i A1r ii A1v
A picture of a hardbound book with the letter B on its left and the letter C on its right. To the right of the letter C is a peacock who is looking at the book.
Licenſed and Entred according
to Order.
iii A2r


Conſiſting of
Original Poems,
Songs, Odes
, &c;
With ſeveral
New Translations.#rule

In Two Parts.#rule

Part I.

Occaſionally Written by Mrs. Jane Barker.

Part II.

By ſeveral Gentlemen of the Universities,
and Others

——pulcherrima Virgo Incedit, magnâ Juvenum ſtipante catervâ. Virg.

Printed for Benjamin Crayle, at the Peacock
and Bible, at the Weſt-end of St. Pauls. 16881688.

iv A2v v A3r

The Publisher to The Reader.

Lest the Book might appear Naked, and unfaſhionable, I thought it could not be altogether unneceſsary to ſay ſomething by way of Preface; Therefore, not to be tedious, and pedantickly ſtuff it up with Quotations of ſeveral Languages, (as ſome affect, to ſhew Learning) I ſhall only ſay this of the enſuing Poetical Recreations, That the kind reception ſome other things of this nature have found, encouraged me in the attempt of Publiſhing theſe; and A3 I hope vi A3v I hope they may give as equivalent ſatisfaction as any that have preceded them: for the enſuing Verſes have paſs’d the teſt of ſeveral that know how to judge of Poetry, and that was ſufficient to prompt me to the adventure.

The Firſt Part of theſe Miſcellanies are the effects of a Ladies Wit, and I hope all the Courtly will (though out of a Complement) allow them for valuable: But however, not to ſay much more of her Verſes, I doubt not but they will commend themſelves far better than I can pretend to; for all good things carry with them a certain irreſiſtable Authority, not to be oppos’d.

The Second Part flows from the Pens of thoſe whoſe Educations gave them the opportunity of improving their vii A4r their natural Endowments at the Univerſities, and ſome others who wanted thoſe advantages; and by reading you may find the difference of Parts improv’d, and Parts as barely natural: And as Learning is but a way to ſet off Nature, ſo very often we ſee Nature naked to appear more beautifull, than when confin’d or daub’d by auker’d and unneceſsary Art, which makes it often prove like a good Face ſpoil’d by ill Paint, and injurious Waſhes But not to pretend to give you a particular Harangue of each Authour, and an account of their Writings, who have been ſo kind to the World as to contribute to this Piece; I ſhall only ſay that that which Horace ſaid of himſelf, is applicable to them: Libera per vacuum poſui Veſtigia princeps,Non aliena meo preſsi pede.―― A4They’veviiiA4vThey’ve trod new Paths, to others Feet unknown,And bravely ventur’d to lead others on. If you that read, like, and recommend, ſo that the Book ſells, I am oblig’d, and you pleas’d: And therefore I ſhall leave you to the tryal.


B. Crayle.

To ix A5r

To Madam Jane Barker, On Her Incomparable Poems.

Soon as some envious Angel’s willing hand

Snatch’d Great Orinda from our happy Land;

The Great Orinda, whoſe Seraphick Pen

Triumph’d o’er Women, and out-brav’d ev’n Men:

Then our Male-Poets modeſtly thought fit,

To claim the honour’d Primacy in Wit;

But, lo, the Heireſs of that Ladies Muſe,

Rivals their Merits, and their Sence out-do’s;

With ſwifter flights of fancy wings her Verſe,

And nobler Greatneſs valiant Acts reherſe.

Her Modiſh Muſe abhors a conſtant dreſs,

Appears each day in fineries afreſh:

Sometimes in pompous Grandeur ſhe do’s nobly ſtalk,

Then clad in tragick Buskins do’s Majeſtick walk;

She swells in bluſhing Purple, or looks big in Arms,

Proclaims deſtructive Wars,& triumphs in Alar’ms;

Denounces x A5v

Denounces fall of States, and fate of greateſt Kings,

Ruin of mighty Monarchs, and of mighty Things.

Sometimes her angry Muſe,fill’d with Satyrick rage,

Laſhes the frantick follies of a froward Age;

Then whips, and fiery Serpents ev’ry Verse entwine,

And ſharpeſt-pointed Vengeance fills each threatning line.

Sometimes her kinder Muſe do’s ſoftly ſing

Of native joys, which in the Country ſpring: Then,

Noiſeleſs as Planets, all her Numbers move,

Or ſilent breathings of a ſleeping Dove;

Soft as the Murmur of a gentle Air,

Or Mid-nights whiſpers ’twixt an Amorous pair.

A genuine ſweetneſs through her Verſes flow,

And harmless Raptures, ſuch as Shepherds know;

She fills each Plain, each Wood, each ſhady Grove,

With wearied Echoes of repeated Love.

Bald and Bombaſtick equally you ſhun,

In ev’n paces all your Numbers run.

Spencer’s aſpiring fancy fills your Soul,

Whilſt lawfull Raptures through your Poems rowl,

Which always by your guidance do ſubmit,

To th’ curb of Judgment, and the bounds of Wit.

When xi A6r

When in a Comick ſweetneſs you appear,

Ben Johnſon’s humour ſeems revived there.

When lofty Paſsions thunder from your Pen,

Methinks I hear Great Shakeſpear once again.

But what do’s moſt your Poetry commend?

You ev’n begin where thoſe great Wits did end.

Your infant fancy with that height is crown’d,

Which they with pains and coſt (when old) ſcarce found.

Go on, Dear Madam, and command our praiſe,

Our freſheſt Laurels, and our greeneſt Bays.

St. John’s Colledge.


To xii A6v

To the Ingenious Mrs. Barker, On Her Excellent Poems.

Long ſince my Thoughts did thus forboding tell,

The Muſes wou’d their Governours expell,

And raiſe a Female Heir unto the Crown,

One of their Sex to ſit upon the Throne:

And now the time is come, we joy to ſee

We’re Subjects to ſo great a Queen as thee;

Before in all things elſe we did ſubmit,

(Madam) in all things elſe but only Wit:

Such was our vain Self-love, and ſtubborn Pride,

But Heav’n was pleas’d to take the weakeſt ſide,

And now as Captives to our Conquerour,

We muſt ſurrender all into your Pow’r,

Not daring to keep back the ſmalleſt part,

But own with ſhame, and praiſe your great Deſert.

Nor are you ſo deſirous of the Bays,

As to deny Others deſerved Praiſe;

But xiii A7r

But giving them an Everlaſting Name,

You merit to your ſelf a nobler Fame;

While your own Glory you ſo much neglect,

And Others with ſuch skill and care protect,

More laſting Trophies to your ſelf erect

But ah, how high your Fancy takes its flight,

Whilſt they admire at you, gone out of ſight:

So all in Fire Elijah fled unkind,

And left Eliſha wond’ring here behind:

They, like Eliſha, for a Bleſsing call,

You hear their Pray’rs, and let the Mantle fall.

With this they ſtrange unheard-of things can doe,

Had they a fiery Coach, they’d be Elijah’s too.

Farther oblige the World (good Madam) ſtill

By divine Raptures of your warbling Quill.

Reſtore the Muſes, and true Poetry,

And teach what Charms do in true Meaſures lye:

And when you find a time beſt to retreat,

Spin out into a Web of Fancy, and of Wit.

Let me your Muſe a Legacy inherit,

A double Portion of your ſacred Spirit.


To xiv A7v

To the Ingenious Authour, Mrs. Jane Barker, On Her Poems.


As in the ancient Chaos, from whoſe Womb

The Univerſe did come;

All things confus’d, diſorder’d were,

No ſigns o’th’ luſter, which did after grace

The whole Creation’s face;

Nothing of Beauty did appear,

But all was a continu’d boundleſs ſpace,

Till the Almighty’s powerfull Command,

Whoſe Action ev’r more quick than thought,

The Infant World out of confuſion brought;

Whoſe all-commanding hand,

With Beaſts & Trees did bounteouſly adorn the fruitfull Land.

So xv A8r


So where my Thoughts, if Thoughts can be

Deſign’d from Wit, and Poetrie,

Nothing but Ignorance appear’d,

Dull ignorance, and folly too,

With all that Crew,

And home-bred Darkneſs held the regencie,

Till your Almighty Pen

This Chaos clear’d,

And of old arm’d Men,

Strange Miracles roſe out o’th’ Earth:

So to your charming Wit I owe

Theſe Verſes, ’tis your Word that makes them ſo;

Which rais’d from such a barren ground,

Strive to reſound

Your praiſe, who by ſuch harmleſs Magick gave them Birth.


And as the Heav’ns, to which we all things owe,

Scarce own thoſe Bounties which they do beſtow:

So you’re as kind as they,

Submit your kinder influence,

To be by us determin’d, us obey,

And xvi A8v

And ſtill from them

Give us ev’n for our weakneſs a reward,

Without regard

To Merit: Or if any thing we doe,

Worth praiſe, though ſolely it proceed from you,

Yet for our ſmalleſt diligence you doubly do repay.

St. John’s Colledge.


In Elegantem Janæ Barker Poeticen Epigramma.

Fonte Caballino Janam cùm cerno lavatam, An Sappho eſt, inquam, quæ rediviva canit? Non, ait, at parere ut poſsim præclara Virorum Facta datum; haud aliis, ſed peperiſse viros. M. Heliogenes de L’Epi. Philoſ. ac Med. P.
To xvii a1r

To Mrs. Jane Barker, On Her Ingenious Poems.

We Men wou’d fain monopolize all Wit,

And e’er ſince Adam nam’d the Beaſts,claim’d

Thinking in that, by him, our Patent writ. it,

How groſly we miſtook, Orinda knew,

We are convinc’d too by your Verſe and You.

’Tis true, at Ten, we’re ſent to th’ whipping fry,

To tug at Claſsic Oars, and trembling lye

Under Gill’s heavy laſh, or Buzby’s Eye.

At Eighteen, we to King’s or Trinity are ſent,

And nothing leſs than Laureate will content;

We ſearch all Sects, (like Syſtematick Fools)

And ſweat o’er Horace for Poetick Rules.

Yet after all theſe Mountain-throes and din,

At length drops put ſome poor crude Sooterkin,

And makes ――cob Tonſon vex’t he e’er put in.

a But xviii a1v

But here a Lady, with leſs noiſe and pain,

Lays by her Bobbins, Tape, and Point-Lorrain;

Attends her ſerene Soul, till forth ſhe brought

Fancy well-ſhap’t, and true digeſted Thought.

Shadwell and Settle yield ſhe hath the knack,

And ſwear ſhe will out-doe Revolting Jack;

She cloaths her Sence in ſuch a modeſt Style,

That her chaſt Lines no Reader can defile.

Madam, your happy Vein we all admire,

Pure unmix’t rays (juſt so Ethereal fire

Will ſhine above the Atmoſphere of groſs deſire,)

Brisk Ayrs, chaſt Sence, and moſt delighting Lays;

Take off your Top-knots, and put on the Bays.

S. C. Eſq.

To xix a2r

To the Incomparable Galæcia, On the Publication of Her Poems.

When a new Star do’s in the Skies appear,

And to ſome Conſtellation, ſhining there,

New luſtre adds, and gilds the rowling Sphere.

Then all the Sons of Art, wond’ring to ſee

The bright, and the amazing Noveltie;

By moſt accurate Obſervations, try

To ſearch, and find its perfect Theory;

To know its colour, form, place, magnitude,

And from ſtrange Cauſes ſtrange Effects conclude:

So all Men, pleas’d with thy ingenuous fire,

Who beauteous Verſe, and happy flights admire;

With joy behold a Wit ſo pure as thine,

In this dark Age of Ignorance to ſhine,

And ſcatter Rays ſo dazling and Divine.

a2 All xx a2v

All think it glorious, and with vaſt delight,

Gaze on a Star ſo charming, and ſo bright;

Nor are amaz’d that Wits leſs gay and clear,

At the approach of thine, ſhou’d diſappear.

That Poetaſter’s of a low degree,

Shou’d now neglected, and unvalu’d be,

And ſpreading Fame confin’d alone to thee;

Since none ſo nicely are obſerv’d, and view’d,

As the large Stars of the firſt Magnitude.

And may your piercing Wit ſhine always bright

As th’ Ev’ning Star in a clear froſty Night,

Unrival’d by the Moon’s faint borrow’d light.

May never interpoſing ſorrows meet,

To cloud, or obſcure your growing Wit.

But may your Rhimes be ſtill imploy’d to tell,

What ſatisfaction do’s in Knowledge dwell;

And as you have begun, ſo yet go on,

To make coy Nature’s ſecrets better known;

And may we learn in pureſt Verse, from thee,

The Art of Phyſick, and Anatomie;

While the much-pleas’d Apollo ſmiles to ſee

Medicine at once improv’d, and Poetrie.


A Table xxi a3r Erra- xxiv a4v


  • Part I. Page 19. Line I. for the, read ye.
  • Part II. Page 47. line 4. for Celeſtial, read the Celeſtial.
  • Page 48. line 4. for crack, read choak.
  • Page 61. line 6. for your, read you.
  • Page 89. line 7. for Things, read Thinns.
  • Page 192. line 6. for but obtain, read obtain.
  • Page 211. line 8 for ſtreams, read ſtream.
  • Page 268. line ult. for reſerv’d, read refin’d.
  • Page 278. line 19. for Fight, read Sight.
1 B1r 1

Miſcellany Poems.

Part I.

By Mrs. Jane Barker.

An Invitation to my Friends at Cambridge.

If, Friends, you would but now this place accoſt,

E’re the young Spring that Epithet has loſt,

And of my rural joys participate;

You’d learn to talk at this diſtracted rate.

Hail, Solitude, where Innocence do’s ſhroud

Her unvail’d Beauties from the cens’ring Croud;

Let me but have her Company, and I

Shall never envy this World’s Gallantry:

B We’ll 2 B1v 2

We’ll find out ſuch inventions to delude

And mock all thoſe that mock our ſolitude,

That they for ſhame ſhall fly for their defence

To gentle Solitude and Innocence:

Then they will find how much they’ve been deceiv’d,

When they the flatt’ries of this World believ’d.

Though to few Objects here we are confin’d,

Yet we have full inlargement of the Mind.

From varying Modes, which do our Lives inſlave,

Lo here a full Immunity we have.

For here’s no pride but in the Sun’s bright Beams;

No murmuring, but in the Cryſtal ſtreams.

No avarice is here, but in the Bees,

Nor is Ambition found but in the Trees.

No Wantonneſs but in the frisking Lambs,

Nor Luxury but when they ſuck their Dams.

Nor are there here Contrivances of States,

Only the Birds contrive to pleaſe their Mates;

Each minute they alternately improve

A thouſand harmleſs ways their artleſs love.

No Cruel Nymphs are here to tyrannize,

Nor faithless Youths their ſcorn to exerciſe;

Unleſs Narciſsus be that ſullen he

That can deſpiſe his am’rous talking ſhe.

No 3 B2r 3

No Emulation here do’s interpoſe,

Unleſs betwixt the Tulip and the Roſe;

But all things do conſpire to make us bleſs’d,

(Yet chiefly ’tis Contentment makes the Feaſt)

’Tis ſuch a pleaſing ſolitude as yet

Romance ne’re found, where happy Lovers met:

Yea ſuch a kind of ſolitude it is,

Not much unlike to that of Paradiſe,

Where all things do their choiceſt good diſpence,

And I too here am plac’d in innocence.

I ſhou’d conclude that ſuch it really were,

But that the Tree of Knowledge won’t grow here:

Though in its culture I have ſpent ſome time,

Yet it diſdains to grow in our cold Clime,

Where it can neither Fruit nor Leaves produce

Good for its owner, or the publick uſe.

How can we hope then our Minds then to adorn

With any thing with which they were not born;

Since we’re deny’d to make this ſmall advance,

To know their nakedneſs and ignorance?

For in our Maker’s Laws we’ve made a breach,

And gather’d all that was within our reach,

Which ſince we ne’re could touch; Altho’ our Eyes

Do ſerve our longing Souls to tantalize,

B2 Whilſt 4 B2v 4

Whilſt kinder fate for you do’s conſtitute

Luxurious Banquets of this dainty Fruit.

Whoſe Tree moſt freſh and flouriſhing do’s grow,

E’er ſince it was tranſplanted amongſt you;

And you in Wit grow as its branches high,

Deep as its Root too in Philoſophy;

Large as its ſpreading Arms your Reaſons grow,

Cloſe as its Vmbrage do’s your Judgments ſhow;

Freſh as its Leaves your ſprouting fancies are,

Your Vertues as its Fruits are bright and fair.

To Mr. Hill, on his Verſes to the Dutcheſs of York, when ſhe was at Cambridge.

What fitter Subject could be for thy Wit?

What Wit for Subject could there be more fit

Than thine for this, by which thou’ſt nobly ſhew’d

Thy Soul with Loyal Sentiments endew’d?

Not only ſo, but prov’d thy ſelf to be

Mirrour of what her Highneſs came to ſee:

Who having ſeen the Schools of Art, the beſt

She found concenter’d in thy matchleſs Breaſt;

And 5 B3r 5

And doubtleſs when ſhe ſaw the eager joys

Of Ears no leſs ambitious than their Eyes,

She did conclude their coming was not there

To ſee her only, but thy Wit to hear:

Thine whoſe aſcent ſhall learned Cambridge grace,

And ſhew it’s no ſuch foggy level place

As moſt affirm; for now the World shall know

That Woods Wood, the Author of another speech. and Hills of wit in Cambridge grow,

Whoſe lofty tops ſuch pleaſing Umbrage make,

As may induce the Gallants to forſake

Their dear-lov’d Town, to gather in this place

Some witticiſms of a better race,

Than what proceed from ſwearing Criticks, who

Kick Tavern Boys, and Orange-Wenches wooe,

Are Machavillians in a Coffee-houſe,

And think it wit a poor Street-Whore to chouſe;

And for their Father Hobbs will talk ſo high,

Rather than him they will their God deny:

And leſt their wit ſhould want a ſurer proof,

They boaſt of crimes they ne’re were guilty of.

Thus helliſh cunning dreſt in Maſquerade

Of Wit’s diſguiſe, ſo many have betray’d,

And made them Bondſlaves, who at firſt did fly

Thither Wit’s famine only to ſupply.

B3 But 6 B3v 6

But now I hope they’ll find the task too great,

And think at laſt of making a retreat:

Since here’s a Piſgah-Hill whereon to ſtand

To take a proſpect of Wit’s holy Land,

Flowing with Milk of Chriſtian innocence;

And Honey of Cit’ronian Eloquence.

To my Couſin Mr. E. F. on his Excellent Painting.

Should I in tuneleſs lines ſtrive to expreſs

That harmony which all your lines confeſs,

Ambition would my judgment ſo out-run,

Ev’n as an Archer that would hit the Sun.

My Muſe, alas! is of that humble ſize,

She ſcarce can to a Counter-tenour riſe;

Much leſs muſt ſhe to treble notes aſpire,

To match the Beauties of your pencil’s Quire:

Yet quite forbear to ſing, ſhe can’t, ſince you

Such ample objects for her praiſes ſhew.

No Poet here can have his tongue confin’d,

Unleſs he’s, like his Maſter Homer, blind,

But 7 B4r 7

But muſt in ſpight of all his conſcious fears,

Say ſomething where ſuch excellence appears.

Where each line is in ſuch due order plac’d,

Nature ſtands by afraid to be diſgrac’d.

Lo in the Eye ſuch graces do appear,

As if all Beauties were united there.

Yet diff’rent Paſsions ſeem therein to move,

Grave ev’n as Wiſdom, brisk and ſweet as Love:

The lips, which always are committing rapes,

(To which the Youths fly more than Birds to th’ Grapes)

With colour that tranſcends the Indian-lake,

And harmleſs ſmiles they do their Conqueſts make.

I ſhould be tedious ſhould I mention all

Which Juſtice would the chiefeſt Beauties call,

Whoſe line’ments all harmony do ſhew,

And yet no leſs expreſs all Beauty too,

A ſtrange reverie of nature ſeems to be,

That now we Beauty hear, and Muſick ſee;

Yet juſt proportion in true numbers meet,

Which make a Chorus even heav’nly ſweet.

