POEMS On Several OCCASIONS.
Humbly DEDICATED to the Right Honourable the Marchioness of TAVESTOCK.
By the AUTHOR.
LONDON, Printed for William Chandler, at the Peacock in the Poultry; and William Davis, at the Bull over against the Royal Exchange in Cornhill. 1699.
[...]
TO THE READER.
IF every Writer of Verse were to account for his Publications of that kind, I doubt the World would be troubled with worse Apologies than Poems, and Poets more unaccountable than either.
They tell us, however, That the Common Design of their Poetry is to please, but whether That Design be upon themselves or their Readers, is generally questionable; but for my Own part, my Intention herein is only to please my self and that, not with a Satisfaction resulting from Applause, nor with a Fond Conceit that there is any thing wonderful to be met with among the following Performances; but meerly at the having got rid of a parcel of Thoughts, which for some time have play'd with my Mind, and made it useless to me. So that I am under no manner of Concern about the Success of the Verses, nor harbour the least fear of those Half-witted People call'd Criticks, (who have Sense enough to find fault, but not to mend) for having obtain'd my End already, I care not to what End they apply Them.
To the Ingenious Author of the following Poems.
MOST Men vast Riches wou'd from Plutus hold,
Ev'n bend beneath the weight of pond'rous Gold:
Hence they the Muses hate, and Verse sublime,
Love the Three Sisters better than the Nine:
But you (like Phoebus Conqu'ring Beams) my Friend,
Drive those dull Vapours from your Heav'nly Mind:
(Like Smoak before the Wind) they fly away;
No misty Garments hide the lovely Day:
At once you tread secure, and soar on high,
And cut with equal Wing the yielding Sky,
Sure, when Lucina aided at thy Birth,
Some vig'rous Planet influenc'd the Earth:
With darted Rays (like Lightning from the Pole)
Stamping Coelestial Impress on thy Soul:
Or else the God of Poets did inspire,
And warm thy Breast with quick and active Fire.
If Man Ingrateful will not sound your Fame,
Nor give due Praise to thy deserving Name:
To your beloved Shades, and Streams, go on,
And Wave shall push on Wave to hear thy Song.
E. P.
To the Author of the following Poems.
ADventrous Youth, that in an Age call'd Wise,
Suffer'st thy Thoughts to wander in Disguise.
Think'st thou the Criticks will not find thee out,
And pay thee for thy Sense, they will, no doubt.
Those Men of Numbers, whose o're-hasty Feet
Outrun the slow Advances of their Wit;
Will, to besure, such Innovators curse,
As honour Reason with the Garb of Verse.
Go Criminal Poet, write thine o'er agen,
Of each Substantial Line, at least, make Ten:
Why, thou art neither Pious, nor Prophane,
But dost alike from Church and Plays abstain;
Else They had taught thee how to draw thy Thread,
And write till thou hadst writ thy Subjects dead:
Who make whole Volumes of one Thought, and spin
Texts, till they make a Cobweb of a Sin:
Thy Book had then been fashionably thick,
But thou canst not so much as Rythm to Trick.
THE CONTENTS.
- THE Muse. pag. 1
- A Pen, to Sylvia. 3
- To Sylvia, with her Mask on. 4
- Ineffectual. 5
- To Sylvia, after her Recovery from a Dangerous Sickness. 6
- SONG. 7
- Ineffectual. 9
- On the Death of Sylvia. 12
- Strephon to Menalchas. 14
- Damon's Despair. 16
- The Merchant. 17
- An Epitaph on Mr. R. Long. 20
- To Mr. in the Country; with some other Verses. 21
- On Mr. John Milton. To a Friend, who flatteringly desired me to send him some Verses on a propos'd Subject. 22
- Ʋpon the Tax on Births and Burials, Granted to His Majesty for Carrying on the War against France. 25
- Reflecting on the Time of the Queens Death. 26
- An Epitaph on Mr. T. C. 27
- [Page]To a Friend in the Countrey. 28
- To a Painter, whom, after his Removal in B—Ch. Yard, I had not seen of a great while. 29
- To the same, and (partly) on the same Occasion. 30
- Against Gluttony. 31
- An Epitaph on Mr. T. F. 32
- A Letter to Mr. R. C. in the Countrey. 33
- An Accident. 37
- To a sorry Apothecary, who pretended to Criticize on my Friend's Excellent Sermon. 38
- On Mr. P—n the Quaker's Marrying a Young Wife. 39
- On the Heavy Tax on Paper. 40
- Epitaph on a Famous Liar. 43
- To Celia. ibid.
- The Bravado. 45
- Wedlock. 47
- The Conversion. 48
- To a Friend, Recommending a Contemplative Life. 52
- The Request. 53
- To a Miser, who bade me Farewel upon my going into the Countrey. 56
- An Enquiry after Wisdom, occasioned by Reading some Verses in Job. 58
- The Eighth Psalm. 60
- On the Concluding of the Peace. 62
- To a Painter, on his Ingenious Poem upon the Art of Painting. 64
- A C [...]untry Seat. 65
POEMS ON Several Occasions.
The Muse.
WEre I to write, no Patroness I'd chuse
To guide my Fancy, or bright Thoughts infuse,
But Sylvia, the Fair Seat of every Muse.
Hail happy Residents, blest Muses there,
You speak not Words, but by her Meen and Air
Unutterable Thoughts convey.
Your Language every Feature does display:
Whose easie Tincture can our Passions move,
And in true Scenes present existing Love.
Like Gods ye Language Act, and Speak by Things,
And from each verying Thought fresh Beauty springs.
O ye Poetick Powers! Consent at least,
Since She, your Pantheon is, to make me Priest.
But if that Boon be ev'n for Gods too great
To give, or humble Mortals to intreat,
O then revoke, revoke your Sacred Flame,
And place it on the Altar whence it came,
E're it to bolder Numbers does Aspire,
Or touch the slackest String, or whisper on the Lyre:
For ever, ever, let me silent lye,
Nor dare to breathe a Thought, nor dare to cloath a Sigh,
L [...]st the created Sounds Revolters prove,
And when I'd Sing a [...], Melt to Love.
A Pen, to Sylvia.
GO take thy pleasant Office, happy Pen,
In her Fair Hand, but don't forget me then.
Thou know'st I took thee from the lab'ring Wing,
Op'd thy dumb Mouth, and made thee apt to Sing;
And how thy first form'd Word was Sylvia's Name,
And that by impulse taught, and not of Fame,
Her many Virtues flow'd in ready Verse.
