ev'n I, the meaneſt of the Tribe inſpir'd, (Yet with th' Ambition of the proudeſt fir'd) Deſign'd ſome Work that ſhould immortal be, Took the true Path, and choſe to write of thee. Before the Thirſt of Wealth and Pow'r began, When Man rul'd Brutes, and not his Brother Man, E'er Laws were form'd (for who could wrong pretend, When th'Infant-world yet knew not to offend) The Angels of Mankind hae little Odds; Earth ſeem'd a Heav'n, and Men a Race of Gods: That Mortals once could ſuch Perfection own, In Raynsford's equal Piety was ſhown; Who, in an Age moſt vitious and accurſt, Did praſtiſe all the Vertues of the firſt. Sill with a peaceful Air his Count'nance ſhin'd, The Emblem of his more pacifick Mind; That never did the leaſt Conteſt maintain, But of the Graces ſtriving which ſhould reign. Ev'n Nature too her ſignal Care expreſt, Brought all her righteſt Gifts t' adorn his Breaſt. She gave, and gave till ſhe could give no more; Yet ſtill his Induſtry encreas'd the ſtore. Beſide th'Endowments Bounteous Heav'n inſpir'd, All Ornament of Science he acquir'd. The Truth from ſpecious Falſhood could divide; Had all the Gown-mens Skill, without their Pride. He knew whate'er the ableſt Doctors know, Yet ſcorn'd not the moſt Ignorant and Low: Weakneſs in others never did deſpiſe, Yet was himſelf the wonder of the Wiſe. And tho no Conqueſt is ſo hard to gain, As when ſtiff Diſputants Tongue-wars maintain; Yet when he reaſon'd Sophiſtry ſtood mute, and 'twas a Lecture, rather than Diſpute. Hiſtorians from his clearer Sight ſupply'd Their darker Books, they ours, and he their Guide. Remoteſt Ages he kept ſtill in view, To preſent Cauſes paſt Examples drew, And all things, but his own Perfections knew. But moſt regard to Truths Divine he bore, Where both his Faith and Skill ſo high did ſoar, Few Churchmen knew ſo much; none practic'd more. The Law, that did a boundleſs Ocean ſeem, Was coaſted all, and fathom'd all by him: A dadg'rous Sea, till he like Neptune roſe The wrangling Winds and Waters to compoſe: Then baniſh'd Juſtice did to th' Courts repair, And ſeem'd enthron'd while Raynsford fill'd the Chair. Large Fees made then the Cauſe no heavier weigh, The Widows ſmil'd, and Orphans bleſt the Day. Math awful Meen he judged not auſtere; Ev'n thoſe he ſentenc'd thought him not ſevere; For ſtill he pity'd where he could not ſpare. With ſuch a mildneſs fate the Hebrew Guide, The trav'ling Nations Cauſes to decide, While Angels from above admir'd to ſee On Earth ſuch Wiſdom and Integrity: But that bright Oracle at laſt expir'd, And ours (too great a Bliſs to laſt) retir'd.