Could I think Antient Painters equall’d thee,

I ſhould conclude Romance true Hiſtory;

B4 Not 8 B4v 8

Not think it ſtrange that Pictures could excite

Thoſe Gallant Hero’s then to love and fight;

Nor ſay that Painters did on them impoſe,

Since they made Gods and Mortals like to thoſe;

As Poets did create the Deities,

So Painters gave them their ubiquities:

For had not Painters them to th’ Vulgar ſhown,

They only to the Learned had been known:

Nor are we leſs than they oblig’d to you,

Who give us Beauty, and immortalize it too.

To my Reverend Friend Mr. H----.

On his Preſenting me The Reaſonableneſs o Chriſtianity, and The Hiſtory of King Charles the Firſt, &c;

Good Sir, if I could my Reſentments ſhew

In words, how much I am oblig’d to you,

I wou’d invoke ſome Muſe to teach me how

T’expreſs my gratitude in number now;

But, Sir, the kindneſs which to me you ſhew’d,

Tranſcends the bounds of finite gratitude:

What 9 B5r 9

What number then, alas, can there be fit

To cypher kindneſs which is infinite?

And ſuch is that which teaches us to know

God and our ſelves, and what we ought to do:

For whilſt I in your Pariſh ſpent my Youth,

I gain’d the knowledge of all ſaving Truth;

And when my Exit was by fate deſign’d,

To ſhew, you’d not impos’d upon my Mind

(In its Minority, what Reaſon might

In its mature and full-grown vigour ſlight)

You kindly gave me in Epitome,

The Reaſonableneſs of Chriſtianitie.

Which ſhews there’s no neceſsity to make

Us diſcard Reaſon when our Faith we take.

For God, who knew how apt we were to ſlide

From Faith, if we’d no reaſon for our Guide,

Made all his Precepts, which on Faith were fix’d,

To be with reaſon, and our int’reſt mix’d;

For howſoe’er by ſome they’re underſtood,

I’m ſure it is our int’reſt to be good:

And leſt Example ſhould be wanting to

Excite us to what Precepts bid us do,

He always gave us ſome, whoſe Virtues did

Exalt good deeds, and wicked ones forbid;

Whoſe 10 B5v 10

Whoſe Chriſtian ſtrength was able to ſubdue

The buſie World, Fleſh, and the Devil too.

’Mongſt whom there’s none more Eminently good

Than he who ſeal’d the Truth with’s Royal Blood;

Who prov’d himſelf by’s Royal Sufferings

The beſt of Men, as well as beſt of Kings:

As David was Chriſt’s Sire, and Servant, ſo

Charles was his Brother, Son and Servant too.

Much might be ſaid to call our Wonder forth,

And fall much ſhort of his tranſcendent Worth;

For he ſo far all praiſes do’s ſurpaſs,

That who ſpeaks moſt, ſpeaks ſhort of what he was.

For nothing can his matchleſs worth expreſs,

Nor characterize his mighty Soul, unleſs

Wiſdom her ſelf aſsume religious dreſs.

Thanks then, Good Sir, to you, for giving me

This compleat Mirrour of Chriſtianitie.

To 11 B6r 11

To Mr. G. P. my Adopted Brother, on the nigh approach of his Nuptials.

Dear Brother,

Thy Marry’ng humour I dare ſcarce upbraid,

Leſt thou retort upon me Muſty Maid;

Yet prithee don’t its joys too much eſteem,

It will not prove what diſtance makes it ſeem:

Bells are good muſick, if they’re not too nigh,

But ſure’ts baſe living in a Belfery.

To ſee Lambs skip o’re Hills is pretty ſport,

But who wou’d juſtle with them in their Court?

Then let not Marriage thee in danger draw,

Unleſs thou’rt bit with Love’s Tarantula;

A Frenzy which no Phyſick can reclaim,

But Croſses, crying Children, ſcolding Dame:

Yet who would ſuch a dang’rous Med’cine try,

Where a diſeaſe attends the remedy;

Whilſt Love’s Diaryan it aſsays to cure,

It introduces Anger’s Calenture.

Ah, pity thy good humour ſhould be ſpoil’d,

The glory of thy wit and friendſhip ſoil’d:

From 12 B6v 12

From Married Man wit’s Current never flows,

But grave and dull, as ſtanding Pond, he grows;

Whilſt th’ other like a gentle ſtream do’s play,

With this World’s pebbles, which obſtruct his way.

What ſhould I talk, this and much more you know

Of all the troubles you muſt undergo.

Yet if we’ll eat Tythe-pig, we muſt endure

The puniſhment to ſerve the Parſon’s Cure.

A Virgin Life.

Since, O ye Pow’rs, ye have beſtow’d on me

So great a kindneſs for Virginity,

Suffer me not to fall into the Pow’rs

Of Mens almoſt Omnipotent Amours;

But in this happy Life let me remain,

Fearleſs of Twenty five and all its train,

Of ſlights or ſcorns, or being call’d Old Maid,

Thoſe Goblings which ſo many have betray’d:

Like harmleſs Kids, that are purſu’d by Men,

For ſafety run into a Lyon’s Den.

Ah lovely State how ſtrange it is to ſee,

What mad conceptions ſome have made of thee,

As 13 B7r 13

As though thy Being was all wretchedneſs,

Or foul deformity i’th’ uglieſt dreſs;

Whereas thy Beauty’s pure, Celeſtial,

Thy thoughts Divine, thy words Angelical:

And ſuch ought all thy Votaries to be,

Or elſe they’re ſo, but for neceſsity:

A Virgin bears the impreſs of all good,

In that dread Name all Vertue’s underſtood:

So equal all her looks, her mien, her dreſs,

That nought but modeſty ſeems in exceſs.

And when ſhe any treats or viſits make,

’Tis not for tattle, but for Friendſhip’s ſake;

Her Neighb’ring Poor ſhe do’s adopt her Heirs,

And leſs ſhe cares for her own good than theirs;

And by Obedience teſtifies ſhe can

Be’s good a Subject as the ſtouteſt Man.

She to her Church ſuch filial duty pays,

That one would think ſhe’d liv’d i’th’ priſtine days.

Her Cloſet, where ſhe do’s much time beſtow,

Is both her Library and Chappel too,

Where ſhe enjoys ſociety alone,

I’th’ Great Three-One—

She drives her whole Lives buſineſs to theſe Ends,

To ſerve her God, enjoy her Books and Friends.

To 14 B7v 14

To my Friend EXILLUS, on his perſuading me to Marry Old Damon.

When Friends advice with Lovers forces joyn,

They’ll conquer Hearts more fortify’d than

For mine lyes as it wont, without defence, mine;

No Guard nor Art but its own innocence;

Under which Fort, it could fierce ſtorms endure,

But from thy Wit I find no Fort ſecure.

Ah, why would’ſt thou aſsiſt my Enemy,

Who was himſelf almoſt too ſtrong for me?

Thou with Idolatry mak’ſt me adore,

And homage do to the proud Conquerour.

Now round his Neck my willing Arms I’d twine,

And ſwear upon his Lips, My Dear, I’m thine,

But that his kindneſs then would grow, I fear,

Too weighty for my weak deſert to bear.

I fear ’twou’d even to extreams improve,

And Jealouſie, they ſay, ’s th’ extream of Love;

That after all my kindneſs to him ſhown,

My little Neddy, he’ll not think’t his own:

Ev’n thou my Dear Exillus he’ll ſuſpect,

If I but look on thee, I him neglect:

Not 15 B8r 15

Not only He-friends innocent as thou,

But he’ll miſtruſt She-friends and Heav’n too.

Thus beſt things may be turn’d to greateſt harm,

As ſaying th’ Lord’s Prayer backward proves a

Or if not thus, I’m ſure he will deſpiſe, charm.

Or under-rate the eaſie-gotten prize.

Theſe and a thouſand fears my Soul poſseſs,

But moſt of all my own unworthineſs;

Like dying Saints, I wiſh for coming joys,

But humble fears that forward wiſh deſtroys.

What ſhall I do then? hazard the event?

You ſay, Old Damon’s, all that’s excellent.

If I miſs him, the next ſome Squire may prove,

Whoſe Dogs and Horſes ſhall have all his love;

Or ſome debauch’d pretender to lewd wit,

Or covetous, conceited, unbred Citt. neigh,

Thus the brave Horſe, who late i’th’ Coach did

Is forc’d at laſt to tug a naſty Dray.

To 16 B8v 16

To Dr. R. S. my indifferent Lover, Who complain’d of my Indifferency.

You’d little reaſon to complain of me,

Or my unkindneſs or indiff’rency,

Since I by many a circumſtance can prove,

That int’reſt was the motive of your love;

But Heav’n it ſelf doth ever hate th’ addreſs,

Whoſe crafty Motive’s only intereſs;

No more can honeſt Maids endure to be,

The objects of your wiſe indiff’rency.

Such wary Courtſhip only ſhould be ſhown

To cunning jilting Baggages o’th’ Town:

For faithfull Love’s the rhetorick that perſuades,

And charms the hearts of ſilly Countrey Maids.

But when we find your Courtſhip’s but pretence,

Love were not Love in us, but impudence.

At beſt I’m ſure it needs muſt prove to us

(What e’re you think on’t) moſt injurious.

For had I of that gentle nature been,

As to have lov’d your Perſon, Wit, or Mien,

How 17 C1r 17

How many ſighs and tears it would have coſt,

And fruitleſs expectations by the Poſt,

Saying he is unkind; oh, no, his Letter’s loſt;

Hoping him ſick, or lame, or gone to Sea,

Hope any thing but his inconſtancy.

Thus what in other Friends cauſe greateſt fear,

To deſp’rate Maids, their only comforts are.

This I through all your Blandiſhments did ſee,

Thanks to ill nature that inſtructed me: you,

Thoughts of your ſighs, would plead ſometimes for

But ſecond thoughts again would let me know,

In gayeſt Serpents ſtrongeſt Poyſons are,

And ſweeteſt Roſe-trees ſharpeſt prickles bear:

And ſo it proves, for now it do’s appear,

Your Flames and Sighs only for Money were.

As Beggers for their gain turn Blind and Lame;

On the ſame ſcore a Lover you became:

Yet there’s a kindneſs in this falſe Amour,

It teaches me ne’er to be Miſtreſs more.

Thus Blazing Comets are of good portent,

If they excite the People to repent.

C On 18 C1v 18

On the Death of my Dear Friend and Play-fellow, Mrs E. D. having Dream’d the night before I heard thereof, that I had loſt a Pearl.

I Dream’d I loſt a Pearl, and ſo it prov’d;

I loſt a Friend much above Pearls belov’d:

A Pearl perhaps adorns ſome outward part,

But Friendſhip decks each corner of the heart:

Friendſhip’s a Gem, whoſe Luſtre do’s out-ſhine

All that’s below the heav’nly Cryſtaline:

Friendſhip is that myſterious thing alone,

Which can unite, and make two Hearts but one;

It purifies our Love, and makes it flow

I’th’ cleareſt ſtream that’s found in Love below;

It sublimates the Soul, and makes it move

Towards Perfection and Celeſtial Love.

We had no by-deſigns, nor hop’d to get

Each by the other place amongſt the great;

Nor Riches hop’d, nor Poverty we fear’d,

’Twas Innocence in both, which both rever’d.

Witneſs 19 C2r 19

Witneſs this truth the Wilſthorp-Fields, where we

So oft enjoy’d a harmleſs Luxurie;

Where we indulg’d our eaſie Appetites,

With Pocket-Apples, Plumbs, and ſuch delights.

Then we contriv’d to ſpend the reſt o’th’ day,

In making Chaplets, or at Check-ſtone play;

When weary, we our ſelves ſupinely laid

On Beds of Vi’lets under ſome cool ſhade, Rays,

Where th’ Sun in vain ſtrove to dart through his

Whilſt Birds around us chanted forth their Lays;

Ev’n thoſe we had bereaved of their young,

Would greet us with a Querimonious Song.

Stay here, my Muſe, and of theſe let us learn,

The loſs of our deceaſed Friend to Mourn:

Learn did I ſay? alas, that cannot be, Sea,

We can teach Clouds to weep, and Winds to ſigh at

Teach Brooks to murmur, Rivers to o’re-flow,

We can add Solitude to Shades of Yeaugh.

Were Turtles to be witneſs of our moan,

They’d in compaſsion quite forget their own:

Nor ſhall hereafter Heraclitus be,

Fam’d for his Tears, but to my Muſe and Me;

Fate ſhall give all that Fame can comprehend,

Ah poor repair for th’ loſs of ſuch a Friend.

C2 The 20 C2v 20

The Proſpect of a Landskip, Beginning with a grove.

Well might the Antients deem a Grove to be

The Sacred Manſion of ſome Deity;

For it our Souls inſenſibly do’s move,

At once to humble Piety and Love,

The choiceſt Bleſsings Heav’n to us has giv’n,

And the beſt Off’ring we can make to Heav’n;

Theſe only poor Mortality make bleſs’d,

And to Inquietude exhibit reſt;

By theſe our rationality is ſhown,

The cogniſance by which from Brutes we’r known.

For who themſelves of Piety deveſt,

Are ſurely but a Moral kind of Beaſts;

But thoſe whom gentle Laws of Love can’t bind,

Are Salvages of the moſt ſordid kind.

But none like theſe do in our Shades obtrude,

Though ſcornfully ſome needs will call them rude.

Yet Nature’s culture is ſo well expreſt,

That Art her ſelf would wiſh to be ſo dreſt:

For 21 C3r 21

For here the Sun conſpires with ev’ry Tree,

To deck the Earth with Landskip-Tapiſtry. pear,

Then through ſome ſpace his brighteſt Beams ap-

Which do’s erect a Golden Pillar there.

Here a cloſe Canopy of Bows is made,

There a ſoft graſsie Cloth of State is ſpread,

With Gems and gayeſt Flow’rs embroider’d o’re,

Freſh as thoſe Beauties honeſt Swains adore.

Here Plants for health, and for delight are met,

The Cephalick Cowſlip, Cordial Violet.

Under the Diuretick Woodbine grows

The Splenetick Columbine, Scorbutick Rose;

The beſt of which, ſome gentle Nymph doth take,

For faithfull Corydon a Crown to make;

Whilſt on her Lap the happy Youth’s head lyes,

Gazing upon the Aſpects of her Eyes,

The moſt unerring, beſt Aſtronomy,

Whereby to Calculate his deſtiny;

Whilſt o’re their heads a pair of Turtles Coo,

Which with leſs zeal and conſtancy do wooe;

And Birds around, through their extended throats,

In careleſs Confort chant their pleaſing Notes;

Than which, no ſweeter Muſick ſtrikes the Ear,

Unleſs when Lover’s ſighs each other hear;

C3 Which 22 C3v 22

Which are more ſoft than Auſtral Breeſes bring,

Although they ſay they’re harbingers of th’ Spring.

Ah ſilly Town! wil’t thou near learn to know,

What happineſs in Solitude do’s grow?

But as a hardn’d Sinner for’s defence,

Pleads the inſipidneſs of innocence;

Or ſome whom Vertue due reſpect would grant,

But that they feign they’re of her ignorant:

Yet Blindneſs is not laudable to plead,

When we’re by wilfull Ignorance mis-led.

Should ſome, who think’t a happineſs to get

Crouds of acquaintance, to admire their Wit;

Reſolve their Sins and Follies to diſcard,

Their Cronies quickly would them diſregard.

’Tis hard we muſt (the World’s ſo wicked grown)

Be complaiſant in Sin, or live alone:

For thoſe who now with Vertue are endu’d,

Do live alone, though in a multitude.

Retire then all, whom Fortune don’t oblige,

To ſuffer the diſtreſses of a Siege.

Where ſtrong temptation Vertue do’s attacque,

’Tis not ingnoble an eſcape to make:

But where no Conqueſt can be hop’d by fight,

’Tis honourable, ſure, to ’ſcape by flight.

Fly 23 C4r 23

Fly to ſome calm retreat, where you may ſpend

Your life in quietude with ſome kind Friend;

In ſome ſmall Village, and adjacent Grove,

At once your Friendſhip and your Wit improve;

Free from thoſe vile, opprobrious, fooliſh Names,

Of Whig or Tory, and from ſordid aims

Of Wealth, and all its train of Luxuries;

From Wit sophisticate, with fooleries. Wine,

From Beds of Luſt, and Meals o’re-charg’d with

Here temp’rately thou may’ſt on one Diſh dine:

In wholſome Exerciſe thou may’ſt delight

Thy ſelf, and make thy reſt more ſweet at night.

And if thy mind to Contemplation leads,

Who God and Nature’s Books has, ſurely needs

No other Object to imploy his thought,

Since in each leaf ſuch Myſteries are wrought;

That whoſo ſtudies moſt, ſhall never know

Why the ſtraight Elm’s ſo tall, the Moſs ſo low.

Oh now, I could inlarge upon this Theam,

But that I’m unawares come to the ſtream,

Which at the bottom of this Grove do’s glide;

And here I’ll reſt me by its flow’ry ſide.

C4 Sitting 24 C4v 24

Sitting by a Rivulet.


Ah lovely ſtream, how fitly may’ſt thou be,

By thy immutability,

Thy gentle motion and perennity,

To us the Emblem of Eternity:

And to us thou do’ſt no leſs

A kind of Omnipreſence too expreſs.

For always at the Ocean thou

Art always here, and at thy Fountain too;

Always thou go’ſt thy proper Courſe,

Spontaneouſly, and yet by force,

Each Wave forcing his Precurſor on;

Yet each one runs with equal haſte,

As though each fear’d to be the laſt

With mutual ſtrife, void of contention,

In Troops they march, till thouſands, thouſands paſt

Yet gentle ſtream, thou’rt ſtill the ſame,

Always going, never gone;

Yet do’ſt all Conſtancy diſclaim, Song;

Wildly dancing to thine own murmuring tunefull

Old as Time, as Love and Beauty young.

But 25 C5r 25


But chiefly thou to Unity lay’ſt claim,

For though in thee,

Innumerable drops there be,

Yet ſtill thou art but one,

Th’ Original of which from Heav’n came:

The pureſt Tranſcript thereof we

I’th’ Church may wiſh, but never hope to ſee,

Whilſt each Pretender thinks himſelf alone

The Holy Catholick Church Militant;

Nay, well it is if ſuch will grant,

That there is one elſewhere Triumphant.


But gentle ſtream, if they,

As thou do’ſt Nature, would their God obey;

And as they run their courſe of life, would try

Their Conſciences to purify:

From ſelf-love, pride, and avaricy,

Stubbornneſs equal to Idolatry;

They’d find opinion of themſelves,

To be but dang’rous ſandy Shelves,

To 26 C5v 26

To found or build their Faith upon,

Unable to reſiſt the force

Of Proſperity’s ſwelling violent force,

Or ſtorms of Perſecution:

Whoſe own voracity(were’t in their power)

Wou’d not only Ornaments devour,

But the whole Fabrick of Religion.


But gentle ſtream, thou’rt nothing ſo,

A Child in thee may ſafely go

To rifle thy rich Cabinet;

And his Knees be ſcarcely wet,

Whilſt thou wantonly do’ſt glide,

By thy Enamell’d Banks moſt beauteous ſide;

Nor is ſweet ſtream thy peacefull tyde,

Diſturbed by pale Cynthia’s influence;

Like us thou do’ſt not ſwell with pride

Of Chaſtity or Innocence.

But thou remain’ſt ſtill unconcern’d,

Whether her Brows be ſmooth or horn’d;

Whether her Lights extinguiſh’d or renew’d,

In her thou mindeſt no Viciſsitude.

Happy 27 C6r 27

Happy if we, in our more noble State,

Could ſo ſlight all Viciſsitudes of Fate.

A Hill.

Oh that I cou’d Verſes write,

That might expreſs thy praiſe,

Or with my Pen aſcend thy height;

I thence might hope to raiſe

My Verſe upon Fame’s ſoaring wing,

That it might ſo advance,

As with Apollo’s Lyre to Sing,

And with the Spheres to Dance.

This was never Finished.

To 28 C6v 28

To Sir F. W. preſenting him Cowley’s firſt Works.

When vacant hours admit you to peruſe,

The mighty Cowley’s early Muſe;

Behold it as a bud of wit, whoſe growth

O’re-tops all that our Iſle brought forth:

And may it ſtill above all others grow,

Till equall’d, or out-done by you.

To Ovid’s Heroines in his Epiſtles.

Bright Shees, what Glories had your Names acquir’d,

Had you conſum’d thoſe whom your Beauties fir’d,

Had laugh’d to ſee them burn, and ſo retir’d:

Then they cou’d ne’er have glory’d in their ſhames,

Either to Roman, or to Engliſh Dames,

Had you but warm’d, not melted in their flames.