Go, and thy early Prophecies rehearse,
How oft thy lucky fluence ty'd us fast,
In knotted Cyphers that must ever last:
Then if she Blushe [...], catch the rising Thought,
And superscribe it mine, and send i [...] hot.
Swerve her strict Hand to write each yielding thing,
And then once more assume thy Native Wing,
And swift her very long delayed Promise bring.
To Sylvia, with her Mask on.
SO does the Sun, when Clouds confine his Beams,
Pour down his Light in such resistless Streams.
That Sable Vizor hides indeed your Face,
But the great Shine collects into a place,
And at your Eyes darts forth with burning Rays:
Hast'n and take it off, thou kind Destroyer,
Av, tho' thou know'st thy self the Killing Fair,
Murder downright is better than Manslayer.
Ineffectual.
IN vain thou flyest to Fields and Bowers,
And Solemn Haunts in Solemn Hours;
In vain thou there dost Sylvia meet,
And pour'st out Numbers at her Feet;
Hasty Numbers; short, and broke
To pieces by the Wind, when spoke:
E're they arrive her heedless Ear,
The Argument does disappear,
And only leaves the Cadence there.
Ah! gentle Eccho of my Mind,
If thou canst admittance find,
Make your Languishing Report
To her Heart, 'tis that I Court.
Gently breathe in it your Sighs,
Swell it till you make it rise,
And heave Compassion to her Eyes.
To Sylvia, after her Recovery from a Dangerous Sickness.
AH! Sylvia come, at last, at last resign,
And e're we're Both the Cruel Fates, be Mine.
We who down Time's steep Current swiftly pass,
Should struggle with the Tide, and catch a short embrace.
Who knows but our united Souls would seek
Some lurking Refuge from the Common Wreck?
Some private Bay, where hurried Love might Rest,
And where, if any Fate should come in quest,
We'd look unfrighted from th' Exalts of Love,
And awe Its Malice, or Its Rage remove,
Till Death with slowest pace did drive us thence,
And so dislodge those Flames he could not quench.
SONG.
POor Strephon was laid
In the Cool of a Shade,
By the side of a Brook,
His Sheep were all scatter'd, and broken his Hook.
He sigh'd, and he wept, as he look'd on the Stream,
And thrice he bow'd down, and drank from the brim:
But alas 'twas in vain,
It allay'd not his Pain,
For 'twas Love, and not Thirst, that afflicted the Swain.
It broke off his Rest,
Grew big in his Breast,
And the fierce Passion would fain be exprest.
At his Eyes it look'd out, in a Languishing Flame,
And his Heart went apace, but his Tongue was to blame:
For tho' he would give the whole World it were known,
Yet he durst not explain it with more than a Groan.
For alas, the Dear Maid was as Rich as she's Fair,
And the Shepherd, good Man, was too Mean for her Care:
He was Honest he vow'd, and as other Folks say,
His Heart was as large as e're yet went astray:
But as big as it is, it will never be found,
So cunning's the Thief, and so secret the Wound,
That just as he lies, he must sink under ground.
Ineffectual.
I Will no longer, therefore Muse be gone,
Too much I've been impos'd upon,
To let thee settle in my Breast,
And heat my Fancy, and disturb my Rest,
Too Courteous I have been, too Rude my Guest.
I gave thee kind Admission there,
And Entertain'd thee with my homely Cheer,
Tho' sudden and unseasonable you were:
But on my Mind Imperiously you sate,
And tasted all my Thoughts with scornful State,
This is too harsh, you cry'd, and this too flat.
And with that specious pretence,
Would needs imploy your mellowing Heat;
But what does the unhappy Damon get?
Not one kind Look from Sylvia yet,
By all thy Oily Words, by all thy Painted Sence.
I told you all would never do,
Ay, and I gave you Reasons for it too;
In spight of very Love I did:
I told you she was Rich, most plaguy Rich,
A Circumstance I'm sure which
Ought to have scar'd, Audacious Muse, thy flight.
When guarded round with Eyes severe,
And Friends in Ambush every where,
With Jealousie that watchful Owl of Night,
From whose broad Gaze, not Fairy, thou wer't hid.
Be gone then, or content with meaner Things,
And flutter low with thy sing'd Wings;
Roam thro' the Fields, and thro' the Woods,
And tell the Growth of Flowers and Buds,
Yet these Mischievous Muse refer
Thy Trait'rous Memory to her;
The blushing Rose so sweet, so sleek,
Took Its Complection from her Cheek,
The Lilly from her Hands and Neck.
A Brook that rouls it self hard by,
With ceasless Moans,
Which unrelenting Stones
Still multiply,
Thou'l't think th' unconsolable I.
On the Death of Sylvia.
WHat hidden Fate attacks my guardless Breast!
What unseen Hand breaks off my usual Rest!
Dull nighted Objects pass before my Eyes,
And working Lungs throw forth prodigious Sighs.
Strange Birth of Sorrow! What should this portend,
Or of the World's, or of some Nobler End?
Perhaps this Notes neglected Black reverse,
Contains the woful Charm, the dismal Curse.
Dead does it say! Ah me, is Sylvia Dead?
Or does that dim Destruction seize my Head,
And make my failing Sight fallacious Letters read?
Oh no! for the Sad News that Sigh confirms,
And now my Soul dissolves, and now with Anguish burns.
Roul on thou ling'ring Orb of Day, roul on,
And all ye jocund Lights of Life be gone,
Wait on Her hence unto some happier Globe,
And over this spread out Nights Eldest Robe,
That as my Sorrow, Dark may be the Scene,
As of my Joy you Witnesses have been.
And now, kind Grief, inform my Soul all o're,
Slack every stiff Reserve, and wake each moist'ning Pow'r:
For every Virtue send a different Stream,
Then as those met in Kindness, mingle them.
Wordless laments, her Modesty'll become
Great as her Charity, but like that Dumb.
Highest Applause from unbound Accents rise,
And Contemplation spent in Extasies,
Must serve us here on Earth, she's prais'd above the Skies.
Strephon to Menalchas.
The ARGUMENT.
Menalchas hearing of the Death of Zelinda, sends a Letter of Condoleance to his Friend (and her Lover) Strephon. But therein insisting somewhat too largely on the Virtues of the Deceased, he sharp'ns thereby his Friend's Disaster. Strephon sensible of the Disservice, sends him this.