Prhoris. From the Metamorph. of Ovid. Lib. 7 Phocus in in terius ſpatium pulchroſque receſſus Cecropidas ducit, &c. TO th' inmoſt Cours the Grecian Youths were led And plac'd by Phocus on a Tyrian Bed; Who ſtreight obſerv'd Aeolides to hold A Dart of unknown Wood; but arm'd with Gold. None better loves (ſaid he) the Huntſ-man's Sport, Or does more often to the Woods reſort; Yet I that Jav'lins ſtem with wonder view; Too ſmooth for Box, too ſmooth a Grain for Yew. I cannot gueſs the Tree; but never Art Did form, or Eyes behold ſo fair a Dart! The Gueſt then interrupts him—'twou'd produce Sill greater wonder, if you knew the Uſe. It never fails to ſtrike the Game, and then Comes bloody back into your hand agen. Then Phocus each particular deſires, And th' Author of the wondrous Gift enquires. To which the Owner thus with weeping Eyes, And Sorrow for his Wife's ſad Fate, replies, This Weapon here (O Prince!) can you believe This Dart the Cauſe for which ſo much I grieve; And ſhall continue to grieve on, till Fate Afford ſuch wretched Life yet longer Date. Would I this fatal Gift had ne'er enjoy'd, This fatal Gift my tender Wife deſtroy'd. Procris her Name, ally'd in Charms and Blood; To fair Orythia courted by a God. Her Father ſeal'd my Hopes with Rites Divine, But firmer Love before had made her mine. Men call'd me bleſt, and bleſt I was indeed. The ſecond Month our Nuptials did ſucceed, When (as upon Hymettus dewy Head, For Mountain-Stags, my Net betimes I ſpread) Aurora ſpy'd, and raviſht me away, With Rev'rence to the Goddeſs, I muſt ſay Againſt my will, for Procris had my Heart, Nor would her Image from my Thoughts depart. At laſt in Rage ſhe cry'd, Ingrateful Boy Go to your Procris, take your fatal Joy, And ſo diſmiſt me, Muling as I went What thoſe Expreſſions of the Goddeſs meant. A Thouſand jealous Fears poſeſs me now, Leaſt Procris had profan'd her Nuptial Vow! Her Youth and Charms did to my Fancy Paint. A lowd Adultreſs; but her Life a Saint. Yet I was abſent long, the Goddeſs too Taught me how far a Woman cou'd be true. Aurora's Treatment much Suſpition bred, Beſides, who truly Love ev'n ſhaddows dread. I ſtraight Impatient for the Tryal grew, What Courſhip backt with riched Gifts could do. Aurora's Envy aided my Deſign, And lent me Features far unlike to mine. In this Diſguiſe to my own Houſe I came, But all was chaſt, no conſcious ſign of Blame. With thouſaud Arts I ſcarce Admittance found, And then beheld her weeping on the Ground For her loſt Husband, hardly I retain'd My purpoſe, ſcarce the wiſht Embrace reftaind. How charming was her Grief! Then Phocus gueſs What killing Beauties waited on her Dreſs. Her conſtant Anſwer when my ſuit preſt. "Forbear, my Lords dear Image guards this Breſt. "Wherere he is, whatever cauſe detains, "Who ere has his, my Heart unmov'd remains. What greater Proofs of Truth than theſe cou'd be? Yet I perſiſt and urge my Deſtinye. At length ſhe found when my own Form return'd, Her Jealous Lover there whoſe loſs ſhe mourn'd. Enrag'd with my ſuſpition ſwift as Wind She ſled at once from me and all Mankind; And ſo became, her purpoſe to retain, A Nymph and Huntreſs in Diana's Train. Forſaken thus I found my Flames encreaſe, I own'd my Folly and I ſu'd for Peace. It was a fault; but not of Guilt to move Such Puniſhment, a fault of too much Love. Thus I retriv'd her to my longing Arms, And many happy Days poſeſt her Charms. But with her ſelf ſhe kindly did confer What Gifts the Goddeſs had beſtowed on her; The fleeteſt Grey-hound, with this lovely Dart, And I of both have wonders to impart. Near Thebes a ſavage Beaſt of Race unknown, Laid waſte the Field, and bore the Vineyards down, The ſwains fled from him, and with one conſent Our Grecian Youth to chaſe the Monſter went; More ſwift than Lightning he the Toils ſurpaſt, And in his Courſe Spears men and Trees ore-caſt. We ſlipt our Doggs, and laſt my Lelaps too, When none of all the Mortal Race wou'd do: He long before was ſtruggling from Hands, And ere we could unlooſe him broke his Bands. That Minute where he was we cou'd not find, And only ſaw the Duſt, he left behind. I climb'd a neighb'ring Hill to view the Chaſe, While in the Plain they held