You’d 29 C7r 29

You’d not been wrack’d then on deſpair’s rough coaſt,

Nor yet by ſtorms of Perjuries been toſs’d,

Had you but fix’d your flowing Love with Froſt

Had you put on the Armour of your ſcorn,

(That Gem which do’s our Beauties moſt adorn)

What hardy Hero durſt have been forſworn.

But ſince they found ſuch lenity in you,

Their crime ſo Epidemical do’s grow,

That all have, or do, or would be doing ſo.

To my Honourable Unkle Colonel C--- after his Return into the Low-Countries.

Dear Sir, the joys which range through all your Troops,

Expreſs’d by Caps thrown up, and Engliſh Whoops,

Were the old marks of Conqueſt, which they knew

They ſhould obtain, when they obtained you;

As 30 C7v 30

As being the Soul, which animation gave

To all their Valours, and to all their brave

Atchievements, by which your honour’d Name

Shall be Eternaliz’d in th’ Book of Fame:

Though we partakers of your Glories are,

And of your Joys by ſympathy do ſhare;

Yet Abſence makes the pleaſure but in part,

And for your ſafety, Fear our joys do’s thwart:

Fear, which by you’s the worſt of Sins eſteem’d,

At beſt is a Mechanick Paſsion deem’d;

Yet when your danger ſhe preſents to us,

She’s then both good and meritorious.

Think then how we’re excited by this Fear,

To mourn your Abſence, though your Worth revere:

Beſides, methinks ’tis pity that you ſhou’d,

For ſordid Boors, exhauſt your Noble Blood.

Think then, dear Sir, of making your return,

And let your Preſence Britain’s Iſle adorn.

On 31 C8r 31

On the Apothecary’s Filing my Bills amongſt the Doctors.

I Hope I ſhan’t be blam’d if I am proud,

That I’m admitted ’mongſt this Learned Croud;

To be proud of a Fortune ſo ſublime,

Methinks is rather Duty, than a Crime:

Were not my thoughts exalted in this ſtate,

I ſhould not make thereof due eſtimate:

And ſure one cauſe of Adam’s fall was this,

He knew not the juſt worth of Paradiſe;

But with this honour I’m ſo ſatisfy’d,

The Antients were not more when Deify’d:

For this tranſcends all common happineſs,

And is a Glory that exceeds exceſs.

This ’tis, makes me a fam’d Phyſician grow,

As Saul ’mongſt Prophets turn’d a Prophet too.

The ſturdy Gout, which all Male power withſtands

Is overcome by my ſoft Female hands:

Not Deb’ra, Judith, or Semiramis

Could boaſt of Conqueſts half ſo great as this;

More than they ſlew, I ſave in this Diſeaſe.

Man- 32 C8v 32

Mankind our Sex for Cures do celebrate,

Of Pains, which fancy only doth create:

Now more we ſhall be magnified ſure,

Who for this real torment find a Cure.

Some Women-haters may be ſo uncivil,

To ſay the Devil’s caſt out by the Devil;

But ſo the good are pleas’d, no matter for the evil.

Such eaſe to States-men this our Skill imparts,

I hope they’ll force all Women to learn Arts.

Then Bleſsings on ye all ye learned Crew, knew.

Who teach me that which you your ſelves ne’er

Thus Gold, which by th’ Sun’s influence do’s grow,

Do’s that i’th’ Market Phœbus cannot doe.

Bleſs’d be the time, and bleſs’d my pains and fate,

Which introduc’d me to a place ſo great.

Falſe Strephon too I now could almoſt bleſs,

Whoſe crimes conduc’d to this my happineſs.

Had he been true, I’d liv’d in ſottiſh eaſe;

Ne’er ſtudy’d ought, but how to love and pleaſe:

No other flame my Virgin Breaſt had fir’d,

But Love and Life together had expir’d.

But when, falſe wretch, he his forc’d kindneſs paid,

With leſs Devotion than e’er Sexton pray’d.

Fool 33 D1r 33

Fool that I was to ſigh, weep, almoſt dye,

Little fore-thinking of this preſent joy:

Thus happy Brides ſhed tears they know not why.

Vainly we blame this Cauſe, or laugh at that,

Whilſt the Effect with its how, where and what,

Is an Embryo i’th’ Womb of Time or Fate.

Of future things we very little know,

And ’tis Heav’ns kindneſs too that it is ſo.

Were not our Souls with Ignornace ſo buoy’d,

They’d ſink with fear, or over-ſet with pride.

So much for Ignorance there may be ſaid,

That large Encomiums might thereof be made.

But I’ve digreſs’d too far, ſo muſt return,

And make the Medick Art my whole concern;

Since by its Aid I’ve gain’d this mighty place

Amongſt th’ immortal Æſculapian Race;

That if my Muſe will needs officious be,

She too to this muſt be a Votary.

In all our Songs its Attributes reherſe,

Write Recipes (as Ovid Law) in Verſe;

To meaſure we’ll reduce Febrifick heat,

And make the Pulſes in true meaſure beat:

Aſthma and Phthiſick ſhall chant lays moſt ſweet,

The Gout and Rickets too ſhall run on feet:

D In 34 D1v 34

In fine, my Muſe, ſuch Wonders we will doe,

That to our Art Mankind their eaſe ſhall owe;

Then praiſe and pleaſe our ſelves in doing ſo:

For ſince the Learn’d exalt and own our Fame,

It is no Arrogance to do the ſame,

But due reſpects and complaiſance to them.

To my Unkind Strephon.

When laſt I ſaw thee, thou did’ſt ſeem ſo kind,

Thy Friendſhip & thy Mirth ſo unconfin’d;

Thy Mind ſerene, Angelical thy Face,

Wit and good humour ev’ry part did grace;

That nought unkind appear’d to my dull sence,

To cloud the Glories of Love’s Excellence.

Thus e’re the Sun his leave of us he takes,

Behind the Trees a glorious Landskip makes;

So in thy Mien thoſe Glories did appear,

To ſhew it ſeems Friendſhip was ſetting there:

But now’t’s obſcured, whether it deſcends

Into the Ocean of more worthy Friends;

Or 35 D2r 35

Or that it do’s to State or bus’neſs move,

Thoſe Regions of th’ Antipodes of Love,

I know not, only it withdraws its light,

Expoſing of our Microcoſm to night:

A night all clad in Sorrows, thickeſt Air,

Yet no leſs cold than thoſe that are moſt clear:

But as when heat by cold contracted is,

Grows ſtronger by its Antiperiſtaſis;

So ſhall my Paſsion in this frigid ſtate

Grow ſtrong in fervent love, or torrid hate;

But ſhould I frown, or ſcorn, or hate, ’twould be

But laughter and divertiſement to thee:

Then be thou ſtill unkind, I am reſolv’d

I’th’ like unkindneſs ne’er to be involv’d;

But thoſe whom Frowns and Anger cannot move,

It is but juſt to perſecute with Love,

Like good Old Romans, although baniſh’d I

Shall ſtill retain my firſt integrity.

But what ſhould make thee thus to baniſh me,

Who always did do, and will honour thee;

Unleſs thou’rt like thoſe jealous Romans grown,

And falſly fear I ſhould erect a Throne

Within thy Breaſt, and abſolutely prove

My ſelf the mighty Monarch of thy Love:

D2 No 36 D2v 36

No ſure, thy Judgment never could be wrought,

To think that I ſhould harbour ſuch a thought;

Thou could’ſt not think I aim’d at ſuch a ſtate,

Who in thy Breaſt had no Confederate;

Nor Worth wherewith the The noble and ſordid Paſsions. Nobles to engage,

Nor Wealth to ſtifle the Plebeian Rage:

Nor had I Troops of Beauties at Command,

For Grief long ſince thoſe Forces did disband:

Beſides, thou know’ſt I always did deſpiſe,

In Love, thoſe Arbitrary tyrannies:

Nor do I leſs abhor the Vulgar croud

Of ſordid Paſsions, which can bawl ſo loud

For Liberty, that they thereby may grace

Pride, Luſt, or Av’rice, with a Tribune’s place;

But might I chuſe, Love’s Regiment ſhould be,

By Friendſhip’s noble Ariſtocracy.

But now, alas, Love’s Powers are all depreſt

By th’ powerfull Anarchy of Intereſt:

But although Hell and Earth therein combin’d,

I little thought what now too well I find,

That ever Strephon could have been unkind.

To 37 D3r 37

To my Friend Mr. S. L. on His Receiving the Name of Little Tom King.

Fear not, dear Friend, the leſs’ning of thy Fame,

Becauſe here’s Little fix’d upon thy Name;

Thy matchleſs Worth, alas, is too well known,

To ſuffer damage by detraction.

Nor can the Splendour of thy glorious Rays

Gain Augmentation by our worthleſs praiſe;

But as the faithfull Diamonds luſter’s ſhown,

Whether ſet on Foils, or in the Fire thrown;

So art thou Little King, whoſe Worth croſs Fate,

By no Viciſsitude can vitiate:

So ſweet thy Humour, ſo genteel thy Mien;

So wiſe thy Actions, all thy Thoughts ſerene;

That Envies ſelf, who do’s all praiſe regret,

Muſt own in thee Virtue and Wiſdom’s met;

For were’t thou really ſuch as is thy Name,

I’m ſure thy Wiſdom wou’d adorn the ſame;

And to the ſilly World it ſhou’d be ſhown,

That Virtue cou’d add Splendour to a Throne.

D3 Neceſsity 38 D3v 38

Neceſſity of Fate.


In vain, in vain it is, I find,

To strive against our Fate,

We may as well command the Wind,

Or th’ Seas rude Waves to gentle manners bind,

Or to Eternity preſcribe a date,

As fruſtrate ought that Fortune has deſign’d.

For when we think we’re Politicians grown,

And live by methods of our own;

We then obſequiouſly obey

Her Dictates, and a blindfull Homage pay.


For were’t not ſo, ſurely I cou’d not be

Still ſlave to Rhime, and lazy Poetry;

I who ſo oft have ſtrove,

My freedom to regain;

And ſometimes too, for my aſsiſtance; took

Buſineſs, and ſometimes too a Book;

Company, and ſometimes Love:

All 39 D4r 39

All which proves vain,

For I can only ſhake, but not caſt off my Chain.


Ah cruel Fate! all this thou did’ſt fore-ſhow,

Ev’n when I was a Child;

When in my Picture’s hand

My Mother did command,

There ſhou’d be drawn a Lawrel-bough:

Lo then my Muſe ſat by and ſmil’d,

To hear how ſome the Sentence did oppoſe,

Saying an Apple, Bird, or Roſe

Were objects which did more befit

My childiſh years, and no leſs childiſh wit.


But my ſmiling Muſe well knew that conſtant Fate,

Her promiſe wou’d compleat;

For Fate at my initiation,

In the Muſes Congregation,

As my Reſponſor promis’d then for me,

I ſhou’d forſake thoſe three,

D4 Soaring 40 D4v 40

Soaring honours, and vain ſweets of pleaſure,

And vainer fruits of worldly treaſure;

All for the Muſes Melancholy Tree,

E’re I knew ought of its great Myſtery.

Ah gentle Fate, ſince thou wilt have it ſo,

Let thy kind hand exalt it to my brow.

To my Honoured Friend, Mr. E. S—t.

Oh had I any Charms of equal Powers,

To lay thoſe ſpirits which are rais’d by yours;

I would employ them all, rather than now

Suffer my babbling Rhimes to trouble you:

But ah! alas my Spells are all too weak,

To keep a ſilence which you urge to break;

Though I remember juſtly where and when

I promis’d ne’er to trouble you agen;

And when I ſpoke, I meant my words for true,

But thoſe Reſolves were cancell’d at review

Of your obliging Lines, which made me know

Silence to be the greater fault o’th’ too:

For 41 D5r 41

For where Perfection do’s in triumph ſit,

’Tis rude to praiſe, but ſinfull to omit.

I often read your Lines, and oft admire,

How Eloquence and Fancy do conſpire,

With Wit and Judgment to make up a Quire,

And grace the Muſick of Apollo’s Lire.

But that which makes the Muſick truly ſweet,

Virtue and Innocence in Chorus meet:

So ſmooth, ſo gentle all your Writings are,

If I with other Authors them compare;

Methinks their Modiſh Wit to me do’s ſhew,

But as an Engyſcope to view yours through:

Nor do your Writings only ſmoothly glide,

Whilſt your whole life’s like ſome impetuous tide;

But both together keep a gentle pace,

And each other do each other grace.

There’s very few like you that do poſseſs

The Stoicks ſtrictneſs, Poets gentleneſs.

I much admire your Worth, but more my Fate,

That worthleſs I thereof participate;

Ev’n ſo the Sun diſdains not to diſpence

On meaneſt Inſects his bright influence;

But gives them animation by his Rays,

Which they requite, like me, with worthleſs praiſe;

Which 42 D5v 42

Which now I’m ſure’s grown troubleſome to you,

But you muſt bear that fate which others do:

For thoſe that needs will taſte of Parents joys,

Muſt too indure the plague of Cradle-noiſe.

On my Mother and my Lady W----. who both lay ſick at the ſame time under the Hands of Dr. Paman.

Like two ſweet Youths ſtrip’d naked on the Strand,

Ready to plunge, in conſternation ſtand,

Viewing the dimples of that ſmiling Face,

Whoſe frigid Body they deſign t’ imbrace,

Till by their Guardian Angel’s care, ſome friend

Snatches them from the danger they intend:

So did theſe Pious Souls themſelves prepare,

By putting off the Robes of worldly care.

Thus fitted (as they were) in each degree,

To lanch into a bless’d Eternity;

They both had ſhot the Gulph——.

Had not their Guardian-God, good Paman ſent,

Who by his Skill a longer time them lent.

Ah 43 D6r 43

Ah happy Paman, mightily approv’d,

Both by thy Patients, and the Poor belov’d.

Hence let no Slander light upon the Fame

Of thy great Art, much leſs upon thy Name:

Nor to bad Druggs let Fate thy Worth expoſe,

For beſt Receipts are baffl’d oft by thoſe:

Nor let no Quack intrude where thou do’ſt come,

To crop thy Fame, or haſte thy Patients doom;

Baſe Quackery to Sickneſs the kind Nurſe,

The Patients ruine, and Phyſicians curſe:

Let no infectious Sickneſs ſeize thy Blood,

But that thou may’ſt live long to do much good.

May all the Bleſsings light on thee that can

Attend a Doctor, or a Chriſtian Man.

Since by thy care thou haſt reſtor’d to us,

Two in whom Virtue’s moſt conspicuous:

Better, I’m ſure, no Age can ever ſhew,

Whoſe Lives are Precepts, and Examples too.

In 44 D6v 44

In Commendation of the Female Sex.

Out of Scipina.

Ah Beauteous Sex, to you we’re bound to give

Our thanks for all the Bleſings we receive;

Ev’n that we’re Men, the chief of all our boaſt

Were without you, but a vaſt bleſsing loſt

In vain would Man his mighty Patent ſhow,

That Reaſon makes him Lord of all below;

If Woman did not moderate his rule,

He’d be a Tyrant, or a ſoftly fool.

For e’er Love’s documents inform his Breaſt,

He’s but a thoughtleſs kind of Houſhold Beaſt

Houſes, alas, there no ſuch thing wou’d be,

He’d live beneath the umbrage of a Tree:

Or elſe uſurp ſome free-born Native’s Cave;

And ſo inhabit, whilſt alive, a Grave:

Or o’er the World this Lordly Brute wou’d rove,

Were he not taught and civiliz’d by Love.

’Tis Love and Beauty regulate our Souls,

No rules ſo certain as in Venus Schools:

Your 45 D7r 45

Your Beauty teacheth whatſoe’er is good,

Elſe good from bad had ſcarce been underſtood.

What’s eligible by your ſmiles we know,

And by your frowns refuſe what is not ſo.

Thus the rough draught of Man you have refin’d,

And poliſh’d all the Paſsions of his mind.

His Cares you leſsen, and his Joys augment;

To both extreams ſet the juſt bounds Content.

In fine, ’tis you to Life its reliſh give,

Or ’twere inſipid, not worth while to live:

Nay more, we’re taught Religion too by you:

For who can think that ſuch Perfections grew

By chance? no, ’twas the divine Pow’rs which thus

Choſe to exhibit their bright ſelves to us:

And for an Antepaſt of future bliſs,

Sent you their Images from Paradiſe.

To 46 D7v 46

To my Brother, whilſt he was in France.

Dear Brother, So far as you advance

Your knowledge, by your Journey into France;

So far and more I’m ſure I backward go,

For I can’t ſay As in præſenti now;

Nor ever ſhall (I am ſo much concern’d

For your dear ſafety) whilſt you are return’d.

Nothing at preſent wonted pleaſure yields,

The Birds nor Buſhes, or the gaudy Fields;

Nor Oſier holts, nor Flow’ry banks of Glen;

Nor the ſoft Meadow-graſs ſeem Pluſh, as when

We us’d to walk together kindly here,

And think each blade of Corn a Gem did bear.

Inſtead of this, and thy Philoſophy,

Nought but my own falſe Latin now I ſee;

Falſe Verſe, or Lovers falſeſt of the three:

Ev’n thoughts of former happineſs augment

My Griefs, and are my preſent puniſhment;

As 47 D8r 47

As thoſe who from a ſtate of Grandeur fall,

Find adverſe Fate hard to diſpence withall.

Had Devils never Heaven ſeen,

Their Hell a ſmaller Curſe had been.

On the Death of my Brother.

Come Sorrow,come, embrace my yielding heart,

For thou’rt alone, no Paſsion elſe a-part;

Since of my Dear by Death I am bereft,

Thou art the faithfull’ſt Lover I have left;

And ſo much int’reſt thou haſt got in me,

All thoughts of him prove only Pimps to thee:

If any joy ſeem to accoſt my Soul,

One thought of him do’s preſently controle

Thoſe fawning Rivals; all which ſteal away,

Like wand’ring Ghoſts at the approach of day.

But hold, fond Grief, thou muſt forbear a while,

Thy too too kind Careſses, which beguile

Me of my Reaſon,—retire whilſt I

Repeat the Life, the Death, the Elogy,

Of 48 D8v 48

Of him my Soul ador’d with ſo much pride,

As makes me ſlight all worldly things beſide;

Of him who did by his fraternal Love,

More noble Paſsions in my Boſome move,

Than e’er cou’d be infus’d by Cupid’s Darts,

Or any feign’d, adulterate, ſordid Arts;

Of him whoſe blooming Youth pleas’d each Man’s Eye

And tempted Women to Idolatry;

Of him whoſe growing Art made Death afraid,

He ſhou’d be vanquiſh’d, and his Throne betray’d;

’Cauſe with ſucceſs, and yet no leſs applauſe,

He reſcu’d many from the Tyrant’s jaws:

At laſt the Tyrant raging full with ſpight,

Aſsaults his Enemy with all his might;

And for his Second brings a Feavour too;

In this Attacque what could our Champion doe?

He bravely fights, but forc’d at laſt to yield,

Nature, his Second, having loſt the Field:

Many Docters bring in their Aid, but ’tis too late,

Grim Death had gotten a Decree from Fate;

Which retrograded all that great ſupply,

Whoſe pow’rfull Arms makes Death and Feavers fly

But 49 E1r 49

But why, great Fate! would’ſt thou ſo cruel be,

Of Joy at once to rob the World and Me!

What joys ſo e’er we to our ſelves propoſe,

Fate ſtill will fruſtrate, or at leaſt oppoſe;

’Tis her Ambition ſure to let us know,

She has the Regiment of all below.

If it be ſo, command ſome mournfull Muſe

T’inſpire my Soul, and then my Heart infuſe

With Eſsence of ſome Dirges, that I may

His Matchleſs worth to all the World diſplay.

Nor Fate, nor Muſe will help us now, I find,

All flee the Wretched, ev’n as Ships the Wind.

My Dear, had’ſt thou to me bequeath’d thy Wit,

Thy Character had long ago been writ

I’th’ moſt ſublime and laſting Verſe,

That e’er Adorn’d the greateſt Hero’s Herſe.