UNkind my Friend, and inconsistent too
With your own self, is the sad Scene you drew.
With Sympathy, you say, you are possest,
Loves mighty Beams pierc'd thro' me to your Breast.
But Oh! too feeble were their force I find,
They burnt my Soul but gently warm your Mind;
Else could you with deliberate Pencil draw,
In formal touches, what confus'd I saw?
Could you describe her Person, say her Mind,
Oh! could you do all this, yet be unkind?
You do, you are, that, that is the result,
What else had Death to do in the Consult?
Skilful enough your Hand to Draw, nor Err
Where wretched Strephon, blest Zelinda were.
And too exact you spread the Desart Place,
And kind depressions of the willing Grass,
(Blasted and frustrate now, as are my Hopes,
Unbless'd with moisture, save what sometimes drops
From my o're-flouded Eyes, that try in vain
To nourish up the swooning Herb again.
For Oh! too well my self, and they too, know,
That should they spring again they'd useless grow.
Sufficient that and more, what need you go,
By Oppositions to delineate Wo?
Was it too little then that Fate did so?
Why Set so near that Happy Time, its End,
Again that by the Grave? Oh! why, my Friend?
And now at last, when she'd been so long laid
In that still Place, and in my Mind her Shade,
Why d'ye disturb her Ashes that, and this?
For which a Tomb, and silent Sorrow fittest is.
How comes it thus, in Friendship Grief should roul,
And carry tender Sense from Soul to Soul?
Damon's Despair.
ON a high Mounts cold brow, poor Damon sate,
And set his Pipe in Consort with his Fate;
Sad were the Sounds urg'd forth by deep Despair,
Mix'd with black Sighs that darken'd all the Air.
A while the Swain with shivering Fingers play'd,
And roul'd his heavy Eyes towards Heaven, dismay'd;
Not that he ask'd the least of Blessings thence,
Or wish'd to put the Gods to more Expence.
Enough, said he, I'd lived when Sylvia Dy'd,
With that he threw his hoarse-grown Pipe aside,
And stamp'd upon the ground, and violently cry'd.
Then griping Anguish rock'd him to and fro,
Rais'd by that wounded Passion Love in Wo.
Ye are unkind, ye Powers, ye are unkind,
And with the words his Soul dispers'd to Wind.
The Merchant.
IN vain from Shores remote you strive to bring
Your Happiness, that must from Virtue spring.
In vain your floating Territories Ride,
And beat with Stern, assault the adverse Tide.
What gives the Gaudy India's boasted Soil,
But a feign'd Recompence, Fatigue and Toil?
Not unprovok'd did Wise Democritus
Laugh at a Humor so Ridiculous.
Sometimes to Heaven ye hasty Prayers make,
That It would guide your Fortune, play your Stake:
That Nature with her widest Jaws would yawn,
And drive the Idle Vessel faster on:
Which yet no sooner gains the scanty Seas,
Than ye revoke your Prayers, the Gods no longer please,
Less with limp Fanes the Winds then gently move,
You slack you forward Zeal, and flag the Wings of Love.
Thus varying Prayers you form from various Moods,
Enough to puzzle sure th' inferior Gods,
(If any such there be) that rule the Air,
And manage all the Nice Transactions there;
That do the Universal Bellows blow,
And parcel out the Winds for Humane Use below.
Such your Attempts, and the so Dangerous Road,
Implies the guidance of some Foot-boy God,
That with sly Steps can tread the Watry Maze,
And lead the Swarthy Mariner his Ways:
That can at pleasure baffle every Storm,
Or guard the Tim'rous Pinnace from its Harm;
That can awake the Winds, and Seas from sleep,
And make the drowsie Waves a useful motion keep▪
Presumptuous Men!
But O some gentler Fate
Give me a Calm, and call me Blest with That!
For why should froward Storms, or raging Seas,
Or all the Swarm of Merchants Destinies,
Disperse my firm Resolves, or wreck my Mind?
Why rest my Hopes on the uncertainty of Wind?
In the still bottom of a Shady Vale
I'dlye Embarqu'd, and scorn the Aid of Wind and Sail.
For Time with smooth advance will gain the Port,
Where all the Happy Fortunate resort.
An Epitaph on Mr. R. Long.
BEhold this careless heap interrs Dick Long,
Fertunes meer Sport, and Natures constant Wrong:
For [...]s Life was very Short, and very Poor,
And turn'd at last out thro' the World's Back-door.
No Funeral Torch did flaming Aid afford,
No drooping Mourner Sigh his dying Word.
No Females Tears bedew'd his lonesome Hearse;
(For what Affections love an Empty Purse?)
Silent as Night's dark Curtain he withdrew,
And the Best Friend he had he's gone unto:
For Earth at last, when every Friend sorsook,
At his Misfortune kind impression took,
And mollify'd Her Breast, and lodg'd him there,
And whom no Man caress'd, embracing doth interr.
To Mr. [...] in the Country; with some other Verses.
THat you are Happy, who can doubt?
Have you not all the Fields your prey?
Have you not all the Time of every Day To walk about?
And yet d'ye want these Lines? Perswade me to't.
Are not your very Walks more Elegant?
Do not the charming Birds prevent,
Or render your Request a Complement?
Besides, the Ladies you have in to boot.
Yet freely ye blest Walks and Shades peruse,
The feeble Offering of a Captive Muse:
Who tho' she scorns restraint,
And sometimes flies
The noisie World, t'enjoy your Companies;
Yet is to unfit Organs join'd,
And seated in too low a Mind,
To express the Idea's that your Objects paint.
On Mr. John Milton. To a Friend, who flatteringly desir'd me to send him some Verses on a propos'd Subject.
IF with a Poet's Fate, Heaven would but give
The Poet's Spirit too, by which they live;
Could feed on Thoughts that voluntary move
Harmonious Numbers, free from fumes of Love:
I'd then no longer lazy Fortune Court,
(Fortune should be my Fool to make me Sport)
I'd leave her Service, and her Play-things here,
And in the Muses Livery appear,
Wing'd with their Plumes, if by their Vigor led:
But Oh the Muses Great Elijah's fled,
Wrapt in a Chariot drawn by fiery Steeds,
And none yet worthy in his place succeeds!
Whence may One Sacred Ordination get?
His pow'rful Mantle's sought in vain for yet;
The Holy Vest is with the Prophet flown,
For him 'twas only fit, and made for him alone.