an equal Race; The Savage now ſeems caught, and now by force To quit himſelf, nor holds the ſame ſtreight courſe, But running counter, from the Foe withdraws And with ſhort turning cheats his gaping Jaws. Which he retrieves, and ſtill ſo cloſely preſt You'd ſwear at ev'ry ſtretch he were poſſeſt, Yet for the gripe his fangs in vain prepare, The Game ſhoots from him and he chops the Air. To caſt my Jav'lin then I took my ſtand; But as the Thongs were fitting to my Hand, While to the Valley I orelook'd the Wood, Before my Eyes two Marble Statues ſtood. That, as purſu'd, appearing at full ſtretch, This Barking after and at point to catch. Some God their courſe did with this Wonder grace That neither might be conquer'd in the Chaſe. A ſudden ſilence here his Tongue ſuppreſt, He here ſtops ſhort and fain wou'd wave the reſt; The eager Prince then urg'd him to impart The Fortune that attended on the Dart. Firſt then (ſaid he) paſt Joys let me relate, For Bliſs was the foundation of my Fate. No Language can thoſe happy Hours expreſs Did from our Nuptials Me and Procris bleſs: The kindeſt Pair! what more cou'd Heav'n confer? For She was all to Me and I to Her. Had Jove made Love, great Jove had been deſpis'd, And I my Procris more than Venus priz'd: Thus while no other Joy we did aſpire, We grew at laſt one Soul and one Deſire. Forth to the Woods I went at break of Day (The conſtant practice of my Youth) for Prey: Nor yet for Servant, Horſe or Dog did call, I found this ſingle Dart to ſerve for All: With Slaughter tir'd, I ſought the cooler ſhade And Winds that from the Mountains pierc'd the Come gentle Air, (ſo was I wont to ſay) Glade. Come gentle Air, ſweet Aura come away. This always was the Burden of my Song, Come 'ſwage my Flames, ſweet Aura come along. Thou always art moſt welcome to my Breſt; I faint, approach thou deareſt kindeſt Gueſt! Theſe Blandiſhments and more than theſe I ſaid, (By Fate to unſuſpected Ruin led) Thou art my Joy, for thy dear ſake I love Each Deſert Hill and ſolitary Grove; When (faint with Labour) I refreſhment need, For Cordials on thy fragrant Breath I feed. At laſt a wandring Swain in hearing came, And cheated with the ſound of Aura's Name; He thought I had ſome Aſſignation made, And to my Procris Ear the news convey'd. Great Love is ſooneſt with ſuſpicion ſir'd, She ſwoon'd and with the Tale almoſt expir'd. Ah! wretched Heart (ſhe cry'd) ah! faithleſs Man; And then to Curſe th'imagin'd Nymph began; Yet oft ſhe doubts, oft hopes ſhe is deceiv'd. And chides her ſelf that ever ſhe believ'd Her Lord to ſuch Injuſtice could proceed, Till ſhe her ſelf were witneſs of the Deed. Next Morn I to the Woods agen repair, And weary with the Chaſe invoke the Air; Approach dear Aura and my Boſom chear. At which a mournful Sound did ſtrike my Far; Yet I proceeded till the Thicket by With ruſtling Noiſe and Motion drew my Eye, I thought ſome Beaſt of prey was ſhelter'd there, And to the Covert threw my certain Spear. From whence a tender Sigh my Soul did wound, Ah me! it cry'd, and did like Procris, ſound. Proc •• s was there, too well the Voice I knew And to the Place with headlong Horrour flew. Where I beheld her gaſping on the Ground, In vain attempting from the deadly Wound To draw the Dart, her Love's dear fatal Gift! My guilty Arms had ſearce the ſtrength to lift The beautcous Load, my Silks and Hair I tore (If poſſible) to ſtanch the preſſing Blood; For pity begg'd her keep her ſlitting Breath, And not to leave me guilty of her Death: While I intreat ſhe fainted faſt away, And theſe few words had onely ſtrength to ſay, "By all the •• cred Bonds of plighted Love "By all your Rev'rence to the Powr's above, "By all that made me Charming once appear, "By all the Truth for which you held me dear, "And laſt by Love, the cauſe through which I bleed, "Let AƲRA never to my Bed ſucceed. I then perceiv'd the Errour of our Fate, And told it her, but found and told too late! I felt her lower to my Boſom fall; And while her Eyes had any ſight at all On Mine ſhe fix'd them; in her pangs ſtill preſt My Hand, and Sigh'd her Soul into my Breſt. Yet, being undeceiv'd, reſign'd her Breath Methought more chearfully, and ſmil'd in Death.