But were thy great Encomium writ by me,

’Twou’d be the ready way to leſsen thee:

Therefore I muſt deſiſt from that deſign,

And the attempt to better hands reſign;

Only repeat what mournfully was ſaid,

As in thy cold and narrow Bed was’t laid

E By 50 E1v 50

By the Apollo’s (a) Old Doctors. of thy noble Art,

(Who ſeem’d to grudge me in their grief a part)

Alas, he’s gone who ſhou’d have liv’d to be

An honour to our Great Society.

Alas, he’s gone who ſhou’d ſupply the place

Of some of us, when time has left no ſpace

Betwixt us and the Grave; but now we ſee

How they’re deceiv’d, who hold no vacancy:

And all the Gallant Æſculapian (b) Young Phyſicians. Crew,

Whoſe great Example from Spectators drew

Such floods of tears, that ſome miſtook their aim,

And thought a real ſhow’r from Heav’n came.

But I, as if the Fountain of this Source,

With Handkerchiefs ſtrove to retard the courſe;

But all in vain, my real loſs was great,

As many thought, whoſe Words I here repeat:

I cannot blame you for lamenting ſo,

Since better friend no friend did e’er forego;

A publick Sorrow for this loſs is due,

The Nation ſurely, Madam, mourns with you.

On 51 E2r 51

On the ſame. A Pindarique Ode.


What have I now to hope or fear,

Since Death has taken all that’s dear

In him, who was my joy, my love,

Who rais’d my Paſsion far above

What e’re the blind God’s ſhafts cou’d doe,

Or Nymph or Swain e’er knew:

For Friendſhip do’s our Souls more gently move,

To a Love more laſting, noble, and more true,

Than dwells in all the Amorous Crew;

For Friendſhip’s pure, holy, juſt,

Without canker, ſoil, or ruſt

Of Pride, Covetouſneſs, or Luſt;

It to Ambition makes no room,

Nor can it be by Int’reſt overcome,

But always keeps its proper ſtate,

I’th’ midſt of moſt injurious Fate;

Ev’n Death it ſelf to ’ts Bonds can give no date.

E2 But 52 E2v 52


But O Tyrant! thou

Canſt at one blow

Deſtroy Fruition’s happineſs,

Wherein we Lovers place our bliſs;

For without it, Love’s but an ample theam

Of Imaginary joys,

Thoſe gay-deluding toys,

By which our moſt fix’d thoughts are croſs’d;

Or as one that wakes out of a dream,

Finds all the pleaſing Objects loſt:

Or as Sodom’s beauteous fruit,

Whoſe out-ſide makes a fair pretence,

To gratifie another ſence;

But touch it, and you’ll find how deſtitute

It’s of all good,

Much more unfit for food:

So may our pleaſures make a ſpecious ſhew

To th’ vulgar view;

But his abſence whom I now deplore,

Makes all my Joys but Aſhes at the core.

Ah 53 E3r 53


Ah Death, thou waſt ſevere,

Thus from me to tear,

The Hopes of all my future Happineſs,

The Co-partner of my preſent Bliſs,

The Alleviator of my Care,

The partaker of what ever Fate did ſhare,

To me in my Life’s progreſs;

If bad, he wou’d bear half at leaſt,

Till the Storm was over-blown or ceas’d;

If good, he wou’d augment it to exceſs,

And no leſs joy for me than for himſelf expreſs.


Of my Youth he was the Guide,

All its extravagance with curious eye,

He wou’d ſee and rectify:

And in me he infus’d ſuch humble pride,

As taught me this World’s pleaſures to deride:

He made me know I was above

All that I ſaw or cou’d enjoy,

E3 In 54 E3v 54

In this giddy toy,

Of the whole World’s happineſs:

And yet again this Paradox wou’d prove,

That to my ſelf ſhou’d ſeem leſs,

Than ought I ſaw i’th’ mighty Univerſe.


Nor was his kindneſs only fix’d on me,

For freely he

Did on all friends his Love and Wit diſpence,

As th’ Heavens do their influence;

And likewiſe did no diminution know,

When his Wit he did beſtow,

Amongſt his wond’ring Auditors,

Who cou’d not chuſe where Wit was ſo profound,

And Vertue did ſo much abound,

But to become his faithfull Plauditors:

All which he did receive,

With leſs concern than they could give;

Which proves that Pride his Heart did never touch:

For this he always underſtood,

That beſt Ambition ſtill was ſuch,

As leſs deſir’d to be wiſe than good.

But 55 E4r 55


But thus his Vertues to enumerate,

Serves but my Sorrows to accumulate,

As cyphers in Accompt,

Till the Sum ad infinitum mount;

A Sum which none but Death can calculate;

Which he moſt dext’rouſly can doe,

By ſubſtracting the one Figure form the row;

For one’s but one, if taken from the train

Of Pleaſures, Riches, Honours, Wit:

Nor can a King his Power maintain;

If all theſe cyphers ſhould recede from it.

What matter then what our attendance be,

Whether happineſs or miſerie:

For when the mighty Leveller do’s come,

It ſeems we muſt be all but one,

One in equality.


How ſoon he comes, I need not care,

Who may to me a better fortune ſhare;

E4 For 56 E4v 56

For of all happineſs I here deſpair,

Since he is gone who Animation gave

To all that’s pleaſant to my thoughts, or brave:

Ev’n my Studies he inſpir’d,

With lively vigour, which with him retir’d,

And nought but their Bodies (Books) remain:

For Sorrow do’s their Souls inchain

So faſt, that they can ne’er return again.

Part of the XIX. Psalm.


The Heav’ns declare the Glory of God,

And th’ Firmament doth ſhew

To all Mankind diſpers’d abroad,

What Works his mighty hands can doe:

The ſilent Nights and ſpeechleſs Days,

To each other chant their lays,

Which make a tunefull Serenade,

To 57 E5r 57

To th’ mighty Univerſe;

And find a Language to reherſe

The praiſe of him who them and us has made.


And in them he hath fix’d a place

For the Glorious Sun,

Which comes forth with Bridegroom’s ſtrength and grace,

The Earth his happy Bride t’imbrace.

And as a Gyant do’s rejoyce to run

His courſe, where he is ſure to be

Crown’d with glorious Victory:

For nothing in this World’s circumference,

Can be hid from his bright influence.

Coming 58 E5v 58

Coming from-------in a Dark Night.


Fa/rewell, O Eyes, which I ne’er ſaw before,

And ’tis my int’reſt ne’er to ſee ye more;

Though th’ deprivation of your light,

I’m ſure, will make it doubly Night;

Yet rather I’ll loſe my way i’th’ dark than ſtay,

For here I’m ſure my Soul will loſe her way.


Oh ’tis not dark enough, I wiſh it were,

Some Rays are ſtill on my Eyes Atmoſphere;

Which give ſufficient light, I find,

Still to continue me ſtark blind;

For to Eyes that’s dazl’d with too radiant light,

Darkneſs proves beſt reſtorative o’th’ light.

To 59 E6r 59

To my Dear Couſin Mrs. M. T. after the Death of her Husband and Son.

Dear Coz. I hope by this time you have dry’d,

At leaſt ſet bounds to th’ almoſt boundleſs tide

Of flowing Tears: I’m ſure my wiſh is ſo,

Which Love and Int’reſt does oblige me to;

For you can bear no Sufferings alone,

All yours are mine by participation;

And doubtleſs all your Friends, in ſome degree,

Muſt bear a ſhare, if they can love like me:

Then if not for your own ſake, yet for ours,

And in ſubmiſsion to th’ Eternal Powers,

Not only dry your Eyes, but chear your Brow,

And lend us Joys, and we’ll repay them you.

Rouſe up your Soul, and ſhew your ſelf indu’d

With Mothers Prudence Fathers Fortitiude;

In other Vertues you have equall’d them,

In theſe ſtrive to out-doe your worthy Stem;

For here Ambition can’t exceſsive be,

Neither eſteemed pride or vanity:

(For 60 E6v 60

(For when we to the top of Vertue climb,

We’re ſure in no miſtake, much leſs a crime.)

But by this brave attempt you ſhall ſubdue

Croſs Fate, which otherwiſe wou’d conquer you.

But after all that can be ſaid on this,

I am not ignorant how hard it is

To conquer Paſsions, and our ſelves ſubdue;

Though advis’d by Friends, and aſsiſted too

By the prevailing Powers of Grace from Heav’n,

Still Counſel’s harder to be took than giv’n:

Not that I thought your Griefs profuſe, but knew

Much to a Son, more to a Husband’s due:

Only remember that our Lord has taught,

Thy will be done; therefore we muſt in thought,

As well as words, ſubmit to his intents,

Who can bring good out of the worſt Events;

Whoſe Mercy oft protracts the bad Man’s doom,

And takes the good Man from the ill to come.

To 61 E7r 61

To My Young Lover.

Incautious Youth, why do’ſt thou ſo miſ-place

Thy fine Encomiums on an o’er-blown Face;

Which after all the Varniſh of thy Quill,

Its Priſtine wrinkles ſhew apparent ſtill:

Nor is it in the power of Youth to move

An Age-chill’d heart to any ſtrokes of Love.

Then chuſe ſome budding Beauty, which in time

May crown thy Wiſhes in thy blooming prime:

For nought can make a more prepoſterous ſhow,

Than April Flowers ſtuck on St. Michael’s Bow.

To conſecrate thy firſt-born Sighs to me,

A ſuperannuated Deity;

Makes that Indolatry and deadly Sin,

Which otherwiſe had only Venial been.

To 62 E7v 62

To My Young Lover on His Vow.


Alas, why mad’ſt thou ſuch a Vow,

Which thou wilt never pay,

And promiſe that from very now,

Till everlaſting day?

Thou mean’ſt to love, ſigh, bleed, and dye,

And languiſh out thy breath,

In praiſe of my Divinity,

To th’ minute of thy Death.


Sweet Youth, thou know’ſt not what it is,

To be Love’s Votary;

Where 63 E8r 63

Where thou muſt for the ſmalleſt bliſs,

Kneel, beg, and ſigh, and cry.

Probationer thou ſhould’ſt be firſt,

That thereby thou may’ſt try,

Whether thou can’ſt endure the worſt

Of Love’s auſterity.


For Worlds of Beauties always ſtand

To tempt thy willing Eye,

And Troops of Luſts are at thy hand,

To vanquiſh thee, or dye.

And now this Vow expoſes thee

To th’ third (of all the worſt)

The Devil of inconſtancy,

That Tempter moſt accurs’d.

To 64 E8v 64

To My Young Lover.

A Song.

To praiſe ſweet Youth, do thou forbear,

Where there is no deſert;

For, alas, Encomiums here,

Are Jewels thrown i’th’ dirt.

For I no more deſerve Applauſe,

Now Youth and Beauty’s fled;

Than a Tulip, or a Roſe,

When its fair Leaves are ſhed.

Howe’er I wiſh thy Praiſes may,

Like Prayers to Heaven born;

When holy Souls for Sinners pray,

Their Prayers on them return.

To 65 F1r 65

To my Unkind Friend, Little Tom King.


Well, by experience now I ſee,

This World’s made up of flattery,

Complements and formality;

Since nought but int’reſt now can bind

Ev’n old acquaintance to be kind.

’Twere madneſs then to hope to find

True Friendſhip in the Modern Crew

Of late-contracted Friends.

Hence then acquaintance all adieu,

I can’t oblige my Friendſhip to purſue

Such dull inſipid ends,

As nought but to a Ceremony tends.

Since Friendſhip from old Friends is flown,

Rather than endure the pratlings,

The flatteries and the cenſurings,

F Which 66 F1v 66

Which a Modiſh friendſhip brings,

My penſive Dove ſhall ſit and coo alone.


But perhaps it will be ſaid,

Unlucky Buſineſs has this miſchief made:

Buſineſs, that plauſible excuſe

Of all unkindneſs to a Friend,

That Bankrupt, that ne’er pays Principle nor Uſe,

Of all the Time that e’er we to him lend.

Yet Bus’neſs now’s a Merchant of ſuch Fame,

That he has got the whole Monopoly

Of Time, Love, Friends, and Liberty;

Of which, if there be ſcarcity,

Bus’neſs is to blame;

For nought can vended be, but in his Name.


Since then the World’s ſo much to Bus’neſs prone,

’Tis time that idle I was gone:

Alas, 67 F2r 67

Alas, why do I ſtay,

When that canker bus’neſs ( which I hate)

With Int’reſt is confederate

Eats our pleaſant ſhady Friends away?

We’re left obnoxious to the ſtorms of Fate;

Nay ev’n then the hotteſt Gleams

Of Proſperities brighteſt Beams,

Help but to make us dwindle and decay.

And though we ſtrive our ſelves to ſhade

Under the cloſeſt rules of Conſtancy;

Yet when the Powers of Fate invade,

That too, alas, will ſhake and fade,

And make us ſee,

That though our beſt Ambition ſtrives

To keep a reg’lar harmony:

Yet Fate will ring her Changes on our Lives,

Till diſcordant Death arrives;

Who informs us by his lateſt Knell,

Whether we have made up this World’s Conſort well.

F2 Hence 68 F2v 68


Hence I’ll not murmur then,

Though ſome grow Proud, and others really Great,

Or heap up Riches by deceit,

Since they muſt pay it all again

To Death, who rapaciouſly devours

All, for which we drudge in vain,

And ſell our eaſe for fruitleſs pain:

All which we like miſtaken fools call ours,

Whilſt in ſome lazie Solitude may I

Enjoy my ſelf alone,

Free from this World’s buzzing frantick feuds,

And ſweets and ſtings of Fate’s Viciſsitudes,

Have nothing elſe to do but dye.

I care not who eſteems me as a Drone,

For out o’th’ World ſo ſecretly I’ll ſteal,

That babbling Fame ſhall not the theft reveal;

And when I to my long repoſe am gone,

My deareſt Brother, who is gone before,

Half way will meet me in the Air, or more;

Where 69 F3r 69

Where we’ll be happy in Exceſs,

In Manſions of Eternal bleſsedneſs.

Yet if there can be

Any allay of this felicity;

It will be this, when he ſhall find,

That I no other news can bring,

From his Old Friend, my Little King,

But that he was unkind.

F3 A Second 70 F3v 70

A Second Epistle. To my Honoured Friend Mr. E. S.


Oft has my Muſe and I fall’n out,

And I as oft have baniſh’d her my Breaſt;

But ſuch, alas, ſtill was her intereſt,

And ſtill to bring her purpoſes about:

So great her cunning in inſinuation,

That ſhe ſoon gain’d her wiſh’d-for reſtoration:

But when I found this wou’d not do,

A Violent Death I put her to.

But ſee, my Friend, how your All-pow’rfull Pen

(O Miracle!) has rais’d her from the Dead again.

And 71 F4r 71


And now, alas, what can ſhe doe,

Or ſpeak or ſhew,

How very much ſhe is oblig’d to you?

For where the Boon’s ſo great, it were a rude

Preſumption to pretend to Gratitude;

And a mad project to contrive to give

To you, from whom ſhe do’s her All receive:

Yet if ſhe Traffick on your Stock, and thrive,

’Tis fit, how e’er the Principal be ſpent,

To pay the Int’reſt of Acknowledgment.


And with her I muſt acknowledge too,

The honour which you did on me beſtow,

Though I unworthy were of it:

Not but your Judgment knew well how to chuſe

A worthier Subject than my Muſe,

To exerciſe th’ Exu’brance of your Wit;

F4 But 72 F4v 72

But that your Goodneſs over all preſides,

And nobly in Triumph rides;

Whilſt other Vertues march in Troops behind,

Friendſhip do’s the Chariot guide,

Which may perhaps run too much of one ſide:

Friendſhip, as well as Love, ſometimes is blind;

And that ſhe may be always ſo,

My Prayers ſhall ever tend,

’Cauſe I no other Title have to ſhow,

Or tenure to the love of any Friend.

A Pa- 73 F5r 73

A Pastoral Dialogue Betwixt Two Shepherd Boys.

1 Boy.

I Wonder what Alexis ails,

To ſigh and talk of Darts,

Of Charms which o’er his Soul prevails,

Of Flames and bleeding Hearts:

I ſaw him yeſterday alone,

Walk croſsing of his Arms;

And Cuckow like was in a tone,

Ah Cælia, ah thy charms!

2 Boy.

Why ſure thou’rt not ſo ignorant,

As thou would’ſt ſeem to be;

Alas the cauſe of his complaint,

Is all our deſtiny.

’Tis 74 F5v 74

’Tis mighty Love’s All-pow’rfull Bow,

Which has Alexis hit;

A pow’rfull Shaft will hit us too,

E’er we’re aware of it.

1 Boy.

Love, why, alas, I little thought

There had been ſuch a thing;

Only for Rhime it had been brought,

When Shepherds uſe to Sing.

I’m ſure, what e’re they talk of Love,

’Tis but conceit at moſt;

As Fear i’th’ dark our fancies move,

To think we ſee a Ghoſt.

2 Boy.

I know not, but the other day,

A wanton Girl there were,

Who took my Stock-Dove’s Eggs away,

And Black-birds Neſt did tear.

Had it been thee, my deareſt Boy,

Revenge I ſhou’d have took;

But ſhe my Anger did deſtroy,

With th’ ſweetneſs of her Look.

I Boy. So 75 F6r 75

I Boy.

So t’other day a wanton Slut,

As I ſlept on the Ground,

A Frog into my Boſom put,

My Hands and Feet ſhe bound:

She hung my Hook upon a Tree,

Then laughing, bad me wake;

And though ſhe thus abuſed me,

Revenge I cannot take.


Let’s wiſh theſe Overtures of State,

Don’t fatal Omens prove;

For thoſe who loſe the Power to hate,

Are ſoon made ſlaves to Love.

To 76 F6v 76

To Mr C. B. On His Incomparable Singing.

The Honour that the Air receives

From thy Melodious Voice,

Sure makes it grieve it cannot give

More Echoes to the noiſe.

Whilſt Atoms joyfully advance,

In happy Conſort they

Do in a nimble careleſs Dance,

Thy charming Notes obey.

Birds have been ſaid to fall down dead

At th’ ſhouting of a throng;

Had’ſt thou been there, it had been ſaid,

Thou’dſt rais’d ’em with a Song.

If 77 F7r 77

If th’ Mind upon the Body works

By ſecret Sympathies;

Who knows what in thy Muſick lurks,

To cure all Maladies.

If Fate this Phyſick ſhou’d prefer,

Thy Practice is decreed;

All London and Montpelier,

Phyſicians ſhall exceed.

Hence forward then let Poets Sing

No more of Orpheus;

Since we have one, whoſe Voice may bring

Health to attend on us.

The 78 F7v 78

The Complaint.


How oft, ah wretch, haſt thou profuſely ſwore

Me, as the Gods thou did’ſt adore;

And that my Words ſhou’d be to thee,

As of Divine Authority:

In this my Power exveeded theirs,

To me thou ne’er did’ſt wander in thy Prayers.


And oft thou prayeſt, bathed in thy Tears,

Drop’d from the clouds of loving fears;

And on my Hand thy Faith confeſs,

And after that beg for redreſs;

Whilſt on the Altar of my lip,

For Sacrifice, let no occaſion ſlip.

But 79 F8r 79


But now thou’rt grown prophane Atheiſtical,

Not chang’d thy Faith, but caſt off all:

So Sacrilegious too thou art,

Thou’rt not content to rob in part,

To bear my Rites (thy Vows) away;

But by thy cruelty thou do’ſt aſsay

To bring the beauteous Fabrick to decay.

A Song in Scipina.

In vain do’s Nature her free gifts beſtow,

To make us wiſe or fair;

If Fortune don’t her Favours ſhow,

Scorn’d or neglected we may go,

Not worth a Look, much leſs a Lover’s care.

Or 80 F8v 80

Or if we ſhou’d ſome pitying Eyes command,

Or thoſe of admiration;

So unendow’d fair Structures ſtand,

Admir’d; but not one helping hand

Will reſcue them from Time’s dilapidation.

Then ſurely vain it is for me to ſtrive

With native Charms or Art:

For Beauty may as well ſurvive

Her Climacterick Twenty-five,

As without Wealth to get or keep a Heart.

A Song. 81 G1r 81

A Song.


The Heart you left, when you took mine,

Proves ſuch a buſie Gueſt;

Unleſs I do all Pow’r reſign,

It will not let me reſt

It my whole Family diſturbs,

Turns all my Thoughts away;

My ſtouteſt Reſolutions curbs,

Makes Judgment too obey.

If Reaſon interpoſe her Pow’r,

Alas, ſo weak ſhe is;

She’s check’d with one ſmall ſoft Amour,

And conquer’d with a Kiſs.