Not Jordan he, but Chaos, with it smote,
Hither and thither, and went through a Foot.
Her hidden Chambers open'd to his Eye,
And brought their Secrets to his Scrutiny;
Whence his collecting Mind observ'd their use,
And what their teeming Virtues would produce.
And as he sung, we find it come to pass,
This World is the Confusion, then that was.
Idea's strait of every Being he wrought,
And to perfection soon the Vision brought.
Thus the Fair Train of Stars, and Heav'n, and Earth,
In his Harmonious Volume had their Birth.
What need he then a Successor inspire,
And further how bestow the Holy Fire?
When all the Universal Scope he wrote,
Beyond, Privation Gulphs attempting Thought.
Ʋpon the Tax on Births and Burials, Granted to His Majesty for Carrying on the War against France.
TIS hence the haughty Gauls receive their Doom,
Our Graves are Cannon made, and every Womb
A Mortar is, and every Child a Bomb.
Long has France felt our Valour, now our Wit,
And tho' Death aims at us, 'tis them we make him hit.
Ev'n he himself in vain assaults us now,
For by his Conquests we more Potent grow.
Reflecting on the Time of the Queens Death.
A Dismal Autumn 'twas,
When Ominous Nature stript for thee
Her self of every Gaiety,
The Trees fell Sick, and every Flower,
Dismay'd at the approaching Hour,
Grew pale, and seem'd to say,
If the Quick Essence of Britannia
Retire, we must by Consequence decay.
And Lo the Heavens resent our Case,
And blurr with Sable Clouds their Face,
And down their sightless Eyes the Tears distil apace:
Wisely ye Heavens ye shut your Eyes,
There's nought on Earth deserves your sight,
Our Glory is extinguish'd quite,
Since to your selves you have snatch'd our only Prize.
An Epitaph on Mr. T. C.
DEath (who exerts his Mortal Sov'raignty
Over the World) being grown concern'd to see
Descending Ages tow'rds his Mansions move,
By the rough Hand of Force, and not of Love:
Took what might most attract our Wish, the Wise,
The Pious, and alas! a Publick Friend;
One, whom but just to Name, were to commend,
And needless that to inform you. Here he Lyes.
To a Friend in the Countrey.
HAppy, Happy is your Change,
For the Town's Tumultuous Noise,
In the Silent Woods to Range,
Stor'd with Innocence and Joys.
Where the Gliding Silver Streams,
Seem to Mock you as they Run,
Hiding from the Scorching Beams,
Of an Over-Thirsty Sun.
Whisp'ring thro' their Mossy Sluce,
Philomel Sits on the Brink,
Smooths her Plumes, and Dresses Spruce,
Sings a Song to buy her Drink.
Then Ascending on a Bough,
There she sits and tells her Tale,
To her Picture that's below,
In her Looking-Glass and Ale.
Every thing Contributes there,
To please the Taste, the Sight, the Ear,
Pleasures do in a Ring appear,
And with join'd Hands Dance round the Circling Year.
To a Painter, whom, after his Removal into B—Ch. Yard, I had not seen of a great while.
THen Bury'd be thy Soul, and all its Powers,
If thou canst so Employ,
The Break and Close of every Day,
And fill with vain Essays thy Empty Hours.
Quickly Descending go,
And be a I imner to the Ghosts below;
Where All-Confounding Shade
Shall marr the Features by thy Pencil made,
And ridicule th' Nice Exertions of thy Trade.
To the same, and (partly) on the same Occasion. A Meditation on the Platonick Year.
PLato thou'rt long a coming with thy Year,
O how I want thy Reverend presence here!
The World has every sort of Face put on,
Friendship and Love's mild solaces have gone
Long since their destin'd Rounds;
And now we'r whirl'd about with Rage and Frowns.
Thus the Old World is tumbling down amain,
Till striking on thy Tomb it back rebounds,
Unwinding Time again:
And then twill throw me Dear Zelinda back,
And then once more I shall see Jack;
If so, bowl on thou Globe till then,
—And then for ever Slack.
Against Gluttony.
HAil to the Man whose Loaf and good Old Cheese,
To pay his Nature are sufficient Fees.
Let Parsons on gross Veal and Bacon Feed,
Think as a Calf, and get a Hoggish breed.
They by as Licence from themselves may do't,
Dissect the Corps, and Eat the Flesh to boot,
To see what Wisdom in their Fabrick lies,
And what consent of Tastes will thence arise.
Hence taught the God of Truth, and god of Lust,
To Serve the Last, and Complement the First.
But I those Purer Substances will Chew,
Whose Alimental Humor's Calm and few,
Shall let my Thoughts run ever ev'n and true.
An Epitaph on Mr. T. F.
SHarp Grief on this would fain imprint,
The Virtues of the Person in't:
Fond Passion! Will a Tomb-stone hear,
Or take th' Impression of a Tear?
Th' Attempt forbear.
How would his Praises Crowded stand,
Inserted by thy trembling Hand
On this short Page,
Canst thou Inscribe what every Mouth
His Charity has Fed;
(From fault'ring Antients to the lisping Youth)
Could utter o're the Dead?
Besides what the vast Publick might have said.
Then bate thy Rage,
Fame shall rehearse Him to the coming Age:
Only write thou upon this Fatal Door,
His Name, and who goes in, will hear of more.
A Letter to Mr. R. C. in the Countrey.
DEar Sir, Till now my Thoughts your Course pursu'd,
Trac'd o're your Steps, and found your Progress Good.
O're th' extended Plains, and grassy Meads,
On whose Rich Banks the flowing Rivers feeds;
Thro' every shady Lane, and woody Hill,
Across each peaceful Vale, and o're each murmuring Rill.
Every Delight the Birds in busie Song
Of gratulating Meeter, did prolong.
Thus slid my Thoughts—
When Lo presented strait
From a recover'd Mounts prosp [...]ctive height,
In bluest distance, Verulam, whom Fame,
Ev'n in this private Letter, bids me name.
Thither with cautious awe and pace I drew,
Modest my Queries there, and grave my View.
Where aged Grandeur in Its Ruins lye,
And Bacer smouldring Tomb, whose Self too cannot die.
Hail Sacred Twine of Fate, the Town, now he
Is gone, grown craz'd with Sick Mortality,
Will shor [...]ly by a passionate Coment,
Quit her old Form [...] to Build his Monument.