VIRGIL. The Second Eclogue. A Hopeleſs Flame did Corydon deſtroy: The fair Alexis was his Maſters Joy. No reſpite from his Grief the Shepherd knew, But daily came where ſhady Beaches grew. Where ſtretch'd on Earth alone he did complain And in theſe Accents told the Hills his Pain. (Cruel Alexis! haſt thou no Remorſe? Muſt I expire? and have my Songs no force? 'Tis now high Noon, when Herds to Coverts run The very Lizzards hide, that love the Sun. The Reapers home to Dinner now repair While buſie Theſtylis provides the Fare. Yet through the raging Heat I ſearch for Thee, Heat onely known to Graſhoppers and Me! Oh was it not much better to ſuſtain, The angry Days of Amaryllis Reign, Or ſtill be ſubject to Menalchas ſway? Though He more black than Night and Thou more fair than day O lovely Boy preſume not on thy Form, The faireſt Flow'rs are ſubject to a ſtorm: Thou both diſdain'ſt my Perſon and my Flame, Without ſo much as asking who I am! How rich in Heiſers all as white as Snow, Or Cream with which they make my Dayries ſlow: A thouſand Ewes within my Paſtures breed, And all the year upon new Milk I feed. Beſides, the fam'd Amphions Songs I ſing That into Theban Walls the Stones did bring Nor am I ſo Deform'd! the other Day When all the dreadful ſtorm was blown away, As on the Rocks above the Sea I ſtood, I view'd my Picture in the ſmiling Food, And if I look as handſom all the year To Vie with Daphnis Self I wou'd not fear. Ah wou'dſt thou once in Cottages delight, And love like me to wound the Stag in ſlight! Where freſheſt Mallows grow our Kids to drive, And in our Songs with Pan himſelf to ſtrive! From Pan the Reed's firſt uſe the Shepherd knew, 'Tis Pan Preſerves the Sheep and Shepherd too. Diſdain not then the tuneful Reed to ply Nor ſcorn the paſtime of a Deity. What was that Task Amyntas wou'd not do For half the noble Skill I offer you; A Pipe with Quills of various ſize I have The Legacy Damoetas dying gave, And ſaid, Poſſeſs thou this by Right 'tis Thine, Amyntas then ſtood by and did Repine; Beſide two Kids that I from Danger bore With ſtreaks of lovely white ennamell'd o're, Who drein the bagging Udder twice a Day, And both at home for thy Acceptance ſtay. Oft Theſtylis for them has pin'd and She, Shall have them ſince thou ſcorn'ſt my Gifts and Me. Draw near thou lovely Boy, approach and take The richeſt Preſents that the Spring can make, See how each Nymph with Lillies waits on Thee Fair Nais, ſcarce thy ſelf ſo fair as ſhe, With Poppies, Daſſadills, and Vi'lets joyn'd, A Garland for thy ſofter Brow has twin'd, My ſelf with downy Peaches will appear, And Cheſnuts, Amaryllis dainty Chear: I'll crop my Laurel too, and Myrtle Tree Together bound becauſe their ſweets agree. Unbred and Ruſtick art thou Corydon, Nor will Alexis with thy Gifts be won: Nor canſt thou hope, if Gifts his mind cou'd ſway, That rich Iolas wou'd to Thee give way. Ah me! while I fond wretch indulge theſe Dreams, Winds blaſt my Flow'rs, and Boars deſile my ſtreams Whom fly'ſt thou? Gods themſelves have had aboad In Woods, and Paris equal to a God. Let Pallas in the Tow'rs ſhe built, reſide, To me a Grove's worth all the world beſide: Lions chaſe Wolves, thoſe Wolves a Kid in prime, That very Kid ſeeks Heaths of flowring Tyme, While Corydon purſues with equal Flame Alexis Thee: each has his ſev'ral Game. See how the Oxe unyoak'd brings home the Plow, The Shades encreaſing as the Sun goes low. Bleſt Fields reliev'd by Nights approach ſo ſoon; Love has no Night! 'tis always raging Noon! Ah Corydon what frenzy fills thy Breſt! Thy Vineyard lies half prun'd and half undreſt; Luxurious Sprouts ſhut out the ripening Ray, The Branches ſhorn, not yet remov'd away; Recall thy Senſes, and to work with ſpeed, Of many Utenſils thou ſtand'ſt in need. Fall to thy Vintage; quit the peeviſh Boy; Time, or ſome new deſire ſhall this deſtroy.