G A Song 82 G1v 82

A Song.

Give o’er my Fidelius, my Fidelius give o’er,

Since Menælus your Father diſlikes our Amour,

In ſilence let us our misfortunes deplore.

Not that his fair Flocks or green Paſtures ſo wide,

He will betwixt Sylvia and Damon divide,

But that duty forbids thee to make me thy Bride.

And if for our duty we ſuffer well here,

Heav’n ſhall for ſuch Lovers choice Bleſsings prepare,

Honey-moon ſhall eternally wait on us there.

A Song. 83 G2r 83

A Song.


As Am’rous Corydon was laid

I’th’ ſhady Myrtle Grove;

Thus did his Words his Sighs upbraid,

For telling of his Love.

Ah Trayterous Rebels, without ſence,

Of what her Scorn can doe;

’Tis I muſt dye for your offence,

And be thought guilty too.


Nor can I blame ill Fate, for this

My wretched hopeleſs ſtate;

Nor yet Philena’s Cruelties,

Who kills me with her hate.

But your audacious Villanies

Occaſions this my fall;

Elſe I had dy’d a Sacrifice,

But now a Criminal.

G2 A Bacha- 84 G2r 84

A Bachanalian Song.

Troy had a Breed of brave ſtout Men,

Yet Greece made ſhift to rout her;

’Cauſe each Man drank as much as Ten,

And thence grew Ten times ſtouter.

Though Hector was a Trojan true,

As ever Piſs’d ’gen Wall, Sir;

Achilles bang’d him black and blue,

For he drank more than all, Sir.

Let Bacchus be our God of War,

We ſhall fear nothing then, Boys;

We’ll drink all dead, and lay ’em to bed;

And if they wake not conquered,

We’ll drink ’em dead again, Boys.

Nor 85 G3r 85

Nor were the Græcians only fam’d

For Drinking, and for Fighting;

But he that drank, and wan’t aſham’d,

Was ne’er aſham’d on’s Writing.

He that will be a Souldier then,

Or Witt, muſt drink good Liquor;

It makes baſe Cowards fight like Men,

And roving Thoughts fly quicker.

Let Bacchus be both God of War,

And God of Wit, and then, Boys,

We’ll drink and fight, and drink and write;

And if the Sun ſet with his light,

We’ll drink him up again, Boys.

G3 An 86 G3v 86

An Ode.

I’ve often thought, but ne’er till now cou’d find

Why Heroes ſo much ſtrove,

Their Greatneſs to improve;

’Tis only this, that Women might be kind,

And anſwer Love with Love.

Fortune no Goddeſs is, but for their ſake;

Alas! ſhe can’t be preſt,

Nor kiſs’d, nor do the reſt:

Riches and ſhe, of which Men ſo much make,

Are only Pimps at beſt

One this way ſtalks, another that to’s game;

One’s brave, this Hector’s high,

This pretends Piety:

But I’m deceiv’d if Woman ben’t their aim,

Still Woman’s in their Eye.

Scepters 87 G4r 87

Scepters and Crowns were ſilly trifling things;

’Twou’d be but poor repaſt,

To pleaſe the ſight and taſt,

But that they make Men abſolutely Kings,

And Kings chuſe Queens at laſt

Abſence for a Time.

I Dread this tedious Time more than

A Fop to miſs a Faſhion,

Or the Pope’s Head Tavern can

Dread the long Vacation.

This time’s as troubleſome to me,

As th’ Town when Mony’s ſpent;

Grave Lectures to a Debauchee,

Or Whigs to th’ Government.

G4 Methinks 88 G4v 88

Methinks I almoſt wiſh ’twas torn

Out of the Rolls of Fate;

Or that ſome Pow’r, till his return,

Wou’d me annihilate.

But I, alas, muſt be content,

Upon neceſsity;

Since him, untill this time ſpent,

I cannot hope to ſee.

No more than we can hope to have

The Life of perfect bliſs,

Till by Afflictions, and the Grave,

We’re ſeparate from this.

Parting 89 G5r 89

Parting with ———

Although thou now put’ſt me in a doubt,

By going I know not where:

Yet know my Soul will beat about,

Not reſt till ſhe have found thee out,

And tend upon thee there.

Look to your actions then, for ſhe

So ſtrict a watch will keep;

That if you give one thought from me,

She’ll ſwear it is flat Felony,

Though’t be when you’re aſleep.

But if a ſigh, or glance, or ſmile

Shou’d to my Rival ’ſcape,

She’d cry out Robbery and ſpoil;

But if a kiſs thy Lips ſhou’d ſoil,

Then Murther and a Rape.

All 90 G5v 90

All this a Metaphor may ſeem,

Or mad Philoſophy

To the unthinking World, who deem

That but a fancy or a dream,

Which Souls do really hear and ſee.

The 91 G6r 91

The Anchorite in Scipina.

Ah, happy are we Anchorites that know

Not Womens Ebbs, nor when their Love will flow.

We know no Storms that rage in Womens Breaſts,

But here in quiet build our Halcyon Neſts;

Where no deceitfull Calm our Faith beguiles,

No cruel frowns, nor yet more cruel ſmiles,

No riſing Wave of Fate our hopes advance;

Nor fear we fathomleſs deſpair of Chance;

But our ſtrong Minds, like Rocks, their firmneſs prove,

Defying both the Storms of Fate and Love.

Jane, 92 G6v 92

Jane, Nan, and Frank, their Farewell to Captain C. going to Sea.


Since thou wilt needs go

To Sea, God knows whether,

We wiſh thee good Company,

Good Wine and good Weather;

The beſt of Sea-Cates we wiſh for thy Diet,

And, if it were poſsible, good Sea-men and quiet;

And on every Strand,

Where e’er thou ſhalt land,

We wiſh there may be

Girls buxom and free,

To bid thee a thouſand kind welcoms from Sea.


And the worſt Enemy,

E’er thou may’ſt meet,

May 93 G7r 93

May be a ſmall ſtragler

I’th’ ſeam of thy Sheet:

To which let no Sickneſs thee ever confine,

But what comes by drinking our Healths in choice wine;

And on every Strand,

Where e’re thou ſhalt land,

We wiſh thou may’ſt find

True Topers o’th’ kind,

That can turn off Jane, Nan, and Frank in a Wind.

To 94 G7v 94

To Her Lovers Complaint.

A Song.


If you complain your Flames are hot,

’Tis ’cauſe they are impure,

For ſtrongeſt Spirits ſcorch us not,

Their Flames we can endure.


Love, like Zeal, ſhou’d be divine,

And ardent as the ſame;

Like Stars, which in cold Weather ſhine,

Or like a Lambent Flame.


It ſhou’d be like the Morning Rays,

Which quickens, but not burns;

Or th’ innocence of Childrens plays,

Or Lamps in Antient Urns.

To 95 G8r 95

To My Adopted Brother, Mr.G. P.

On my frequent Writing to Him.

Dear Brother, You will think that now,

Epiſtles grow on every Bow,

O’th’ multitude of Shin-gay Trees,

And ſo drop off like Soland Geeſe.

In this the Analogie holds forth,

They are produc’d of airy froth;

But how they’ll anſwer in the reſt,

Without conjuring, may be gueſs’d:

For when you find they want the heat

Of Wit and Sence to make them meat;

And that the inſide’s only down,

Soft as the ſcope they grew upon:

You’ll curſe the Winds officious wings,

Becauſe to you no good it brings;

And 96 G8v 96

And ſwear the Proverb’s now revers’d,

Which ſo oft has been rehers’d:

For now it muſt be underſtood,

It’s happy Wind blows any good;

But thank your ſelf for ſo being ſerv’d,

And praiſe no more where ’ts not deſerv’d:

For praiſe, the Gad-fly of the mind,

To pure deſert ſhou’d be confin’d,

Leſt it ſet it Cock-a-hoop,

And make it run with Tail turn’d up,

Through the Woods, and o’er the Downs,

Through Cities, Villages, and Towns;

And plague both genteel Fops and Rabble,

With its Nonſence, Rhime and Babble,

Till by its follies they are urged,

To ſend it home ſeverely ſcourged,

With the keeneſt Whips of Scoffing,

Damming, Cenſuring and Laughing.

Then prithee, George, prevent this wretched Fate,

And all their damning Cenſures antedate.

To 95 H1r 95

To my Friends againſt Poetry.

Dear Friends, if you’ll be rul’d by me,

Beware o’th’ Charms of Poetry;

And meddle with no fawning Muſe,

They’ll but your harmleſs Loves abuſe.

Though to Orinda they were ty’d,

That nought their Friendſhip cou’d divide;

And Cowley’s Miſtriſs had a Flame

As pure and laſting as his Fame:

Yet now they’re all grown Proſtitutes,

And wantonly admit the Suits

Of any Fop, that will pretend

To be their Servant or their Friend.

Though they to Wit no Homage pay,

Nor yet the Laws of Verſe obey,

But ride poor Six-foot out of breath,

And wrack a Metaphor to death;

Who make their Verſe imbibe the crimes,

And the lewd Follies too o’th’ times;

Who think all Wit conſiſts in Ranting,

And Vertuous Love in wiſe Gallanting:

H And 96 H1v 96

And Thouſand ſorts of Fools, like theſe,

Make Love and Vertue what they pleaſe:

And yet as ſilly as they ſhow,

Are Favourites o’th’ Muſes now.

Who then would honour ſuch a Shee,

Where Fools their happier Rivals be?

We, ſurely, may conclude there’s none,

Unleſs they’re drunk with Helicon,

Which is a Liquor that can make

A Dunce ſet up for Rhiming Quack:

A Liquor of ſo ſtrange a temper,

As can our Faculties all hamper;

That whoſo drinks thereof is curs’d

Unto a conſtant Rhiming thirſt;

I know not by what ſpell of Witch,

It ſtrikes the Mind into an itch;

Which being ſcrub’d by praiſe, thereby

Becomes a ſpreading Leproſie;

As hard to cure as Dice or Whore,

And makes the Patient too as poor;

For Poverty’s the certain Fate

Which attends a Poet’s ſtate.

To 97 H2r 97

To the Importunate Address of Poetry.

Kind Friend, I prithee ceaſe t’infeſt

This barren Region of my Breaſt,

Which never can a Harveſt yield,

Since Sorrow has o’er-grown the Field.

If Int’reſt won’t oblige thee to’t,

At leaſt let Honour make thee do’t;

’Cauſe I ungratefully have choſe

Such Friends, as will thy Charms oppoſe.

But nought I ſee will drive thee hence,

Grief, Bus’neſs, nor Impertinence:

Still, ſtill thou wilt thy Joys obtrude

Upon a Mind ſo wholly rude,

As can’t afford to entertain

Thee with the welcom of one ſtrain:

Few Friends, like thee, will be ſo kind,

To come where Int’reſt do’s not bind:

H2 Nay 98 H2v 98

Nay ſome, becauſe they want excuſe

To be unkind, will feign abuſe.

But thou, kind Friend, art none of thoſe,

Thy Charms thou always do’ſt oppoſe

’Gainſt all Inquietudes o’th’ Mind:

If I’m diſpleas’d, ſtill thou art kind;

And by thy Spells do’ſt drive away

Dull Spirits, which with me wou’d ſtay;

And fill’ſt their empty places too

With Thoughts of what we ought to doe.

Thoughts to the Soul, if they be good,

Are both its phyſick and its food:

They fortifie it in diſtreſs,

In joy th’ augment its happineſs:

Thoughts attend us at all times,

They urge us to do good deeds, and crimes:

They do aſsiſt us in all ſtates,

To th’ Wretched they’re Aſsociates.

And what’s more ſtrange than all before,

They’re Servants to the innocent and poor;

But to the Rich and Wicked, Lords or ſomething more

A Fare- 99 H3r 99

A Farewell to Poetry, With A Long Digreſsion on Anatomy.

Farewell, my gentle Friend, kind Poetry,

For we no longer muſt Acquaintance be;

Though ſweet and charming to me as thou art,

Yet I muſt diſpoſseſs thee of my Heart.

On new Acquaintance now I muſt diſpence

What I receiv’d from thy (a) Having learned Latin by reading the Latin Poets. bright influence.

Wiſe Ariſtotle and Hippocrates,

Galen, and the moſt Wiſe Socrates;

Æſculapius, whom firſt I ſhould have nam’d,

And all Apollo’s younger brood ſo fam’d,

Are they with whom I muſt Acquaintance make,

Who will, no doubt, receive me for the ſake

Of Him (b), My Brother. from whom they did expect to ſee

New Lights to ſearch Nature’s obſcurity.

H3 Now 100 H3v 100

Now, Bartholine, the firſt of all this Crew,

Does to me Nature’s Architecture ſhew;

He tells me how th’ Foundation firſt is laid

Of Earth; how Pillars of ſtrong Bones are made;

How th’ Walls conſiſt of carneous parts within,

The out-ſide pinguid, over-laid with Skin;

The Fretwork, Muſcles, Arteries, and Veins,

With their Implexures, and how from the Brains

The Nerves deſcend; and how they do diſpence

To ev’ry Member, Motive Pow’r and Sence;

He ſhews what Windows in this Structure’s fix’d,

How tribly Glaz’d,(c) The Three Humours of the Eye, and its ſeveral Tunicks and Curtains drawn betwixt

Them and Earths objects; all which proves in vain

To keep out Luſt, and Innocence retain:

For ’twas the Eye that firſt diſcern’d the food,

As pleaſing to it ſelf, then thought it good

To eat, as b’ing inform’d it wou’d refine

The half-wiſe Soul, and make it all Divine.

But ah, how dearly Wiſdom’s bought with Sin,

Which ſhuts out Grace, lets Death and Darkneſs in!

And 101 H4r 101

And becauſe we precipitated firſt,

To Pains and Ignorance are moſt accurs’d;

Ev’n by our Counter-parts, who that they may

Exalt themſelves, inſultingly will ſay,

Women know little, and they practiſe leſs;

But Pride and Sloth they glory to profeſs.

But as we were expatiating thus,

Walæus and Harvey cry’d, Madam, follow us,

They brought me to the firſt and largeſt (d) Ad infimum ventrem. Court

Of all this Building, where as to a Port,

All neceſsaries are brought from far,

For ſuſtentation both in Peace and War:

For War this Common-wealth do’s oft infeſt,

Which pillages this part, and ſtorms the reſt

We view’d the Kitchin call’d (e) Morbi in infimo ventre, Diarrhœa, $c. Ventriculus,

Then paſs’d we through the ſpace call’d Pylorus;

And to the Dining-Room we came at laſt,

Where the (f) Venæ Lactea. Lactæans take their ſweet repaſt.

From thence we through a Drawing-room did paſs,

And came where Madam Jecur buſie was;

H4 Sangui- 102 H4v 102

Sanguificating(g) Secundem Opinionem Galiniſt contra receptaculum commune. the whole Maſs of Chyle,

And ſevering the Cruoral parts from bile:

And when ſhe’s made it tolerably good,

She pours it forth to mix with other Blood.

This and much more we ſaw, from thence we went

Into the next Court, (h) Per Diaphragma. by a ſmall aſcent:

Bleſs me, ſaid I, what Rarities are here!

A Fountain like a Furnace did appear,

Still boyling o’er, and running out ſo faſt,

That one ſhou’d think its Efflux cou’d not laſt;

Yet it ſuſtain’d no loſs as I cou’d ſee,

Which made me think it a ſtrange Prodigie.

Come on, ſays Harvey, don’t ſtand gazing here,

But follow me, and I thy doubts will clear.

Then we began our Journey with the Blood,

Trac’d the Meanders of its Purple flood.

Thus we through many Labyrinths did paſs,

In ſuch, I’m ſure, Old Dædelus ne’er was;

Sometimes i’th’ Out-works, ſometimes i’th’ firſt Court;

Sometimes i’th’ third theſe winding ſtreams wou’d ſport

Them- 103 H5r 103

Themſelves; but here methought I needs muſt ſtay,

And liſten next to what the Artiſts ſay:

Here’s Cavities, ſays one; and here, ſays he,

Is th’ Seat of Fancy, Judgment, Memory:

Here, ſays another, is the fertile Womb,

From whence the Spirits Animal do come,

Which are myſteriouſly ingender’d here,

Of Spirits from Arterious Blood and Air:

Here, ſaid a third, Life made her firſt approach,

Moving the Wheels of her Triumphant Coach:

Hold there, ſaid Harvey, that muſt be deny’d,

’Twas in the deaf Ear on the dexter ſide.

Then there aroſe a trivial ſmall diſpute,

Which he by Fact and Reaſon did confute:

Which being ended, we began again

Our former Journey, and forſook the Brain.

And after ſome ſmall Traverſes about,

We came to th’ place where we at firſt ſet out:

Then I perceiv’d how all this Magick ſtood

By th’ Circles of the circulating Blood,

As Fountains have their Waters from the Sea,

To which again they do themſelves conveigh.

But 104 H5v 104

But here we find great Lower by his Art,

Surveying the whole (i) De cordia Structura. Structure of the Heart:

Welcome, ſaid he, ſweet Couſin, are you here,

Siſter to him (k) My deceaſed Brother. whoſe Worth we all revere?

But ah, alas, ſo cruel was his Fate,

As makes us ſince almoſt our Practice hate;

Since we cou’d find out nought in all our Art,

That cou’d prolong the motion (l) De Motu Cordis. of his Heart.


But now, my Dear, thou know’ſt more than Art can,

Thou know’ſt the ſubſtance of the Soul of Man;

Nay and its Maker too, whoſe Pow’rfull breath

Gave Immortality to ſordid Earth.

What Joys, my Dear, do Thee ſurround,

As no where elſe are to be found,

Love, Muſick, Phyſick, Poetry;

And in each Art each Artiſt do’s abound,

And all’s converted to Divinity.

No H6r 105


No drooping Autumn there,

No chilling Winter do’s appear;

No ſcorching Heat, nor budding Spring,

Nor Sun do’s Seaſons there divide,

Yet all things do tranſcend their native pride;

Which fills, but do’s not nauſeate,

No change or want of any thing,

Which time to periods or perfection brings;

But yet diverſity of ſtate,

And of Souls happineſs there is no date.


Should’ſt thou, my Dear, look down on us below,

To ſee how buſie we

Are in Anatomie,

Thoud’ſt laugh to ſee our Ignorance;

Who ſome things miſs, & ſome things hit by chance,

For we, at beſt, do but in twilight go,

Whilſt thou ſee’ſt all by th’ moſt Tranſcendent light,

Compar’d to which the Sun’s bright Rays are night:

Yet 106 H6v 106

Yet ſo Cœleſtial are thine Eyes,

That Light can neither dazzle nor ſurprize;

For all things there

So perfect are,

And freely they their qualities diſpence,

Without the mixture of Terreſtrial droſs,

Without hazard, harm or loſs;

O joys Eternal ſatiating Sence,

And yet the Sence the ſmalleſt part in groſs.

On 107 H7r 107

On the Death of my Brother.

A Sonnet.


Ask me not why the Roſe doth fade,

Lillies look pale, and Flowers dye;

Queſtion not why the Myrtle ſhade

Her wonted ſhadows doth deny.


Seek not to know from whence begun

The ſadneſs of the Nightingale:

Nor why the Heliotrope and Sun,

Their conſtant Amity do fail.


The Turtles grief look not upon,

Nor reaſon why the Palm-trees mourn;

When, Widow-like, they’re left alone,

Nor Phœnix why her ſelf doth burn.


For ſince He’s dead, which Life did give

To all theſe things, which here I name;

They fade, change, wither, ceaſe to live,

Pine and conſume into a Flame.

Reſolved H7v 108

Reſolved never to Verſifie more.

Fear not, my Friends, you ever more ſhall ſee

The folly of a Verſe from me;

For howſoe’er my inclinations drive,

Yet in this Town they will not thrive;

At beſt but blaſted, wither’d Rhimes they are,

Such as appear in Smithfield once a year.


No more than Beauty, without Wealth, can move

A Gallants heart to ſtrokes of Love;

Than fair perſwaſions, without ſtripes, reduce

The Birds of Bridewell, or of Stews;

Than Gypſies without Money can foreſhow,

No more can Verſe in London grow.


Verſe is th’ tender’ſt Plant i’th’ Field of Wit,

No Storm muſt ever blow o’er it;

A very 109 H8r 109

A very Noli-me-tangere it is,

It ſhrivels with the touch of buſineſs;

But, Heliotropian like, it ſeeks the gleams

Of Quietudes reviving Beams.