Wisely, if for her self she would secure
A Name, might longer than her Stones endure:
But vain, if so She think t'ingross his Worth,
Nor She, nor the wide Circuit of the Earth,
It Heaven alone can hold that gave him Birth.
Much She already owes her happy Fate,
That when among the Bless'd his Soul was sat,
His Body gave to Her, as One for That.
With Benediction then I Nam'd his Fate,
And Reverence due perform'd, renew'd my Gate.
No tedious Subburb intercepts the Road,
But Nature's suddain Hand bestows abroad
Her best Affections 'mongst the happy Swains,
And dress with Golden Locks the Neighb'ring Plains.
The Rural Dames beneath the Hedges sate,
And all the Bounties on the Soil repeat,
How It no Niggard was, nor in Arrears,
But Pleasure in Ten Thousand shapes it bears.
Thus they of Nature, and indulgent Pan,
And (fir'd with Rapture) on my Fancy ran.
But Oh! the Curst Disturber of my Ease,
Vext that Its greatest Opposite should please,
Vext that Its Child (for so it call'd my Thought)
Should be with those Intrinsick Blessings caught,
Business o'retook me traversing your Downs,
Seiz'd on my Thoughts, and sporting Fancy wounds;
Plunder'd my Hopes, and spares me only this,
Now I'm Its Pris'ner, barely Time to Wish.
Say then your Self, for Oh! I long to know,
Are you in Health, and Happy? Where? And how?
To Celia, who whilst her Lover was Kissing of her, chanc'd to [...]
DEar Madam, your presumptuous A—,
Envying the Beauty of your Face,
Attempts (like that) in Humane Speech,
To bid your Lover kiss your Breech.
But when in vain It try'd to prate
In words (like yours) Articulate.
It spent Its Breath in Pish and Hum,
And would not say so much as Come,
The Native Language of a Janus B-m.
To a Sorry Apothecary, who pretended to Criticize on my Friend's Excellent Sermon.
THou Dull Son of a S—t-house,
dost thou think that a fit House?
Or thou fit to Commence
A Profession of Sence?
No, thou low Animal,
That from Excrements crawl,
'Twas not Nature's Intent
Thou should st quit that Fat Scent,
To lend a Tongue, or an Ear,
In a Rational Sphere.
Then thou Worm of the Privy,
Get thee home, and in't live ye:
Thence thy Pipe may allure
A Clapt Beau for a Cure,
Or some Wenches Compassion,
To squat a Broad A-se on
The Hole of the Seat,
And the drift of thy Life is compleat.
On Mr. P—n the Quaker's Marrying a Young Wife.
WED and so Old! Well done Will. P—n, Esquire,
Thou shall't have Children if thou dost desire:
Desire thou dost, or else thou would'st not Marry,
Things standing thus, how can thy Hopes miscarry?
On the Heavy Tax on Paper.
THE Tax on Bumfodder, may chance
To cause a want of It in France;
For sure that Monarch can't but think,
We'll beat him till we make him stink:
Yet tho' he flies he'll finely fit us,
When his Back's turn'd upon's besh-t us.
For after all, unhappy we,
Who'll Celebrate our Victory?
The Poet dar'n't advance a Thought,
Tho' Actious throng, and should be wrote,
He won't be Damn'd for the State's Fault.
The Historian will his Memory trust,
With what he has not Tools to adjust,
But the frail Bag I fear will burst.
And the poor Hunter of the Planet,
Can't give it House-room when he has won it;
Predicts no more of Popish Downfal,
Himself does first unto the Ground fall,
By strange Decrees made this side Heaven,
A Blow his Stars would ne'er ha' given.
The Parson, tho' he's Charitable,
About the Matter makes a Squabble,
And as the Weavers did, will raise the Rabble.
Then Wo be to the Western Sages,
If those Black Journey-men ha'n't Wages:
For should they lose Dear Pro and Con,
And Preach Extempore alone,
Then those that are Inspired least,
Will only Talk what Wrath suggests,
And so instead of due Applause,
Make long Harangues against the Laws,
Tell them their Statues Tongue-tye Fame,
And Banging Lewis makes them Lame.
Down goes Wise Socrates, and Plato,
And Aristotle too, and Cato,
Grey as they are, without Compassion,
Or Mercy of a New Translation,
Tho' Legacy'd to Bless the Nation.
Ay, and (I dread to think on't) Moses
All his Good Old Acquaintance loses,
Doom'd to his Hebrew Garb this Moment,
Nor more wears English Ruff or Comment:
Lost in the Ruins of the Press
Are these, and many more than these;
From Writing Priest to Printing Deacon,
And what I Die a'most to speak on,
The Bookseller must help he Break on.
Epitaph on a Famous Liar.
HEre Lyes (in Earth as False as He) 'tis said,
A Man whom Lying Fame reported Dead:
He has bely'd his Fate, or foil'd its Skill,
For see, he's at his Trade of Lying still.
To Celia.
NAY, don't insist upon't, for I protest
What e're I wrote of Love was all in Jest.
I saw it was the Fashion of the Times,
To varnish o're with Love indifferent Lines,
And to meer casual Strokes adopt Designs.
I caught that Custom in a Scribling sit,
And with designless Pen did Cupid hit.
The Boy as from fast sleep disturb'dly rise,
And look'd upon me with half open Eyes;
At first he frowning left me with a Scoff,
But strange to such Address, turn'd back to Laugh.
And I no less at what I ne'er had seen
Before, thought fit to draw his Childish Meen,
A tender Plumpness, with kind Red, his Face,
Which he affectedly the more to grace,
Leant on his Shoulder, and with the Right Hand
Pull'd o're his white curl'd Hair, and with it fann'd
His glowing Visage, t'other hung down low
In lazy stretch, then rested on his Bow;
Which over-bent, threw off the Tyrant String,
At which the Boy dismay'd, took to his Wing.
This florid Picture witness even thee,
If It came not unarm'd and just as he,
For I no Amorous Passion to It lent,
The bare impression of his Form I sent
On Paper, not my Soul, which is to Love unbent.
The Bravado.
I Laugh at Beauty, and I Scorn its Pow'r,
'Tis I alone possess the Noble Hour,
That can with Frowns dishearten all the Charms
Of languid Eyes, or circling Females Arms.
Nor comely Oval, nor Vermillion Dye,
Majestick Meen, nor all Loves Symmetry,
Shall force a bowing Head, or yielding Knee,
No, no, I loath such gross Idolatry.
What is fam'd Cupid but an Amorous Boy?