THE Third ECLOGUE OF VIRGIL CALLED, Palemon, Menalchas, and Damaetas. Men. ARe theſe Damaetas, Melibaeus Sheep? Dam. No, Egon's, Egon gave them me to keep. Men. Ah! wretched Flock! while in Neara's Arms He lies, nor from his ſight dare truſt her Charms, So oft this Hireling milks you, that the Dams, Are pin'd for want of Feed, for ſuck the Lambs, Dam. With ſuch an Impudence thou doſt reprove, As if we knew not who profan'd the Grove; Your Poſture did the leering Goats enflame, But much more lewd the Nymphs that ſmil'd at ſuch a Game. Men. So Myco's new Encloſure on the Heath They ſaw me break and bleed his Vines to death. Dam. As ſure as at the foot of yon ag'd Oak, The gentle Daphins Bow and Darts you broke; How did your Gall ferment and ſwell to find, The Prize to that deſerving Boy aſſign'd; And had not preſent miſchief eas'd your ſpleen, You had expir'd, and Prey for Vultures been. Men. What will the Maſter when the Slave's ſo bold? Thou Varlet did not I my ſelf behold, While Damons Goat you trapt upon the plain; Lyſiſea open'd loud, but bark'd in vain, 'Till I cry'd out ware Thieves, wake Tyt'rus, wake, You then ſlunk off, and ſculkt behind the Brake. Dam. Where haſt thou ſculkt, that yet thou doſt not know That Goat was to my noble Conqueſt due? We ſung for him, and Damon's ſelf will ſay I won the Prize, tho he not dar'd to pay. Men. Thou ſing with him, who ne'r hadſt ſeaſon'd Quill? Or wax-joynd' Reed, nor know'ſt one Note of skill, But, ſtroling, in the high-way-Hedges ſhade, Some wretched ſtrein more lewdly thou haſt plaid, Not worth the ſtraw whereof thy Pipe was made. Dam. Then try with me, ſince thou contemn'ſt my Muſe, This Heifer, leſt my challenge you refuſe, I'll ſtake; She comes to Milking twice a day Yet ſuckles Twins; what dares Menalchas lay? Men. How ſhall I make a venture from my flock, Whoſe Parents are ſo jealous of their ſtock; So ſtrict an eye o're all my charge they keep, One dayly counts my Kids, and both my ſheep. Yet of more Price a Wager ſhall be laid, Since an example you will needs be made; This Bowl of ſeaſon'd Beach, a work refin'd; Which for his Maſter-piece Alcimedon deſign'd; Where Grapes with Ivy wreath'd ſo lively ſhow, The Cluſters ſeem to melt, the Leaves to grow. Two ſigns within, Conon, and He whoſe Art, Deſcrib'd the Sphears, the Seaſons ſet apart To Sow and Reap: no boaſting Nymph can ſay Sh'as laid Lip to't; 'tis freſh and new as Day. Dam. I have two Bowls engrav'd by the ſame hand, Where tuneful Orpheus draws the Woods along, Your ſelf would ſwear you heard his Lute & Song Theſe, yet untouch'd like ſacred Reliques ſtand: But both not to be mention'd on a Day, With that fair Milcher which I meant to lay. Men. Thou ſhalt not 'ſcape; that Shepherd judge our fray Who e're he be, that next ſhall paſs this way; Palaemon comes; I'll take ſufficient care No Slave henceforth ſhall Maſter-Shepherds dare. Dam. Begin, I'll anſwer you; I ſcorn to budge For any Swain alive, nor will our Judge Where ſo much lies at ſtake his beſt attendance grudge. Pal. Then ſince theſe Trees ſo ſweet an Arbour yield, And ſuch convenient Seats this graſſie Field, Begin Damaetas, then Menalchas you Shall ſing your Round, as Vying Muſes do. Dam. All live by Jove, to Jove firſt Praiſe belongs; The God that rules the World inſpires my Songs. Men. Me Phaebus loves, his Darlings live with me, The bluſhing Hyacinth and Laurel Tree. Dam. Me Galatea when aſleep ſh'as found With Apples pelts, then skimming o're the ground Hides in the Grove, yet wiſhes to be ſound. Men. So fond of late has my Amyntas prov'd, That Delia by her Nymphs is loſs belov'd, Dam. Ten Wildings, but the faireſt of the ſtore I ſent my Boy, anon I'll ſend ten more. Men. What Songs of Love were