How ſhou’d it then endure this irkſome ſhade,

Which is by noiſe of Plots and Bus’neſs made?

110 H8v 111 Aa1r


or, the
Second Part

Compos’d by ſeveral Authors.

—Non, ubi plura nitent in carmine, paucis Offendi maculis, quas aut incuria fudit Aut humana parum cavit Natura.— Hor.

London, Printed for Benjamin Crayle, at the Peacock
and Bible
, at the Weſt-end of St. Pauls. 16881688.

112 Aa1v 113 Aa2r
Miscel- 119 Bb1r [I]

Miscellany Poems. Part II.

Written by ſeveral Authors.

A Paraphraſe on an Hymn Sung when the Corps is at the Grave.

By T.S. Fellow of Maudlin-Colledge, Oxon.


How full of Troubles is the Life of Man!

Vain like a bubble, ſhorter than a ſpan;

He ſprings and bloſsoms as an early Flower,

Whoſe ſilken Leaves the Froſts and Snow devour:

He, like the fleeting Shadow, haſtes away,

Unable to continue in one ſtay;

It diſappears, and can’t ſurvive the day.

Bb The 120 Bb1v 2


The Noon-tide of our Life is plac’d in Death,

We’re not ſecure of one light puff of Breath;

To whom, O God, can we for ſuccour fly,

But unto thee, by whom we live and dye?

’Tis for our Sins thou doſt employ this Sting,

Thou juſtly angry art, our God and King,

But takeſt no delight in puniſhing.


O Holy, Mighty Lord and Saviour,

Declare thy ſignal Mercies, and thy Pow’r;

Condemn us not unto the pains of Hell,

Where Horror reigns, and endleſs Torments dwell;

From whence no ranſom ever can be made,

Since we our bleſs’d Redeemer have betray’d,

And both his Will and Laws have diſobey’d.


Thou know’ſt the ſecret Cloſet of our Hearts,

Thy divine Preſence fills our ſecret parts;

Therefore be mercifull unto our Pray’r,

Moſt worthy Judge, thy wretched People ſpare.

For 121 Bb2r 3

Forſake us not when on our Death-beds thrown,

Leſt through deſpair we deeply ſigh and groan,

And Hell grow proud of the Dominion.

Advice to his Friends, lamenting the Death of J.F.

By the ſame Hand.

Riſe and rejoyce all ye that Mourn,

Dry ev’ry Eye that weeps;

The Body in this hollow Urn,

Is not quite dead, but ſleeps.

See how the Leaves in Autumns falling Dew

Forſake the weeping Tree;

And how the jocund Spring renews

With Buds their infancie.

What though the Root lye under-ground,

The Boughs to Heav’n aſpire;

Thus Bodies in the Grave are found,

The Souls are mounted higher.

Bb2 Hark! 122 Bb2v 4

Hark! hark! I hear the Trumpet’s Voice

Cry, Come ye Bleſsed, come;

Methinks I hear our Friend rejoyce,

That he is Summon’d home.

Now Droniſh Death hath loſt her Sting,

The Grave her Victorie;

For Chriſt in Triumph rides as King

Of this great Jubilee.

Ariſe, my Friends, and wipe your Eyes,

Salvation’s drawing nigh;

Let’s live to dye, and dye to riſe,

T’enjoy Eternity.


Epi- 123 Bb3r 5

Epitaph on Mrs. E.F. who ſickned of the Small Pox, and Deceaſed 1686-12-31December the 31ſt 1686. being the Day before her intended Nuptials.

This fair young Virgin, for a Nuptial Bed

More fit, is lodg’d (ſad Fate!) among the Dead;

Storm’d by rough Winds, ſo falls in all her pride

The full-blown Roſe deſign’d t’ adorn a Bride.

Truth is, this lovely Virgin from her Birth,

Became a conſtant ſtrife ’twixt Heav’n and Earth.

Earth claim’d her, pleaded for her; either cry’d

The Nymph is mine; at length they did divide;

Heav’n took her Soul, the Earth her Corps did ſeize,

Yet not in Fee, ſhe only holds by Leaſe,

With this proviſo; When the Judge ſhall call,

Earth ſhall give up her ſhare, and Heav’n have all.

Bb3 An 124 Bb3v 6

An Epitaph to the Memory (and fix’t on the Tomb) of Sir Palme Fairborn, Governour of Tangier, who, in Execution of his Command, was Mortally Wounded by a Shot from the Moors, what then beſieged the Town, 1680-10-24Octob. 24. 1680.

Ye Sacred Reliques, which this Marble keep,

Here, undiſturb’d by Wars, in quiet ſleep:

Diſcharge the Truſt, which when it was below,

Fairborn’s undaunted Soul did undergo,

And be the Towns Palladium from the Foe.

Alive and dead he willt heſe Walls defend,

Great Actions, Great Examples muſt attend.

The Candian Siege his early Valour knew,

Where Turkiſh Blood did his young hands embrew

From thence returning with deſerv’d applauſe,

Againſt the Moors, his well-fleſh’d Sword he draws,

The ſame the Courage, and the ſame the Cauſe.

His Youth and Age, his Life and Death combine,

As in ſome great and regular deſign,

All of a piece throughout, and all Divine.

Still 125 Bb4r 7

Still nearer Heav’n his Vertues ſhone more bright,

Like riſing Flames expanding in the height,

The Martyrs Glory crown’d the Souldiers Fight

More bravely Brittiſh Gen’ral never fell,

Nor Gen’rals Death was e’er reveng’d ſo well;

Which his pleas’d Eyes beheld before their cloſe,

Follow’d by Thouſand Victims of his Foes.

An Elegy on the Death of N.D. Doctor of Phyſick.

By J.C.

What, will my Mourning yet no period find!

Muſt ſighs & ſorrow ſtill diſtract my Mind?

My Senſe grows feeble, and my Reaſon’s gone,

Paſsion and Diſcontent uſurp the Throne.

With blubber’d Eyes my veiled ſight grows dim;

Ah, cruel Death, cou’d you find none but him

To gratifie your hungry Jaws withall;

Or, if in haſte, none but a Doctor’s fall?

Bb4 Howe’er 126 Bb4v 8

Howe’er, you might forbore your ſtroke a while;

But poſsibly you thought, he might beguile

Your craving Appetite of many more,

Which you expected to ſtrike long before.

But ſure my Mind’s diſturb’d, my Paſsions rave,

To cenſure Death, and quarrel with the Grave.

Alas, he’s bound, the blow he cannot give,

Till his Commiſsion ſhews we muſt not live.

Yet hence we learn, and may this inf’rence make,

That if Phyſicians Souls their Journey take hours,

Into a diſtant Climate, well may Ours:

Then with what care ought we to ſpend thoſe

Or rather few remaining Sands, which are

In ſo much Bounty tender’d to our care?

The pureſt Druggs, compos’d with greateſt Skill,

Can’t preſerve Life, when Death has pow’r to kill:

Peaſant and Prince are both to him alike,

And with an equal blow doth either ſtrike.

All muſt ſurrender when his Arm is ſtrech’t.

But oh! I wander from my Virtuous Friend;

’Tis true indeed he’s dead, but yet no end

Can 127 Bb5r 9

Can e’er obſcure or hide his Honour’d Name,

For o’er the World the Golden Wings of Fame

Shall ſpread his praiſe, and to his Friends proclaim,

That whilſt alive, His Soul was always dreſt

With Robes of Innocence; the peacefull Gueſt

Of a good Conſcience, ever fill’d his Breaſt

His ſmiling Countenance abroad wou’d ſend

His hearty Wiſhes to his real Friend;

His Words were few, but of important weight,

Mix’d with no ſtains of flatt’ry, or deceit.

Too much in’s way his Library has ſtood,

Himſelf he minded not for others good.

’Tis ſtrange! to think he ſhou’d himſelf neglect,

Whoſe ſtudy ’twas to cure what e’er defect

Nature might fall into; yet this he did:

In ſhort, his Worth, though ſmother’d, can’t be hid.

To ſound his Praiſe may th’ utmoſt Skill ingage,

Since that he dy’d the Wonder of his Age.

Well may his friends then, and acquaintance weep,

When ſuch a brave Phyſician’s fall’n aſleep.

Upon 128 Bb5v 10

Upon Heaven.

Oh thou Theanthropos! who did’ſt contain

In one joint Body here both God and man;

And thou who’rt Alpha and Omega ſtill,

To blazon forth thy Courts, aſsiſt my Quill;

Inlarge my Fancy, and tranſport my Mind,

Above the common pitch of Humane kind.

Oh repreſent and ſpread before my Muſe

One glimpſe of Heav’ns great light, which when ſhe views,

May make her ſoar in Raptures, and make known

The glorious Seat of Heav’ns triumphant Throne.

But firſt, before my Tongue begins to ſpeak

Such unknown joys, which no Man yet cou’d make

A true deſcription of (though Poets have

Feign’d an Elyziums bliſs beyond the Grave)

I crave thy pardon for my bold attempt,

In ſhowing Senſe waht here for Faith was meant,

Like the bright Amathyſt and Onyx Stone,

This glorious Fabrick is erected on;

The 129 Bb6r [II]

The entrance Gates of this great Court excell

The moſt Magnificent and Orient Pearl;

Brighter than burniſh’t Gold her Walls appear;

Of ſpangled Stars her Floor and Pavements are;

Her high-built Pillars from the dazling ground,

Look as beſet all o’er with Diamond;

Like pureſt Sardonyx her Roof do’s ſhow,

Whilſt as green Emeralds are ſpread below

The bluſhing Ruby, and the glitt’ring Saphir,

Mix’t with bright Chryſolites, and Stones of jaſper,

Make but a poor Reſemblance of this light,

Whoſe gilt and radiant Beams appear too bright;

For ought of humane Race to view or ſee,

Unleſs transform’d to Immortalitie.

Thouſands of Angels guard the outward Gate

From th’ utmoſt ſpleen and rage of Devil’s hate;

Who keep this Palace from or Siege or Storm,

For all thoſe Martyrs, who have bravely born

With an undaunted patience th’ utmoſt Ill,

That Men or Devils could bethink or will;

But when once paſt from th’ outward Gates, you’ll ſpy

Millions of Angels bleſs’d Eternally;

Alſo 130 Bb6v 12

Alſo Illuſtrious Cherubs, Seraphins,

Clapping their gilded and rejoycing Wings;

Numbers unnumbred of the Saints in light,

Singing their Hymns to God both day and night;

There nought but ſimple Love and Reſt abide,

All worldly Grief and Cares are laid aſide;

Freed from all croſs Events, and ſlaviſh Fear,

In Joy and Peace they live for ever there.

On the Martyrdom of King Charles the Firſt

The crimſon Theam on which I now do treat,

Is not unregiſtred, or out of date;

No, it’s wrote deep in ev’ry Loyal Breaſt,

And with loud Accents will be ſtill expreſt;

Though Time ſhou’d take more wings, and faſter haſt

His ſudden flight from hence; yet ſoon as paſt

Such 131 Bb7r 13

Such Tragick cruelty, this mournfull Theam

In bloody Characters wou’d ſtill remain.

I wiſh my Pen had ne’er had cauſe to write

This one day’s Prodigie, more black than Night;

The very Fiends themſelves are now out-done,

For Men the ſhape of Devils have put on.

What but the ſpawn of Hell cou’d thus deſign!

Or hatch ſuch treachery to undermine

The beſt of Kings on Earth, nay pull him down

From his own Regal and Eſtabliſh’d Throne?

What, was there none but Charles the Firſt, the Great

And moſt indulgent worthieſt Potentate,

To vent their rage upon? Oh barb’rous Crew!

A King beheaded! by’s own Subjects too!

Eccleſiaſtical and Civil Writ

Unto the World did ne’er as yet tranſmit

So Tragical a Scene, or mournfull News,

Save one alone, Jeſus the King of th’ Jews;

Who was like Charles our Sovereign betray’d,

Whom the ſame ſhew of Juſtice did degrade:

But now the Jews from theſe do differ hence,

Their Errours did from Ignorance commence,

Becauſe they thought not Chriſt their lawful Prince:

But 132 Bb7v 14

But theſe curs’d Regicides did fully know

Charles was their King, and had proclaim’d him ſo.

The Antient Fathers always own’d their Prince

God’s Repreſentative in Truth’s defence.

And ſince that Kings to God Vicegerents are,

Their Subjects ought true Loyalty to bear,

Who are protected by their Princely care.

But as if Nature had theſe Miſcreants left,

And of Humanity they were bereft;

’Stead of Allegiance, they preach up Intruſion;

Sound a Battalia, and make all confuſion;

And then delude and cheat the Common-weal

With a pretence, that all was done through Zeal;

Whilſt an unnat’ral War they do begin,

And perſevere in their Rebellious Sin,

Till they’ve intrench’d upon their Soveraign’s Right

By Uſurpation, and by lawleſs Might.

Then next they ſeize his Perſon with pretence,

That they’re his chiefeſt Bulwark of defence;

At laſt his Head and Crown lop off at once,

Without a Reaſon, or a juſt Reſponſe.

At which black deed, ſhou’d th’ Elements diſsolve,

And th’ Univerſal World it ſelf involve

In 133 Bb8r 15

In preſent ruin, ſhou’d th’ infernal Lake

Flaſh out in Flames; Or ſhou’d the Waters break

Through their ſtrong Banks, and ſo a Deluge make,

Shou’d Sun and Moon at once Eclipſed be,

And to compleat a full Calamity

Stars fall from Heav’n, and daſh in pieces thoſe

Who did their Sov’raign and his Laws oppoſe:

This we might judge is to their Merit due,

Who ſuch perfidious treachery purſue.

Forgive my paſsion, if I do tranſgreſs

Beyond the limits of true Holineſs.

I wiſh that all effectually repent

This bloody Sin, whereby they may prevent

Thoſe heavy Judgments which predict th’ Event.

And may thoſe Perſons, who were Actors in

This curſed Cauſe againſt the Father, bring\

Their true Obedience to his Son, and now King;

That ſo they may to him, and all his Race,

And to themſelves, brign a continu’d Peace:

And after crown’d with honour and ſucceſs,

At laſt enjoy Eternal happineſs.

Upon 134 Bb8v 16

Upon One’s Birth-Day.

Look upwards, O my Soul! and thou may’ſt ſee

Once more thy Birth-days Anniverſary.

Another year of Time is paſsed by,

And now methinks hath ſlid ſo ſilently,

As if unmeaſur’d yet; and thus will ſeem

Moſt of thy Days, when ſpent, in thy eſteem.

Man’s Life is fitly liken’d unto Fire,

Which unſupply’d with fuel, do’s expire.

And thus no ſooner’s run our fleeting Sand,

But the Glaſs breaks by Death’s deſtroying hand.

Since then, my Soul, that Time ſo faſt doth ſlide,

How much art thou obliged to provide

That which may beautifie thy nobler part,

And alſo cleanſe and purifie thy Heart

From all pollution, which within doth reign,

And in that Empire ſuch Dominion gain?

Make firm Reſolves, by new Engagements tye

Thy Paſsions up, reſtrain their liberty.

Place 135 Cc1r 17

Place thy affections upon things above,

Try then to ſurfeit if thou canſt on Love;

In time ſecure that which alone can laſt,

When youth and beauty, ſtrength and life are paſt

Then as thy Sands do waſte, and Years increaſe,

Thou ſhalt at laſt expire with Joy and Peace.

Upon Christ’s Nativity.

Behold an Univerſal Darkneſs has o’er-ſpread

This lower World, and Man in Sin lyes dead.

Now black Deſpair his heavy burthen’s made,

And being fall’n, God’s Wrath can ne’er be paid:

For ſince his Native Innocence is flown,

All the firſt promiſes of Bliſs are gone.

Think then, O Adam! on the ſtate thou’rt in,

And all Mankind by reaſon of thy Sin.

Alas poor Man! thy Paradiſe is loſt,

And thou might’ſt juſtly from thy Bliſs be toſs’d

Cc Into 136 Cc1v 18

Into th’ infernal Lake; where with great pain,

B’ing exercis’d, thou might’ſt lament in vain.

But ſtay a while, What Muſick’s this I hear!

Which ſounds ſo ſweetly from the heav’nly Sphere!

Look here, O Man! are thine Eyes upwards bent?

Here’s Angels, ſurely, on a Meſsage ſent.


What Anthem’s this, ſweet Angels, that you ſing

Unto us Men? do ye glad tydings bring?


We come from Heaven, we declare no Ill,

But Peace on Earth, and unto Men Good-will.


How ſo, we pray? can God be friends agen?

Will he be reconcil’d to ſinfull Men?

Is God ſo kind, ſo mercifull a God,

So ſoon to caſt away his angry Rod?^Eye


You need not doubt, wou’d you but with the

Of ſtedfaſt Faith, pierce through the Starry Sky,

You might behold there God himſelf contriving,

Not for your Death, but your Eternal Living.


But how ſhall we of this aſsured be?

What ſign or token may we find or ſee?


Want ye a ſign? then do but us believe:

Here’s one, behold a Virgin does conceive:

A Virgin 137 Cc2r 19

A Virgin true and chaſt do’s now bring forth

A Son unto you of Tranſcendent Worth:

This is the true Meſsias, whom of old

The Patriarchs and Prophets ſo fore-told;

This is the Seed to Adam, promiſed

By God, to break the ſubtle Serpent’s Head.


This being then the day of Jeſus Birth,

Let us affect our Hearts with godly Mirth,

Let us, I ſay, both triumph, joy, and ſing,

Glory be to our Chriſt, our Prieſt, our King.

On the ſame.

Early i’th’ Morn I wak’d, and firſt my Ear

The Bell-man did ſalute with th’ time of Year.

And next the joyfull Cock, who’d left his Neſt,

Ceaſes not crowing Chriſtus natus eſt.

The leſser Birds in ſweeter Notes do ſing,

And louder Sounds Echo from Bells that ring.

Amidſt this joy, I upward caſt my Eyes,

And ſaw more brighter Rays adorn the Skies;

Cc2 Where 138 Cc2v 20

Where e’er I look’d a happy change I view’d,

Nature her ſelf did ſeem as if renew’d:

But when ſurpriz’d with ſuch a beauteous Scene,

I then reſolv’d to think what this might mean;

And preſently my Thoughts inlarged were,

And Chriſt his Incarnation did appear,

In the moſt great and higheſt Acts of Love,

Such as will Reaſon to amazement move:

For who can think on Man, loſt and undone,

To be redeem’d from Death by God’s own Son,

And not be ſtricken with the quickeſt ſence

Of ſo much Love, and charming Excellence?

Rouſe then thy Minds beſt faculties, and ſoar

Up to a pitch, thou never reach’t before:

Strive to come near, at leaſt to imitate

The holy Angels, in their happy ſtate;

Who always in a conſtant circle move,

Of giving praiſes unto God above;

And when to them the happy tydings came,

They gladly were the Heralds to proclaim

The joyfull news to us; then ſhall not Man

Sing the ſame Anthem they on Earth began?

Give 139 Cc3r 21

Give praiſes therefore unto God moſt high,

And joyn thy Soul to the bleſs’d Hierarchy.

When thus Seraphick Love thy thoughts employ,

Thou ſhalt anticipate that Heav’nly Joy.

More on the ſame Subject

Let this days triumph o’er the World be crown’d,

A day of Jubilee for ever own’d,

With Harp and Violin our Mirth we’ll ſhow,

Unto this day all gratitude we owe.

Let Lute and Timbrel, and Majeſtick touch

Of the ſweet Vial too proclaim as much.

Let Talbrot alſo, and the loud-ſpoke Cymbal

Joyn with the ſweeter of the Virginal;

Let all the Voices, both of Baſe and Trebble,

Joyn in this harmony; let poliſh’t Marble,

To future Ages, keep his honour’d Name,

That they with equal pleaſure ſpeak the ſame:

And that a perfect joy may be expreſs’d,

At the Solemnity of ſuch a Feaſt,

Cc3 Let 140 Cc3v 22

Let the whole Earth put on her Robes of Green,

And be in Triumph when this day is ſeen;

And alſo let the pretty winged Quire,

From their warm Neſts with joyfulneſs retire,

And fill the Air with ſweet melodious Notes,

Which they ſing forth from out their warbling Throats:

Let the Floods clap their hands, and therein ſhow,

That they rejoyce with all the World below;

Let Angels too above bedeck the Sky,

And in ſoft ſtrains divulge their Harmony;

Let the Illuſtrious Cherubins deſcend

With their delicious Carrols to attend

Man’s happy change, which Chriſt alone did bring,

Who is become our Prophet, Prieſt, and King.