I'll break his Bow, and fling his Darts away.
Feign'd Deity, or hadst thou heard or saw,
The great Exploits that near the Froze Danaw
My Arm perform'd against the Turks Bashaw,
Thou wouldst not unadvisedly thus Assault,
Lest loss of being recompenc'd the Fault.
Cease Fool—
Extremity's my Friend, I Scorn to Smell
Or Taste of what Loves Proselytes wont to tell,
Gums, Gellies, Odours, Spice,
My Food is Horse-flesh Candy'd up in Ice.
Nor keep I Company with them,
That cannot breathe out of Canaries Steam,
No, no, I gnaw off the condenced Stream.
This ent Effeminating Liquor,
But sharp'ns Sence, produces Action quicker,
Inspires the Soul with Noble Martial Rage,
And Constitutes a Hero in the Age.
Wedlock.
WEll, now I'm in the Mind, go quickly bring
A Parson, Girl, and the tough Wedding Ring:
Hire on your Way some Bridemen Porters, then
Call the Blunt Clark to say the long Amen.
Hasten, I pr'ythee, e're it be forgot,
Or better Reason drive away the Thought.
So now I hope my Friends I've pleas'd you all,
And am become a Man Canonical:
With Second Self, according to the Mode,
A Multiplier of a Single Good,
A Builder up of Cities Desolate,
A mighty Obstacle of Killing Fate,
Preface of Ages, Patron of the Cradle,
Loves Jocky mounted on his pacing Saddle.
A Glorious Style I Vow, who would not chuse
His Liberty and Solitude to lose,
And bury all Free Thoughts in th' whited Sepulcher, a Spouse.
The Conversion.
IT was a Time and Season when the Sun,
With mighty Toil half his long Race had run:
When looking on the Fields with vehement Face,
He checks the vain Attire of youthful Grass;
And to Consummate good, the Blossoms leads,
Filling with solid worth their empty Heads.
When I (wanting alas, like influence too)
Wisely I thought from his hot Looks withdrew.
A Neighb'ring Grove afforded the retreat,
Where Night its self did shelter from the heat
But 'fraid of Light, turn'd Pale, and trembling stood,
Spreading a doubtful whisper thro' the Wood.
There from beneath the Root of an Old Oak,
A boyling Spring of coolest Water broke,
Whose ever rising Liquor jeer'd my Draught,
When parch'd with heat to drink it up I thought.
Bless'd with those two, what could I wish for more?
The drought of Nature, and of Business o're:
Virtuous alike the Rivelet, and the Shade,
Alike the Curse of Thirst, and eager Thought decay'd.
Here then on rising Ground to Rest I lay,
Glad to have 'scaped the Feaver of the Day.
Nor long e're gentle Sleep the Curtain drew,
And shut out from my sight the Solemn View.
But whether some kind Powers by Office keep
The secret Lodge of Life while Mortals sleep,
Who least that numming Mist too far should win,
Keep in perpetual Motion Life within,
And for Diversion, work the Vital Steam
To Figures and Ideas pleasing them,
And with the pure contracted Intellect
Sometimes converse, and to great things direct
Mental Enquiry, which themselves resolve:
So they perhaps whilst we in Dreams dissolve.
Or 'twere the posture of my careless Rest
Heedlesly strow'd, (expressing freedom best)
Which by continuance might uneasie grow,
And to the Apprehension quickning Pulses throw.
Or causes these, or others, who knows what
Transporting Whispers of Undoing Fate,
Something it was my inward Sense awoke,
A glorious Form appear'd, and heavenly Things were spoke.
Monarchs were mention'd with a pitying Smile,
And clamorous Fortune speechless stood the while.
Was said, methought.—But Thought 'twill ever be
The big Infusions utterance cannot free.
Common Conceptions usual Births require,
And Native Thoughts may out thro' Words expire:
But higher Dictates actuate the Whole,
Incorporate with the Mind, and regulate the Soul.
At last the Goddess, too extreamly bright,
Kindled up Life, and flew out thro' my sight.
Ravish'd I rose, and found my self quite lost,
My former Scheme of Life raz'd out and cross'd;
London that stretch'd it self abroad my Thought,
Was all Demolish'd, cover'd with a Blot;
And that It never more again might rise,
Strait grew up in Its place, Brooks, Fields, and Trees;
And Shepherds piping from their lonely Cottages.
To a Friend, Recommending a Contemplative Life.
STifle Natures Inclination,
Bury Lust, extinguish Passion,
Live a Life of Contemplation.
Free from Cares, and void of Fears,
Scorn to shrink whate're appears
Within the space of Threescore Years.
The World's but cross to those that love it,
Ministring Grief, but cann't remove it,
Yet harms not such as live above it.
Should all Created Things conspire
To grant the Sences their desire,
The Soul would loath what they admire.
The Soul's a Thing that's too Sublime
E're to be limitted by Time,
Then sure to Bury it here's a Crime.
Ascend, ascend, then Noble Spark
Unto thy proper Sphere,
The spacious Heavens are thy Mark,
And thou a Stranger here.
The Request.
YE Stars that in your regular Career,
Predict the Fate of every Coming Year,
Deign to bespeak for once my Lot,—
Tell me if you intend to Bless, or not,
My onward Life; my Life but Bless,
I ask no Costly Happiness,
A meanly Cottage, a thin furnish'd Room,
No Treasures heap'd for Times to come.
Give me but Bread and Cloaths, to eat and wear,
I'll wait the slow Production of the Year
For Dainties, still content whate're appear,
The Spring the favoury Herb, the Summer yields the Pear,
Autumn th' Apples will themselves descend
T'their Graves, being Aged, and will their Fellow Age befriend,
Come down to such as cann't to them ascend.
Some Winter barren count, Its Care
I Celebrate, and Sacrifice the Bird and Hair,
Substantial Strength they yield, delicious Fare.
Winter's the Harvest-time for Wood,
(To thaw the Frozen Joints, and dress the Food)
Then drein'd of Vital Sap and Blood,
Soon fires and spreads a Comfortable heat,
Emblem of Summer, Winter's forc'd retreat,
Glads the o'respreading Vines that roof the Grot,
And in their intricated Twines forgot
And loose themselves, nor know agen
Their Basis, nor find out their Origen;
Impenetrably thick, no wet gets there,
Save globous drops that Star-like do appear.
Small Gems of unfermenting Light
Beset the little Horizon at Night,
Foreboding Day, and Darkness does affright,
With all the horrid Shapes that dwell in It.