utter'd by my Fair, Bear them to Heav'n ye Winds, and let the Gods have ſhare. Dam. To grace my Birth-day let fair Phillis come; More fair Iolas to my Harveſt home: Men. As Rain to Plants, to Kids the ſprouting Tree, Sallow to Ewes, Amyntas is to me. Dam. My Songs are plain, yet ſound in Pollio's Ear: An Off'ring Muſes for your Patron rear. Men. Pollio himſelf can ſweeteſt ſtrains command: This Bulchin ſhall be his, that ſpurns the Sand, Dam. Where-e're your Pollio his loud Walks deſigns, Let Honey flow, and Brambles change to Vines. Men. Hate Bavius or elſe love Maevius Notes, The ſame may Foxes yoak, and milk He-Goats. Dam. Fly Boys! no longer gather in theſe Bow'rs, The Snake lies hid among the ſmiling Flow'rs. Men. Come back my Sheep; the ſtream-worn Banks begin To ſink, my Ram already is fall'n in. Dam. Haſt Tyt'rus, to the Pinfold bring my Flock, 'Tis time to ſteep their Fleeces in the Brook. Mem. Now milk your Goats, for when the Dog-ſtar's high Your Labour will be loſt; all then go dry, Dam. How lean my Bulls, and yet how fat my Plain? This wicked Love deſtroys both Herd and Swain. Men. A ſmall Diſeaſe to what my Flocks endure, It muſt be Witchcraft makes my Lambs ſo poor. Dam. Speak, and next Phaebus Th • e I will adore, Where Heav'n three Ells lies open and no more? Men. Say in what Lands the Names of Kings are ſhown On ſpringing Flow'rs, and Phillis be your own. Pal. Who can decide 'twixt Swains of equal skill? You both deſerve the Prize, and all that prove As you have done the Sweets and Ills of Love; Boys, let your Sluces down, the Meads have drunk their fill.

TO His Friend that abſconded Catullus, Epigr. 56. Oramus ſi fortè non moleſtum eſt, demouſtres ubi ſint tuae tenebrae, te Campo quaeſivimus minore, te in Circo, &c. NOw if thou haſt one dram of Grace, Save a Friends Life, and ſhew thy Face. From me before thou ne're waſt hid, I ſaw thee tho the Sun ne're did. Come forth I ſay thou ſculking Elf, Save a Friends Liſe, and ſhew thy ſelf. For thee I've ſearch'd, and ſearch'd again Park, Tavern, Play houſe, but in vain; All theſe thou long haſt leſt i'th lurch, I might as well have ſearch'd a Church. Diſtracted now I ſcour the ſtreet, And ſeize all Females that I meet; Where's my Friend aloud I cry, Naughty Creatures, ſpeak or die, One, making bare her ſnowy Breaſts, Cry'd— Seek no further, here he reſts. I'm tir'd with this Herculean Work, 'Tis worſe than tugging for the Turk. Y'are in Intrigue you'l ſay—be't ſo! With Quality—That may be too; Come tell your Conqueſt then ſay I. That's Pleaſure—T'other's Drudgery. Miſchief take Thee graceleſs Elf, Where canſt thou thus conceal thy ſelf? I think (I'll ſwear) ſhould I turn Witch, To ride upon a liquer'd Switch, Mount Lightning, and out ſly the Wind, This Sculker I ſhall never find.

From Petronius Arb. On the Roman Luxury. That which is in our Power is of no value with us, the Mind loves to be ſoothed with farther expeclation, and is pleaſed with the Delay, &c. WHat I deſire I would not ſoon obtain, That Conqueſt pleaſes which was hard to gain. Fowls reliſh beſt from Colchis diſtant Fields, And thoſe that Affricks Southern Deſert yields: Through equal Danger ſought in either Land, Here, Hills of freezing Snow, and there, of burning Sand. The Gooſe that turn'd the Fate of Rome away, Becauſe He's cheap is held a Vulgar Prey, The painted ſhining Drake as much we ſlight Tho plum'd by conſcious Nature to invite, And cheat the Taſt to pleaſure through the Sight. The Mullet's ſcorn'd, our Fathers choiceſt Fare, And we are only for the Indian Scare. Yet ev'n of this we do repent our Coſt Unleſs a Ship or two in taking it were loſt. Our very Roſe muſt yield to foreign Weeds, A jilting Miſtreſs the chaſte Wife ſucceeds.