O bleſs’d Redeemer! why would’ſt thou come down,

Rather ſo lowly, than with great Renown?

As ſoon as born, why did’ſt thou not give order

To be proclaim’d the World’s great Emperour?

Or cam’ſt not vailed in an Angel’s [Surine,]

Or took the Nature of a Seraphin?

But this had been contrary to thy Will,

Who came the Prophet’s Sayings to fulfill:

Beſides 141 Cc4r 23

Beſides, thy Meſsage had a nobler End,

Namely, the World of Sin to reprehend;

And to refine and purge our thoughts from Earth,

Conveying to us Grace by ſecond Birth;

To influence our Minds from Heav’n above,

And to poſseſs us here with Peace and Love.

On New-Years-Day.

Oh Time, with Wings thou well may’ſt painted be,

For that ſhows ſwiftneſs and celerity;

And thy keep Scythe as truly doth beſpeak,

What mighty devaſtations thou do’ſt make.

That which thy hand incircles is a Glaſs,

Whoſe Sands with fleeting conſtancy do paſs

An Emblem, which adapted is to ſhow,

What ſhort duration all things have below;

The Revolution of another Year,

Do’s plain and obvious to each Eye appear:

Cc4 The 142 Cc4v 24

The New-Year is in Infancy begun,

And to its latter period ſoon will run;

For when the laſt Years Scene of things are gone,

The Revolutions of the New poſt on.

View the Creation made with curious Art,

And you’ll ſee motion run through ev’ry part;

For whenſoe’er that ceaſes, preſently

The Object do’s begin to waſt and dye.

But now this Feſtival of New-years-day,

A more exalted Subject doth diſplay;

For it exhibiteth upon Record

The Circumciſion of our bleſsed Lord;

Which Inſtitution was by God decreed

For a diſtinction unto Abr’am’s Seed:

But when our Saviour came, what need was there

But that this Jewiſh Rite ſhou’d diſappear?

The Circumciſion of the Heart was then

Eſteem’d more proper for the Sons of Men;

Inſtead of Circumciſion and the Paſsover,

Our Saviour therefore did enjoyn two other

More Sacred Sacraments, which Chriſtians now

Do celebrate with a moſt ſolemn Vow.

The 143 Cc5r 25

The former (a) Circumciſion. Rite Mortification taught,

(b) Baptiſm. This a more comprehenſive meaning brought;

To waſh off Adam’s Sin is the intent,

As Water is a cleaning Element.

And all the Laws our Saviour did enjoyn.

Than thoſe he has remov’d, are more ſublime;

Since nothing came from him but what’s Divine.

Each Feſtival that keeps his Memory,

Shou’d not without our due reſpect paſs by.

’Tis fit we ſhou’d commemorate ſuch days

With an ecſtatick and exalted praiſe,

And all our Faculties in Tranſport raiſe.

Eyes 144 Cc5v 26

Eyes and Tears.


How wiſely Nature did decree,

With the ſame Eyes to weep and ſee!

That having view’d the Object vain,

We might be ready to complain.


What in the World moſt fair appears,

Yea ev’n laughter turns to tears;

And all the Jewels which we prize,

Melt in theſe Pendents of the Eyes?


Lo, the All-ſeeing Sun each day

Diſtills the World with Chymick Ray;

But finds the Eſsence only ſhow’rs,

Which ſtraight in pity back he pow’rs.

Yet 145 Cc6r 27


Yet happy they whom Grief doth bleſs,

That weep the more, and ſee the leſs:

And to preſerve their Sight more true,

Bathe ſtill their Eyes in their own Dew.


So Magdalen in Tears more wiſe,

Diſsolv’d thoſe Captivating Eyes;

Whoſe liquid Chains cou’d flowing meet,

To fetter her Redeemers Feet.


The ſparkling Glance that ſhoots deſire,

Drench’t in theſe Waves, do’s loſe its fire:

Yea oft the Thunderer pity takes,

And here the hiſsing Lightning ſlakes.


Ope then mine Eyes your double ſluice,

And practiſe ſo your nobleſt uſe;

For others too can ſee, or ſleep,

But only humane Eyes can weep.

Now 146 Cc6v 28


Now like two Clouds diſsolving drop,

And at each Tear in diſtance ſtop:

Now like two Fountains trickle down;

Now like two Floods return and drown.


Thus let your Streams o’er-flow your Springs,

Till Eyes and Tears be the ſame things:

And each the others diff’rence bears,

Theſe weeping Eyes thoſe ſeeing Tears.

To 147 Cc7r 29

To Mrs. Jane Barker, on her moſt Delightfull and Excellent Romance of Scipina, now in the Preſs.

By J.N. Fellow of St. John’s Colledge in Cambridge.

Hail! Fair Commandreſs of a gentle Pen,

At once the Dread, and dear Delight of Men;

Who’ll read with Tranſports thoſe ſoft joys you’ve writ,

Then fear their Laurels do but looſely fit,

Since You invade the Primacy of Wit.

Accept, kind Guardian, of our ſleeping Fame,

Thoſe modeſt Praiſes, which your Merits claim.

’T’as been our Country’s Scandal, now of late,

For want of Fancy, poorly to Tranſlate:

Each pregnant Term, ſome honeſt, labouring brain

With toilſome drudgery, and mighty pain,

Has told ſome new Amour from France or Spain.

Running 148 Cc7v 30

Running us ſtill ſo ſhamefully o’th’ ſcore,

That we have ſcarcely credit left for more.

But Thou, in whom all Graces are combin’d,

And native Wit with equal Judgment joyn’d,

Haſt taught us how to quell our Bankrupt Fear,

By bravely quitting all the long Arrear.

Thy ſingle Payment, they’ll with thanks allow

A juſt return for all thoſe Debts we owe.

What though their Tale more numerous appear?

Our Coyn’s more noble, and our Stamp more fair.

So have I ſeen a Score o’th’ Dunning Race,

Diſcharg’d their Paltry Ticks with one Broad-piece.

Nor haſt Thou more engag’d thy Native Home,

Than the bare Memory of ancient Rome:

So far thy generous Obligations ſpread,

As both to bind the Living and the Dead.

’Twould pleaſe thy Hero’s awfull Shade, to ſee

His Part thus Acted o’er again by Thee;

Where ev’n his bare Idea has that pow’r,

Which Real Scipio only had before:

Such tenderneſs his very Image moves,

That ev’ry gentle Maid that reads it, Loves.

To 149 Cc8r 31

To ſee with what new Air the Lover charms!

Till doubly bleſs’d in fair Clarinthia’s Arms.

Triumphs of War were leſs than thoſe of Peace;

Nor was He e’er ſo Great in any Arms, as theſe.

What crowds of Weeping Loves wilt Thou create,

When in thy Lines they find their Pictur’d Fate?

Thou’ſt fram’d each Paſsion with ſo ſoft an Art,

As needs muſt melt the hardeſt Stoick’s heart.

Did Zeno live to ſee thy moving ſence,

He’d ſure in Love an Epicure commence;

The cold Inſenſible would diſappear,

And with each Mourning Fair he’d ſhed a Tear.

But when He reads the happy Lover’s Joys,

He’d tell the rapturous pleaſures with his Eyes:

On’s wrinkl’d brows a ſmiling Calm would ſhine,

He’d think each Period of thy Book Divine,

And with impatience kiſs each tender line.

Yet all this while, ſuch are thy harmleſs Flames,

As neither Age it ſelf, nor Envy blames:

The Preciſe-Grave-Ones cannot diſapprove

Thy Gallant Hero’s honourable Love.

Thy 150 Cc8v 32

Thy Lines may paſs ſevereſt Virtue’s Teſt,

More than Aſtræa’s ſoft, more than Orinda’s chaſt

Young Country Squires may read without offence,

Nor Lady Mothers fear their debauch’t Innocence.

Only beware, Incautious Youths beware,

Leſt when you ſee ſuch lovely Pictures there;

You, as of old the Fair Enamour’d Boy,

Languiſh for thoſe feign’d Beauties you deſcry,

And pine away for Viſionary Joy.

Then if by day they kindle noble Fire,

And with gay thoughts your nightly Dreams inſpire,

Bleſs, Bleſs the Author of your ſoft deſire.


To 151 Dd1r 33

To Mrs. Jane Barker, on her Reſolution of Verſifying no more.

By the ſame Author.

Madam, I can’t but wonder why of late,

What you ſo lov’d, you now ſo much ſhou’d hate.

Your Muſe, with whom you though your ſelf once bleſt,

That now ſhou’d baniſh’d be from your fair Breaſt:

’T may convince ſome *but that it ne’er ſhall me)

That in your Sex there is inconſtancy;

Whom formerly with name of Gallant Meaning the Muſe. grac’d,

By you ſo ſuddenly ſhou’d be diſplac’d.

Is this the recompence which you intend

Now to beſtow on your ſo early Friend?

Who when a Child, put in your hand a Bough, The Lady being painted with a Bough of Bays in her Hand.

Hoping, in time, it might adorn your Brow.

Methinks you do’t, as if you did deſign

Fate’s all-reſiſtleſs pow’r to countermine.

Dd What 152 Dd1v 34

What elſe ſhou’d be the cauſe, I cannot ſee,

That makes you ſo averſe to Poetry;

Unleſs’t be this, ’Cauſe each poor rhiming Fool,

To get a place i’th’ Ballad-maker’s School,

Spews forth his Dogrel-rhimes, which only are

Like rubbiſh ſent i’th’ Streets, and every Fair.

Is this an Argument, ’cause Beggars Eat,

Therefore you’ll faſt, and go without your Meat?

So Vertue may as well aſide be laid,

Becauſe a Cloak for Vice too oft it’s made.

Shall a true Diamond of leſs value be,

Becauſe abroad ſome Counterfeits we ſee?

But when compar’d, how eas’ly may we know

Which are for ſale, and which are for a ſhow.

Then give not o’er, for in this Town they’ll ſay,

A new Gallant has ſtol’n your Heart away:

Beſides, the Muſes cannot chuſe but pine;

In loſing You, they’ll loſe their Number Nine.

To 153 Dd2r 35

To the Incomparable Author, Mrs. Jane Barker, On her Excellent Romance of Scipina.

By a Gentleman of St. John’s College, Cambridge.

Fair Female Conqueror, we all ſubmit

To the joynt force of Beauty, and of Wit:

And thus like vanquiſh’d Slaves in Triumph led,

Laurels and Crowns before the Victor ſpread.

What ſtupid Enemy to Wit and Sence,

Dares to diſpute your Sexes Excellence?

That Sex which doth in you Triumphant come,

To praiſe with Wit of Greece the Arms of Rome;

Secur’d by ſolid Sence, you ſoar ſublime

Above the little flutt’ring flights of Rhime.

Antient Philoſophy, embrac’d by few,

Smiles and looks young to be careſs’d by you;

Dd2 Out- 154 Dd2v 36

Out-rivals Love, and drives him from your Breaſt,

And is alone of your whole ſelf poſseſt:

No Word of yours the niceſt can reprove,

To ſhow a more than modeſt ſenſe of Love:

But ſomething ſtill like inſpiration ſhines,

Through the bright Virgin Candor of your lines.

How well are all your Hero’s toyls and fights,

His long laborious Days, and reſtleſs Nights,

Re-paid with Glory by your charming Pen?

How gladly wou’d he act them o’er again?

The Great Cornelian Race with wonder view,

The Aſian Conquerour, thus adorn’d by you;

And th’ younger Scipio willingly wou’d quit

His Titles for your more Triumphant Wit.

On then, brave Maid, ſecure of Fame advance,

’Gainſt the Scaroons and Scudderies of France.

Shew them your claim, let nought your Merit awe,

your Title’s good ſpight of the Salique-Law;

Safe in the Triumphs of your Wit remain;

Our Engliſh Laws admit a Woman’s Reign.


On 155 Dd3r 37

On the Posthume and Precious Poems of Sir Matthew Hale, Late Lord Chief Juſtice of His Majeſty’s Court of King’s-Bench.

By a Gentleman of Lincolns-Inn.

The Roſe and other fragrant Flow’rs ſmell beſt

When they are pluck’d and worn in Hand or Breaſt;

So this fair Flow’r of Vertue, this rare Bud

Of Wit, ſmells now as freſh as when he ſtood,

And by his Poetry doth let us know,

He on the Banks of Helicon did grow:

The Beauties of his Soul apparent ſhine,

Both in his Works and Poetry Divine;

In him all Vertues met, th’ Exemplary

Of Wiſdom, Learning, and true Piety.

Farewell Fam’d Judge, Minion of Theſpian Dames,

Apollo’s Darling born with Enthian Flames;

Dd3 Which 156 Dd3v 38

Which in thy numbers wave, and ſhine ſo clear,

As ſparks refracted in rich Jems appear;

Such Flames as may inſpire, and Atoms caſt,

To make new Poets not like him in haſt

To the admir’d Author, Mr. Thomas Wright, on His Incomparable Histories, Entituled, God’s Revenge againſt Murther and Adultery, with the Triumphs of Friendſhip and Chaſtity. Newly publiſhed in a ſmall Vol. 80.

By Mr. J. Whitehall.

Since the too bold aſpiring Angel fell

(By his Ambition and his Pride to Hell;

And ſince Rebellious Man loſt Paradiſe,

The World is fill’d with various ſorts of Vice;

Murther and Luſt, twin Tyrants, long have reign’d,

And a vaſt Empire through the World maintain’d.

The 157 Dd4r 39

The Sword of Juſtice could not ſtop their rage,

They’ve boldly tyranniz’d in ev’ry Age;

Nor cou’d Divines their furious heat aſswage.

Yet doubtleſs, Friend, th’ Examples you have giv’n,

May give them proſpect of revenging Heav’n.

Your Pen with Eloquence divine inſpir’d,

Will cool the Souls with Luſt and Murther fir’d.

Tame all the Paſsions, regulate the Will,

And ſtop that Rage which guiltleſs blood wou’d ſpill.

Such charming Oratory it doth give,

As teacheth us by others Death to live;

And from a Life of Chaſtity and Love,

A great Advantage to our ſelves improve.

To tell thy Fame, I want great Spencer’s Skill,

The gentle charming pow’r of Cowley’s Quill:

All Men of Sence will praiſe thy matchleſs Proſe,

For ſharpeſt Briar bears the ſweeteſt Roſe.

Dd4 To 158 Dd4v 40

To his Ingenious Friend, Mr. Thomas Wright, On His Compendious Histories of Murther, Adultery, Friendſhip and Chaſtity. Some of the former being Epitomiz’d from Mr. Reynold’s Murthers.

By another Hand.

Many, ’tis true, knew of this Golden Mine,

But all their Skill cou’d not the Ore Refine:

Th’ inimitable Reynold’s very Name,

Startled at firſt our greateſt Men of Fame;

Each one by fear, from that great task was hurl’d,

And tho’ lanch’d out their Sails, were quickly furl’d.

Wanting thy courage, they cou’d never ſoar

To this high pitch, which none e’er reach’d before.

The 159 Dd5r 41

The Vulgar paths thou ſhun’ſt, ſoaring ſublime,

Till with quaint Eloquence thou fraught’ſt each line.

None yet ſo ſweetly charm’d with Sence the times,

So gently, and ſo well rebuk’d ſuch crimes,

As you, my Friend, have done; for you preſent

Vice ſo deform’d, the Wicked wil repent;

And by Examples of the chaſt and kind,

Fix bright Embelliſhments upon the Mind,

Such as may make us to improve, and be

Like patterns of Heroick Piety.

Thy Wit and Skill may former Artiſts blame,

And Reynold’s Murthers now we muſt not name.

As ſable Darkneſs, which attends the Night,

To the Days Sun-beams is its oppoſite:

So Vice from Vertue, Wrong from Right’s the ſame;

Then how canſt thou write wrong, when Wright’s thy Name?

On 160 Dd5v 42

On Chriſtmas-day.

O God! who art moſt Excellent and Wiſe!

I ſee the Morning Beams break through the

And with great admiration view the Light Skies;

Which diſsipates Nights darkneſs from my ſight.

But with a greater wonder I look on

Thoſe bright Illuminations, which thy Son

Hath brought to light by’s Incarnation.

Look and admire I may, but can’t expreſs

Such heights and depths of Love, in Proſe or Verſe:

’Tis beyond th’ art of Rhet’rick to diſplay,

What Chriſtians ſolemnize this Feſtal day.

Two ſacred Words, are an Epitome

Of what’s effected in this Myſtery,

Redemption and Salvation; heav’nly Letters!

Which freed fall’n Man from th’ Bondage of his Fetters:

Luſt and Ambition, Avarice and Fraud,

Was then his Maſter, and his Paſsions Lord:

Till 161 Dd6r 43

Till Chriſt, his great Redeemer, broke the Chain,

And placed him in Paradiſe again.

O Love moſt infinite! O Love divine!

This Myſtery of Love was truly thine;

For neither Men nor Angels could atone

Th’ Almighty’s Wrath, but God and Man in one:

Wherefore Divinity ſubmits to be

Lodg’d in a Veſsel of Humanity.

How joyfully the heav’nly Hoſt above,

Proclaim to Man, glad tyding of thy Love?

And ſhall Mankind ſo much ungrateful be,

Or rather ſink into ſtupidity,

As not with equal Joy this Meſsage hear,

And all due Rev’rence to their Saviour bear?

And finally, Let’s end theſe Feſtal days,

With ſweet Doxologies, and Songs of Praiſe.

Upon 162 Dd6v 44

Upon Death

Naked I came from out my Mother’s Womb,

And naked muſt return unto my Tomb;

Diſrob’d of all Injoyments here below,

Or what my Fancy had eſteemed ſo;

Laid down in ſilence, and by all forgot;

Left in an Earthly Sepulchre to rot,

And turn to noiſome and corrupted Clay,

My Manly Shape and Figure worn away:

Thus when our little breath, and life’s once gone,

We make a Feaſt for Worms to feed upon.

And though we ſhou’d the moſt Endearments have,

Of Wife and Children too, yet we muſt leave

Them, and their Fortunes, unto Providence,

When pale-fac’d Death ſhall ſummon us from hence.

Why do we ſtand amaz’d, and ſeem to fear,

When e’er the news of a Friend’s Death we hear?

And not much rather to applaud the Tongue,

That brought intelligence, he liv’d ſo long;

For 163 Dd7r 45

For Life’s ſo mutable, each little blaſt

May the whole Fabrick unto ruin haſt:

Life is a Bubble, which now you ſee here,

And in a moments time do’s diſappear;

Full as inconſtant as the Wind; alas!

’Tis far more brittle than a Venice-Glaſs;

’Tis as a Shadow, which is quickly fled;

Or as a Word, which in as ſmall time’s ſaid;

’Tis as a Vapour riſing from the Earth,

But at the moſt ’tis but a little Breath.

And is this truly ſo? and ſhall my Eyes,

Together with my Souls bright Faculties,

Be cheated with the Worlds gay Vanities?

Certainly no! Adieu ye cheating Pleaſures,

Which only bear the empty name of Treaſures;

No Sophiſtry, or ſtratagem, can hide

Your gilded Vanity, your Luſt and Pride:

And as for Honour, that I’ll moſt avoid,

My loneſome Cottage ſhall not be annoy’d

By th’ noiſome Breath of a confuſed Rabble;

Void of calm Reaſon, full of nonſence, babble.

Beſides, my Eyes are both too weak and dimm

To guide my Feet, whilſt I ſo high muſt climb,

To 164 Dd7v 46

To reach her Pinacles; which if I do,

’Tis but to make me fall from thence more low.

And as for worldly Wealth, my bounds I ſet,

According to what Prudence do’s direct

Our honeſt Induſtry is not deny’d,

When all diſponding Thoughts are laid aſide:

So much I can moſt lawfully deſire,

As may with decency my Life attire;

And bear me up, leſt I too much ſhou’d Mourn,

Before I fill my dark and ſilent Urn.

Such ſerious Thoughts as theſe delight me beſt;

Death, when fore-ſeen in time, do’s quite deveſt

A Man of dubious Thoughts, and frightful Fears,

And with a Plaudit cloſeth up his Years.