Malice, Revenge, and other Furies bent
On Ruin, or its bord'ring Punishment,
That in Nights Misty Scene their Passions vent.
No Midnight Torch there Conflagration makes,
No Thief by choice of Poverty partakes,
Or in the close Recesses of the Mind,
Pursued Riches does expect to find.
No squeezing Bayliffs interrupt the Day,
Nor Creditors make hated Signs for Pay.
To the Sublimer Powers my All I'd owe,
And Scorn the small Attacks of Men below.
To a Miser, who bade me Farewel upon my going into the Countrey.
FAre well; and so I will an'if I can;
Farewel to thee, unhappy Man,
To thee, that canst no Benediction give;
To thee, that hast not yet, and ne're will't learn to live.
Inspir'd with Smoke, and made of the same Mire,
Thou runn'st about the Streets,
And art the Servant of each one thou meet'st;
A Servant that can never tire,
Being acted by the Vulgar Motion, Hire.
Dull, Sensless, as a Pack-horse, or a Cart,
And moved by the same Principles thou art,
And not so much imports thy Thoughts and Voice,
As the grating Axles Noise.
Thou art by That outdone,
For It will oft lament and groan,
And as it can cries out undone,
Whilst thou dost with thy sluggish Burthen run,
And art the Block alone.
Wer't thou made up of Faculties to think,
Or Could'st hear any thing but Chink,
I'd take thee by the Hand, and bring
Thee to the gentle Sources of a Spring,
Where Nature whispers out such mighty Things,
As should put Business to a stand,
And baffle all the Notions of Command,
And blank the Florid Countenance of Kings,
Which should—
—But I should better use my Breath,
Thou'rt gone beyond the Power
Of any thing but Fate to Cure,
Nothing can make thee reasonable but Death.
Thy Nails I see are grown to Misers Claws,
And to take in the Globe, thou yawn'st with monstrous Jaws.
Yet, Friend, take Care,
For Earth once of thy greediness aware,
'Tis Ten to One but it devours thee first,
And lays thee to Its better Dust.
An Enquiry after Wisdom, occasion'd by Reading some Verses in Job.
AH! Where is Wisdom, Sacred Wisdom, found?
With It does Humane Hearts, or does the World abound?
Its glittering Footsteps every where I find,
But glittering Tracks are all it leaves behind.
The Cautions Virtue quits our Stage in haste,
Not Humane Sight, or Thought, can fly as fast.
So that a rumour'd Story's all we have,
Whisper'd by Things, and Sigh'd out by the Grave,
That such a Being is, but tell not where,
And every individual says, Not here.
Sure then't's in Heaven, whence God-like Virtues come;
Heaven is Its Native Place, and Heaven Its Home.
In Heaven It is; for Lo th' extended Sky,
Heightens Conjecture up to Certainty.
What rear'd that glorious Roof that wondrous Height?
Was it th' Effect of an Ʋnguided Might?
Was it not Wisdom modell'd every Form,
And led from Work to Work th' Almighty Arm;
Till perfect Worlds from perfect Knowledge grew,
And the instructed Orbs to their known Uses flew?
From Soveraign Wisdom Ʋse and Order came,
And Wisdom still supports th' Universal Frame.
Our Wisdom then's to learn what Wisdom is,
And to Adore the Thing, our Happiness.
The Eighth Psalm.
HOW Excellent, O Lord my Lord's thy Name!
'Bove Heaven thy Glory spreads, thro' Earth thy Fame.
Babes thou Ordain'st their Folly to confute,
Whose Souls forbear thy Praise, whose Tongues are mute.
When on th' Heavens, thy Fingers did create
The Moon, and Stars, my Thoughts will needs dilate,
Dejection seizes me, and chills me strait:
For what am I, methinks, to all that Might?
A vile and wandering Atome in thy Sight,
That is amaz'd to see thou dost express,
A Care preserving such, a Love to bless.
From the same Parent Men and Angels spring,
The First-born Angels, happiest Ministring,
And in the next Descent the Earthly King.
Him, with a Sovereign Look thou gavest Abroad,
A wide Dominion, held alone of God:
The fruitful World, and every People there,
Travelling Earth, or Sea, or open Air,
His Recreation, Food, and Subjects, were.
How Excellent, O Lord my Lord's thy Name!
'Bove Heaven thy Glory spreads, thro' Earth thy Fame.
On the Concluding of the Peace.
AT last the Hostile Voice of War has done,
And the Mild Lyre succeeds the Outrageous Gun.
Peace once again her wonted State Assumes,
Gathers flesh Strength, and smooths her russled Plumes.
Over our Isle She spreads with hovering Wings,
And pacifies the Lyr [...]s o're-heated Strings:
For too unequal was the Glorious Fight,
The Heroe's Acts exceed the Poet's Might:
This their Apollo saw with some disgust,
Half envying the Triumpher at first,
Vext that a Mortal God should soar so high,
And Do above the Talk of Deity.
Once more from Idas Top he did behold,
More than Achilles wrought, or Homer told;
And pondering on Performances so great,
And the vast Sums of Fame were owing yet,
Began to fear the exhausting of his Wit.
He saw Scamander's Troops oppose in vain,
Scamander's Self was Drowned in the Boyne:
Namure he hoped would stop the Heroe's Way,
Namure, the Equivalent for Ruin'd Troy;
But Namure won, to his Fellow gods he says,
Fame hath not Breath enough to sound his Praise,
The World's too narrow, Time too short in Days;
Then to the warring Field he fled his ways;
Snatching the Eternal Lyre into his Hands,
That Lyre, whose Harmony the World Commands,
That Lyre, which at the first bade Discord cease,
The Charming god with that hush'd all to Peace.
To a Painter, on his Ingenious Poem upon the Art of Painting.
POetry and Painting is the whole
Of Nature, this her Body, that her Soul:
On her vast Surface the Idea's float,
And God Draws amply there his various Thought.
The Painters after the Original,
Have try'd to Paint anew the fading Ball:
But theirs was Counterfeit, the stubborn Sun,
Would not for them his wonted Circuit run;
Nor let his Golden Beams the Light display,
Beyond the Canvas Sheets in which he lay.
Hence their Creation grew benumm'd and stiff,
For Phoebus would not warm it into Life.
But thou, my Friend, dost that defect supply,
And Breath'st into it Living Poetry;
Each painted Man about his Business goes,
And the Design of his Creation shows.