To Mr. Gibbons on his incomparable Carved Works. WIth ſilent wonder oft have I behold Thy Artful Works by Nature ſcarce excell'd, Inhabitants of Air, of Sea and Land, And all the fair Creation of thy Hand; Thoſe Figures that when touch'd, are lifeleſs Wood, To ſight, are Fiſhes ſporting in a Flood. For Banquets ſome on garniſh'd Tables ſet, Some newly caught and flouncing in the Net. Another Scene does Paradiſe preſent, Where all the feather'd Sons of Joy frequent; Here ſinging Birds on dancing Boughs we find, Whoſe tender Leaves ſeem ruſſled with the Wind. Oft from an Oaks firm Trunk with vaſt deſign Thou carv'ſt the curling Tendrels of the Vine, Where the reſemblance to the life is ſuch, The Cluſters ſeem to bleed without a touch. Nor is the Conqueſt on the Marble leſs, The hardeſt Rocks thy ſofteſt Forms expreſs. In thee Deucalion's Miracle is ſhown While Humane-Race ſtarts up from lifeleſs ſtone. But ſtay— The Marble Statue of his Majeſty, erected in the Royal Exchange. What Godlike Figure do I view? Dare thy bold hand attempt th' Immortals too? 'Tis Ceſar's Form with ſuch Majeſtick grace. As ſtrikes a Sacred Rev'rence through the Place. What Muſe great Artiſt can perform for thee That Right, which thou haſt done to Majeſty? From Europe thou long ſince the Palm haſt won, But in this Piece thou haſt thy ſelf out-done.

On the Tranſlation OF EƲTROPIƲS, By Young Gentlemen, Educated by Mr. L. Maidwell. AUſpicious Youths, our Ages Hope and Pride, Exalted minds, and worthy ſuch a Guide: To whoſe rich Skill this wonderous Growth you owe, Moſt happy, if your happineſs you know. Who cloſe entrencht Ʋutropius could o'recome, And plunder the Records of ancient Rome. Unlike my Fate, by Pedants led aſtray, Who at my ſetting out miſtook the way. With Terms confounded (ſuch their Methods were) Thoſe Rules my Cloud, that ſhould have been my Star: Yet groping forwards through the Claſſicks went, Nor wholly of my Labors may repent: Strong holds, and hard to take, but in the ſett, No Volume ſo obſcure, no Author met So difficult, as William Lally, yet. Without Geography led blindfold on, And ignorant when each exploit was done; Of wondrous Men, and wondrous Actions read, But all the while with Fairy Banquets ſed. All hudled without knowing when, or where, Eutopian Fields, and Battels in the Air. But you, where e're your Authors Scene is laid, Beyond your knowledg never are tonvey'd. Great your Advantage, therefore uſe it well, You ſail, if you but mod'rately excel; Who for your doubts have ſuch an Oracle. Conſult your Guide, whoſe Judgment more refin'd, Unties thoſe Knots, Dutch Comments leave behind: By which your Authors more obſcure become; The Fogs of Holland cloud the Wit of Rome. While theſe the vehicle of words eſſay, The ſubtil Spirit flies unſeen away, He'l ſhew you where their ſecret Treaſures lie; Sublime their ſenſe, and fix their Mercury. Let this ſucceſs, brave Youth, your minds inflame, Eutropius conquer'd, calls for nobler Game: Lanch boldly next on Tully's flowing Seas, And graſp the Thunder of Demoſthenes. To nobleſt Sciences devote your time, And rarely, very rarely, ſport with Rhime. See how your Teacher does the practice fly, His Genius, and the waiting World deny, Whilſt every Muſe in vain ſtands ſighing by. Ev'n my poor ſtrains ſome ſmall Applauſe have found, Yet were they with the foremoſt Lawrels crown'd, With Wit and Senſe I'd hold eternal War. To be a thriving Blockhead of the Bar. Once more all hail to Thee induſtrious Friend; Behold what Bleſſings on thy Toil attend! What Pains thy Methods coſt that thus excel, Thy Mid-night Lamp and Thou can onely tell. Yet for ſome longer ſpace thy Tillage ply, Thy own Repoſe and preſſing Friends deny, Till like Lycurgus Laws thy Rules ſucceed, And for long Ages leave a noble Breed.