Thus with thy Pencil, and assisting Pen,
Thou mak'st Live Pictures of us Dying Men.
With one thou Draw'st our Representative,
With t'other mak'st the well-wrought Figure live.
We are the Shadows, thine the real Life;
So Art and Nature now have done their Strife;
And Paint shall live till Time wear out, and Men
Rise from their Graves, and dress themselves by their old Effigies again.
A Countrey Seat. To the Honoured J. W. Gent.
FOR once my Muse thy tender Pinions try,
And to that most Beloved Mansion fly,
Longworth; which sure was heretofore the Abode
And happy Palace of some Rural God;
Whom when Jove Summon'd to keep Court in Heaven,
This then was to his Mortal Favourite given,
To hold of him without Dependencies,
And only be a Tenant to the Skies.
Be He thy Patron then, and That thy Theme,
For when thou Sing'st of That, thou Sing'st of Him.
He will not sit with unconcern above,
And view the Attempts of thy well-meaning Love:
No, he will Poize thy Flight, and Tune thy Song,
And lay just Accents on thy Artless Tongue:
Heaven will no doubt for such a Task inspire
And quicken Fancy with Celestial Fire.
When Nature did her wondrous Self dilate,
To take the impressions of designing Fate,
She ask'd one Spot at first, whereon to show
What would from her vast pregnant Compass flow;
What all her Force exerted could produce,
What for Divine, and what for Humane Use:
And Lo the World in Min'ature appears!
And Lo the Model rais'd for Building Years!
Longworth 'twas thee, thou sure didst first arise
From Chaos, and salute thy Maker's Eyes:
On Thee his whole Idea was imprest,
Till growing Nature stretcht it o're the Rest.
O had the World observed thy Pattern still,
It had not been deform'd with so much ill:
Had hapless Eve the Fairer Sylvia been,
We had not known the Miseries of Sin;
She had tempted Satan rather to be Good,
And Man confirm'd by Her till now had stood:
But Heaven is Just, and tho' our Race did fall,
It deals not Curses all alike to all;
For those pure Minds that take not Stains of ill,
Possess their Ancient Paradises still.
Hail then ye Blest, that yet haunt Longworth's Shades,
Hail thou their Sire, and hail ye Beauteous Maids,
That in Dear Pairs frequent those Sacred Groves,
And Sing the Foreign Tales of disappointed Loves;
Of the hard Sighings of neglected Swains,
The Struggles of their Wo, the Anguish of their Pains,
Till Eccho grows concern'd, and Word for Word complains.
Old * Lugg is Charm'd, and snatches up the Reins
Of his loose Waves, and backs with both his Hands,
Whilst heark'ning to your Song, he strokes their Silver Mains:
Then on he drives, repeating as he goes,
In loudest Murmurs, Strephon and his Woes,
And acting his Despair, himself in † Wye he throws.
The Sun, the Jealons Sun, with envious Eye,
Is scarce perswaded to forsake the Sky;
And yet in vain he looks, in vain he stays,
In vain he downwards points his burning Rays;
The happier Wood denies his too bold Sight,
And only asks your Eyes to give it Light.
With Fury then he rowls down the steep Skies,
Leaving his Office to your brighter Eyes.
The Day deserted by Its Fiery God,
You, and the Shade its self, then comes abroad;
For Lo a Greensord Walk it self extends,
Backt by the Wood, and Orchards at Its ends,
Where the shy Nymphs from their close Thickets steal,
And Golden Lap-fulls fetcht for every Meal.
But now the Pile recalls our wandering Eyes,
The goodly Pile by gradual Steps does rise:
The Chimneys first in orderly Array,
Heave above Earth, and Smoke their use betray:
And now the Roof, and the first Tire of Light,
Discovers you, and Sight returns for Sight:
Onwards another, and another row,
Number at last resigns Its tale to show.
And now fresh Objects throng the pleasing Way,
And first an Arbor needs not ask your stay,
Built on a rising Brow, where Alleys meet,
And justling to a point, contend to have your Feet.
On the indulgent Bosom of the Plains:
And (Lo) the Minster lifts his Head in view,
As taught by Him, the Lesser Temples do,
There wanton Wye pours down his headlong Waves,
And sometimes glibly Swims, and sometimes madly Raves;
Sometimes his Waters friendly Kiss the Shore,
Anon fall out, and in meer Scorn dash o're,
And Drown the Neighbouring Fields, and Foam and Roar.
Far beyond this, to distant Wales the sight
Pursues Its prospect with incessant flight,
Nor stops till it has reach'd the very Verge of Night.
Just opposite to this, another Walk
Looks down upon a peaceful * Valley Folk,
Whom Fate a fruitful Soil in private gave,
And bade Them happy live, even in the Grave.
'Long with your Eyes the winding Valley runs,
And leads Them on, and calls Them back, at once.
Another lays huge Malvern Hills in view;
And every Path presents a Prospect new:
Where Active Froomy cuts Its liquid way,
And where Its Owner bids that Current stay,
And for Its passage wonted † Tribute pay.
Where Stripling Trees run down in decent Rows,
And form the Grand Approach up to the House:
Quite to the Road those Verdant Arches lead,
And whisper Welcome o're the Stranger's Head.
There gentle Zephir Sports his limber Wings,
And Philomel with her full Choir Sings.
See there the Chappel where your Ancestors,
With bended Knees put up Accepted Prayers,
And Dy'd in Faith of having you their Heirs.
But now your weary Eyes can hardly reach
To see where your own Fields their liberal Compass fetch:
To see what Pleasures do Adorn each Place,
And the Nice Order of their Beauty trace.
See nearer then, a Walk direct attends,
And as you tread upon it, see! it bends,
And falls on purpose to a mild descent,
And yields you Home, and further Toil prevents.
Through Ever-open Doors unstaid you go,
The Ever-open Doors are thought too few,
For Ever-open Hearts you keep within them too.
Courteous, not Formal, Handsom, yet not Proud,
Rich for no other End but to be Good:
To Virtues utmost pitch you bravely go;
Are Good, and yet not Proud of being so.
As the House high, the Cellars sink as low,
Where as from Springs the numerous Liquors flow:
Liquors, not strange, but Natives of the Place,
That free in Goblets rowl, ne'er prison'd up in Glass:
It values not Oporto, nor the Rhine,
But boasts the better Name of Longworth Wine,
And dares oppose with That, the Ostentatious Vine.
FINIS.