The Firſt ELOGY OF TIBULLUS: Divitias alius fulvo ſibi congerat Auro, &c. FOR heaps of careful Gold let others toil, And plow whole Provinces of envy'd Soil; Whom neighb'ring Foes on conſtant Watch muſt keep, And Martial Trumpets fright their Mid-night ſleep: While I ſecure in Poverty Retire; With juſt enough to keep a conſtant Fire: Let but my Vineyard hit, I do not care How ſmall of other fruits and Grain my ſhare; 'Gainſt me let Pan and Ceres both combine, So honeſt Bacchus ſtill ſecures my Wine. My ſelf turn'd Ruſtick 'midſt the Vines will ſtand, And with the bluſhing Cluſters load my Hand. Nor ſhall I ſcorn to uſe the Hedgers Bill, Or with the Goad make reſtie Oxen till. Or in my Arms bring home a Kid or Lamb, Stray'd or forſaken by the heedleſs Dam. Yet while my tural Task ſo cloſe I ply, None more Obſervant of the Gods than I. To Thee great Faunus early Rites I yield, With large Luſtrations purge my little Field. What e're my Plants on new made Rivers bear, The rural God is ſure to have his ſhare. Wreaths fram'd for Ceres of ſuch early Corn, As on her Temple Gates with Pride are worn. Nor does Priapus Self, tho coarſe and plain, Stand always arm'd for my Defence in vain. You Lares who once guarded my large Field, And to the ſmall remains Protection yield, What ••• a Villager brought poor and low For Obligations ſuch as yours beſtow? Once Hecatombs came from my Herds unſeen, Now take a Lamb, you leave my Sheep-cot thin! That tender Lamb ſhall make your Altar ſmoak, The mighty Victim of a little Flock: Then Nymphs and Swains from neighb'ring Farms ſhall come And lend their Voices to my Harveſt home. Draw near, ye Gods, nor ſcorn what my poor Board, In homely earthen Veſſels can afford, Such as firſt Swains of eaſie clay did frame, E're yet ſo deep as Gold the Delver came. My ſlender Fold ye Wolves and Thieves forbear, Rob fatter Flocks whoſe ſtock can better ſpare. Ye Gods, I ask not my Fore-fathers ſtore, Nor ev'n that Wealth my ſelf poſſeſt before; I do not care how ſmall the Glebe I till, While I may ſtretch and take my Reſt at will. With what Delight my conſtant Nymph and I Lie liſtning to the ſtorms that rend the Sky. And when o're teeming Clouds a Deluge-pour, To have our Sleep aſſiſted by the Showr; Be this my Lot, and Riches let him gain, Who in all change of Seaſons plows the Main. Let me retire and ſhun the Dog-Star's Heat, In ſhade of Trees by Cryſtal Fountains ſet. Earth hide thy Gold, and Seas your Jewels keep, E're any gentle Nymph for my departure weep. In fights by Land and Sea let Heroes toll And crowd their ſpacious Courts with forein ſpoil, While I keep home to guard my Miſtris Charms, And ſtrive for Conqueſt onely in her Arms. Fame I contemn while Delia is my Prize, And all the Cenſure of the World deſpiſe. For Delia's ſake I'd ſtoop to hold the Plow, Or keep a Flock upon the Mountains Brow. Oh with my tender Arms about her ſpread, How gladly could I make the Earth my Bed! How reſtleſs muſt your Tyrian Carpets prove Without endearing joys of mutual Love? No ſpell can ſuch a wretches Sleep redeem, Not ev'n the Muſick of a falling ſtream. How ſtupid was the Man that left thy Charms, Thy World of Beauty for a Name in Arms. Let him with all his wiſht ſucceſs be Crown'd, And fix his Banners on far-conquer'd Ground; Let him return with Hills of Trophees won And in triumphant Gold eclipſe the Sun; Let me that while of Delia live poſſeſt, And lean my dying Head on Delia's Breſt. If I have any Foe, to him I yield The guilt and plunder of the bloody Field; Let him purſue the murd'ring Trade, for Gold, Which, Age forbids to uſe or Death to hold. While I, retir'd, enjoy my little Store, Secure from wanting, and deſpiſing more. FINIS.