On 165 Dd8r 47

On the Divine Spirit.

As when the lab’ring Sun hath wrought his track

Up to the top of lofty Cancer’s back,

The Icie Ocean cracks the Frozen Pole,

Thaws with the heat of Celeſtial Coal;

So when thy abſent Beams begin t’impart

Again a Solſtice on my frozen Heart,

My Winter’s o’er, my drooping Spirits ſing,

And every part revives into a Spring:

But if thy quickning Beams a while decline,

And with their Light bleſs not this Orb of mine,

A chilly Froſt ſurprizeth every Member,

And in the midſt of June I feel December.

O how this Earthly temper doth debaſe

The noble Soul, in this her humble place!

Whoſe wingy Nature ever doth aſpire

To reach that place, whence firſt it took its fire.

Theſe Flames I feel, which in my Heart do dwell,

Are not thy Beams, but take their fire from Hell.

O quench 166 Dd8v 48

O quench them all, and let thy Light Divine

Be as the Sun to this poor Orb of mine;

And to thy Sacred Spirit convert thoſe Fires,

Whoſe Earthly fumes crack my devout Aſpires!

To the Memory of the Illuſtrious PrinceGeorge, Duke of Buckingham.

When the dread Summons of Commanding Fate

Sounds the Laſt Call at ſome proud Palace-Gate,

When both the Rich, the Fair, the Great, and High,

Fortunes moſt darling Favourites muſt die;

Strait at th’ Alarm the buſie Heraulds wait

To fill the Solemn Pomp, and Mourn in State:

Scutcheons and Sables then make up the Show,

Whilſt on the Herſe the mourning Streamers flow,

With all the rich Magnificence of Woe.

If 167 Ee1r 49

If Common Greatneſs theſe juſt Rights can claim,

What Nobler Train muſt wait on Buckingham!

When ſo much Wit, Wit’s Great Reformer, dyes,

The very Muſes at thy Obſequies,

(The Muſes, that melodious cheerfull Quire,

Whom Miſery could ne’er untune , nor tire,

But chirp in Rags, and ev’n in Dungeons ſing,)

Now with their broken Notes, and flagging Wing,

To thy ſad Dirge their murm’ring Plaints ſhall bring

Wit, and Wit’s god, for Buckingham ſhall mourn,

And His lov’d Laurel into Cypreſs turn.

Nor ſhall the Nine ſad Siſters only keep

This mourning Day even Time himſelf ſhall weep,

And in new Brine his hoary furrows ſteep.

Time, that ſo much muſt thy great Debtor be,

As to have borrow’d ev’n new Life from Thee;

Whilſt thy gay Wit has made his ſullen Glaſs

And tedious Hours with new-born Raptures paſs.

What tho’ black Envy with her ranc’rous Tongue,

And angry Poets in embitter’d Song

Ee (Whilſt 168 Ee1v 50

(Whilſt to new tracks thy boundleſs Soul aſpires)

Charge thee with roving Change, and wandring Fires.

Envy more baſe did never Virtue wrong;

Thy Wit, a Torrent for the Banks too ſtrong,

In twenty ſmaller Rills o’er-flow’d the Dam,

Though the main Channel ſtill was Buckingham.

Let Care the buſie Stateſman over-whelm.

Tugging at th’ Oar, or drudging at the Helm.

With lab’ring Pain ſo half-ſoul’d Pilots plod,

Great Buckingham a ſprightlier Meaſure trod:

When o’er the mounting Waves the Veſsel rod,

Unſhock’d by Toyls, by Tempeſt undiſmay’d,

Steer’d the Great Bark, and as that danc’d, He play’d.

Nor bounds thy Praiſe to Albion’s narrow Coaſt,

Thy Gallantry ſhall Foreign Nations boaſt,

The Gallick Shore, with all the Trumps of Fame,

To endleſs Ages ſhall reſound thy Name.

When Buckingham, Great Charles Embaſsador,

With ſuch a Port the Royal Image bore,

So 169 Ee2r 51

So near the Life th’ Imperial Copy drew,

As ev’n the Mighty Louis could not View

With Wonder only, but with Envy too.

His very Fleur-de-Lize’s fainting Light

Half droopt to ſee the Engliſh Roſe ſo bright.

Let Groveling Minds of Nature’s baſeſt mould

Hug and Adore their deareſt Idol, Gold:

Thy Nobler Soul did the weak Charms defie,

Diſdain the Earthly Droſs to mount more High.

Whilſt Humbler Merit on Court-Smiles depends

For the Gilt Show’r in which their Jove deſcends;

Thou mount’ſt to Honour for a Braver End;

What others borrow, Thou cam’ſt there to lend:

Did’ſt ſacred Vertues naked Self adore,

And left’ſt her Portion for her ſordid Woer;

The poorer Miſer how doſt thou out-ſhine,

He the Worlds Slave, but thou haſt made it thine:

Great Buckingham’s Exalted Character,

That in the Prince liv’d the Philosopher.

Thus all the Wealth thy Generous Hand has ſpent,

Shall raiſe thy Everlaſting Monument.

Ee2 So 170 Ee2v 52

So the fam’d Phœnix builds her dying Neſt

Of all the richeſt Spices of the Eaſt:

Then the heap’d Maſs prepar’d for a kind Ray

Some warmer Beam of the Great God of Day,

Do’s in one hallow’d Conflagration burn,

A precious Incenſe to her Funeral Urn.

So Thy bright Blaze felt the ſame Funeral Doom,

A wealthier Pile than old Mauſolus Tomb.

Only too Great, too Proud to imitate

The poorer Phœnix more Ignoble Fate,

Thy Matchleſs Worth all Succeſsors defies,

And ſcorn’d an Heir ſhou’d from thy Aſhes riſe:

Begins and finiſhes that Glorious Spheer,

Too Mighty for a Second Charioteer.

Upon 171 Ee3r 53

Upon the Death of Oliver Cromwell, In Anſwer to Mr. W---’s Verſes.

By Mr. Godolphin.

’Tis well he’s gone, (O had he never been!)

Hurry’d in Storms loud as his crying Sin:

The Pines and Oaks fell proſtrate to his Urn,

That with his Soul his Body too might burn.

Winds pluck up Roots, and fixed Cedars move,

Roaring for Vengeance to the Heavens above:

For Guilt from him like Romulus did grow,

And ſuch a Wind did at his Ruin blow.

Praying themſelves the lofty Trees ſhou’d fell

Without the Ax, ſo Orpheus went to Hell:

At whoſe deſcent the ſturdieſt Oaks were cleft,

And the whole Wood its wonted Station left.

Ee3 In 172 Ee3v 54

In Battle Herc’les wore Lyon’s Skin,

But our Fierce Nero wore the Beaſt within;

Whoſe Heart was Brutiſh, more than Face or Eyes,

And in the ſhape of Man was in diſguiſe.

Where ever Men, where ever pillage lyes,

Like rav’nous Vultures, or wing’d Navy flyes.

Under the Tropicks he is underſtood,

And brings home Rapine through a Purple Flood.

New Circulations found, our Blood is hurl’d,

As round the leſser, ſo the greater World.

In Civil Wars he did us firſt engage,

And made Three Kingdoms ſubject to his rage.

One fatal ſtroke ſlew Juſtice, and the cauſe

Of Truth, Religion, and our Sacred Laws.

So fell Achilles by the Trojan Band,

Though he ſtill fought with Heav’n it ſelf in hand.

Nor cou’d Domeſtick Spoil confine his Mind,

Nor limits to his fury, but Mankind.

The Brittiſh Youth in Foreign Coaſts are ſent,

Towns to deſtroy, but more to Baniſhment.

Who since they cannot in this Iſle abide,

Are confin’d Pris’ners to the World beſide.

No 173 Ee4r 55

No wonder then if we no tears allow

To him who gave us Wars and Ruin too:

Tyrants that lov’d him, griev’d, concern’d to ſee

There muſt be puniſhment to crueltie.

Nature her ſelf rejoyced at his Death,

And on the Halter ſung with ſuch a Breath,

As made the Sea dance higher than before,

While her glad Waves came dancing to the ſhore.

On the Last Dutch War.

By Mr. Benjamin Willy, ſometime Maſter of the Free-School of Newark upon Trent.

Robb’d of our Rights! and by ſuch Water-Rats!

We’ll doff their Heads, if they won’t doff their Hats.

Affront from Hogen Mogen to endure!

’Tis time to box theſe Butter-Boxes ſure.

If they the Flag’s undoubted Right deny us,

And won’t ſtrike to us, they muſt be ſtruck by Us.

Ee4 A Crew 174 Ee4v 56

A Crew of Boors, and Sooterkins, that know

Themſelves they to our Blood and Valour owe.

Did we for this knock off their Spaniſh Fetters,

To make ’em able to abuſe their Betters?

If at this rate they rave, I think ’tis good

Not to omit the Spring, but let ’em Blood.

Rouſe then, Heroick Britains, ’tis not Words,

But Wounds muſt work with Leather-Apron-Lords.

They’re deaf, and muſt be talk’d withall, alas,

With Words of Iron, ſpoke by Mouths of Braſs,

I hope we ſhall to purpoſe the next bout

Cure ’em, as we did Opdam of the Gout.

And when i’th’ bottom of the Sea they come,

They’ll have enough of Mare Liberum.

Our brandiſh’t Steel (tho’ now they ſeem ſo tall)

Shall make ’em lower than Low-Countries fall:

But they’ll e’er long come to themſelves you’ll ſee,

When we in earneſt are at Snick-a-ſnee.

When once the Boars perceive our Swords are drawn,

And we converting are thoſe Boars to Brawn.

Methinks the Ruin of their Belgick Banners

Laſt Fight, almoſt as ragged as their Manners,

Might 175 Ee5r 57

Might have perſwaded ’em to better things,

Than to be ſawcy with the beſt of Kings.

Is it of Wealth ſo proud they are become?

Charles has a Wain, I hope, to fetch it home;

And with it pay himſelf his juſt Arrears

Of Fiſhing Tribute for this Hundred years;

That we may ſay, as all the Store comes in,

The Dutch, alas, ahve but our Factors bin:

They fathom Sea and Land, we, when we pleaſe,

Have both the Indies brought to our own Seas;

For Rich and Proud they bring in Ships by Shoals,

And then we humble them to ſave their Souls.

Pox of their Pictures! if we had ’em here,

We’d find ’em Frames at Tyburn, or elſewhere.

The next they draw be it their Admirals,

Tranſpeciated into Finns and Scales;

Or which wou’d do as well, draw, if they pleaſe,

Opdam with th’ Seven ſinking Provinces;

Or draw their Captains from the conqu’ring Main,

Firſt beaten home, then beaten back again.

And 176 Ee5v 58

And after this ſo juſt, though fatal ſtrife,

Draw their dead Boars again unto the Life.

Laſtly, Remember to prevent all Laughter;

Drawing goes firſt, but Hanging follows after.

If then Lampooning thus be their undoing,

Who pities them that purchaſe their own Ruin;

Or will hereafter truſt their treacheries,

Untill they leave their Heads for Hoſtages.

For as the Proverb thus of Women’s ſaid,

Believe ’em nothing, though you think ’em dead.

The Dutch are ſtubborn, and will yield no Fruit

Till, like the Wallnut-Tree, ye beat ’em to’t.

The 177 Ee6r 59

The Last Sayings of a Mouse, Lately Starved in a Cupboard.

As they were taken in Short-hand by a Zealous Rat-catcher, who liſtned at the Key-hole of the Cupboard Door.

Wretch that I am! and is it come to this?

O ſhort continuance of Earthly bliſs.

Did I for this forſake my Country Eaſe,

My Liberty, my Bacon, Beans, and Peaſe?

Call ye me this the breeding of the Town,

Which my young Maſter bragg’d when he came down?

Fool that I was! I heard my Father ſay

(A Rev’rend Mouſe he was, and his Beard gray)

Young Hunt-crum, mark me well, you needs muſt rome,

And leave me and your Mother here at home:

“Great 178 Ee6v 60

Great is your Spirit, at high food you aim,

But have a care — believe not lying Fame;

Vaſt Bodies oft are mov’d by ſlender Springs,

Great Men and Tables are two diff’rent things:

Aſsure thy ſelf, all is not Gold that ſhines;

He that looks always fat, not always dines:

For oft I’ve ſeen one ſtrut in laced Cloak,

And at th’ ſame inſtant heard his Belly croak.

By sad experience now I find too well,

Old Hunt-crum was an arrant Syndrophel.

And muſt I dye? and is there no relief?

No Cheeſe, though I give over thoughts of Beef.

Where is grave Madge, and brisk Grimalkin now,

Before whoſe Feet our Race was wont to bow?

No Owl, no Cat, to end my wofull days?

No Greſham Engine my lean Corps to ſqueeſe?

I’d rather fall to Foes a noble prey,

Than ſqueek my Soul out under Lock and Key.

What’s this? a piſsing Candles latter end,

My dear beloved Country-Save-all Friend?

Thou dreadfull Emblem of Mortality,

Which nothing ſavour’ſt of ſolidity:

Deteſted 179 Ee7r 61

Deteſted Droll’ry of my cruel Fate!

This ſhadow of a Comfort comes too late.

Now you my Brethren Mice, if any be

As yet unſtrav’d in all our Family,

From your obſcure Retreats riſe and appear,

To your, or to your Ghoſts I now draw near.

Unto my priſtine duſt I haſt apace,

Obſerve my hollow Eyes, and meager Face;

And learn from me the ſad reverſe of Fate,

’Tis better to be innocent than great.

Good Conſciences and Bellies full, ſay I,

Exceed the pomp that only fills the Eye.

Farewell you ſee (my friends) that knew me once

Pamper’d and ſmooth, reduc’d to Skin and Bones.

Poor as a Church-Mouſe! O I faint! I dye!

Fly, fly from Cat in ſhape of Famine, fly;

Whilſt at my Death I my Ambition rue,

In this my Cupboard, and my Coffin too;

Farewell to Victuals, Greatneſs, and to you.

To 180 Ee7v 62

To the Secretary of the Muses.

A New-Years-Gift.


With care peruſe the lines I ſend,

Which when you’ve done, you’ll find I am your friend;

I write not for Applauſe, or if I doe,

Who’d value the Applauſe that comes from you,

Or from your Patrons, who of late we ſee,

However they’re diſtinguiſh’d in degree,

Forget themſelves, and grow as dull as thee?

As often drunk, as awkward in their dreſs,

Fight with thy courage, Court with thy ſucceſs.

And when their fond Impertinences fail,

They ſtrait turn Satyriſts, and learn to rail;

With 181 Ee8r 63

With falſe Aſperſions whiteſt truths they touch,

And will aubſe, becauſe they can’t debauch.

No, Julian, ’tis not my deſign to glean

Applauſes either from thy ſelf, or them;

But meerly to aſsume a friendly care,

And give thee Counſel for th’ enſuing Year.

For if all pow’rfull dullneſs keep its ſtation,

Dullneſs chief Manufacture of the Nation,

Thou certainly muſt ſtarve the next Vacation.

To prevent which, obſerve the rules I give,

We never are too old to learn to live.

Firſt then, to all thy railing Scribblers go,

Who do their wit and worth in Libels ſhow;

Bid ’em correct their Manners, and their Style,

For both of ’em begin to grow ſo vile,

They are beneath a Carr-man’s ſcornfull ſmile:

Tell ’em their falſe Coyn will no longer paſs;

Nay, tell ’em that thou know’ſt it to be Braſs:

But above all, beg ’em to mend their ſtrain,

And yet I fear thy pray’rs will be in vain;

For though the Old year, Julian, now is done,

We know there comes another rowling on,

And ſtill another too when that is gone.

But 182 Ee8v 64

But Wit lyes unmanur’d, the barren ſtore

Is ebbing out—I fear ’twill flow no more.

’Tis well thou doſt not live on Wit alone,

For the dull traſh the Men of Sence diſown,

Thy duller Coxcombs wth Applauſes crown.

Since folly then, and nonſence find ſucceſs,

Let this dull trifle paſs amongſt the reſt:

But ſwear withall the Author is a Wit;

Nay, when thou’rt in th’ Enthuſiaſtick fit,

Swear ’tis the higheſt thing that e’er was writ.

Thus with thy noiſe prepare ’em by degrees,

Thou’rt us’d to dullneſs, and thou know’ſt ’twill pleaſe.

Dull then as ’tis, this New-years-gift of mine,

If manag’d well, may help to get thee thine.

Epi- 183 Ff1r 65

Epitaph on the Secretary to the Muses.

Under this weeping Monumental Stone

There lies a Scribe, who, while he liv’d, was known

To ev’ry Bawd, Whore, Pimp, Fop, Fool in Town,

For ſcandal he was born, and we ſhall find,

That now he’s dead, there’s little left behind:

Vaſt was his Courage, witneſs all the ſtore

Of noble Scars, that to his Grave he bore;

All got in War, for he abhorr’d a Whore.

Of ſpreading Libels nothing ſhall be ſaid,

Becauſe ’twas that which brought him in his Bread,

And ’tis a crime to vilifie the Dead.

His Honour for Religion ſtill was great,

In Covent-Garden Church he’d ſlumb’ring fit,

To ſhew his Piety was like his Wit.

Ff But 184 Ff1v 66

But above all, Drink was his chief delight;

He drank all day, yet left not off at night:

Drink was his Miſtreſs; Drinking was his Health;

For without Drinking he was ne’er himſelf.

Ah, cruel Gods! what Mercy can ye boaſt

If the poor Secretary’s, frighted Ghoſt,

Shou’d chance to touch upon the Stygian Coaſt?

But ah his loſs, ’tis now too late to Mourn;

He’s gone, and Fate admits of no return.

But whither is he gone? to’s Grave, no doubt;

Where, if there’s any Drink, he’ll find it out.

A Sa- 185 Ff2r 67

A Satyr,

In Anſwer to the Satyr againſt Man.

By T.L. of Wadham Colledge, Oxon.

Were I a Sp’rit, to chuſe for my own ſhare,

What caſe of Fleſh and Blood I’d pleaſe to wear,

I’d be the ſame that to my joy I am,

One of thoſe brave and glorious Creatures, Man;

Who is from Reaſon juſtly nam’d the bright

And perfect Image of the Infinite:

Reaſon’s, Mankind’s Prerogative, no leſs

Their Nature’s honour, than their happineſs:

With which alone, the meaneſt Creature bleſt,

Were truly ſtyl’d the Lord of all the reſt;

Whence Man makes good his Title, to the Throne,

And th’ whole Creation his Dominion own.

Whence he o’er others, and himſelf preſides,

As ſafe from Errour as Ten thouſand Guides:

Ff2 Through 186 Ff2v 68

Through Doubt’s diſtracting Lab’rinths it directs,

And all the ſubtil Windings there detects.

As ſafely ſteers through Life’s wide Ocean,

As Skilful Pilates through the boundleſs Main;

It ſhews here Scylla, there Charybdis lyes,

And between both ſecurely leads the Wiſe;

Who Quick-ſands, Rocks & Gulfs ſupinely braves,

A deſp’rate Fool may periſh in the Waves;

Who mad and heedleſs wou’d his Guide refuſe;

Can’t blame that reaſon which he cannot uſe.

He that will cloſe, or leave his Eyes behind,

Shou’d not accuſe his Eyes, becauſe they’re blind.

If knowingly, vain Man, his Journey makes

Through Error’s fenny Bogs, and thorny Brakes,

And craggy, ſteep untrodden Paths he takes;

’Tis down-right Nonſence then to look upon

His Errors (Nature’s Imperfection,)

And all Mankind endite with a wrong Bill,

Which reaches not his Nature, but his Will.

Beſides, it’s better reaſon to infer,

That is moſt perfect, which can moſtly Err;

The Hound that’s fam’d for far more politick Noſe,

Than Men in Parliament or Coffee-houſe;

Than 187 Ff3r 69

Than Country-Juſtice, or Old Caesar’s Horſes,

A Conſul’s made for’s Skill in State-affairs;

Who cloſeſt Plots can ſcent and ſpoil alone,

With as much eaſe as he devours a Bone:

Jowler the Wiſe the plodding Jowler is,

Oft at a fault, and oft his Hare doth miſs;

While through unerring-paths a Stone deſcends,

And ſtill arrives at that tow’rds which it tends.

If therefore thoſe are wiſeſt which attain

By ſureſt means the Ends at which they aim:

The latter, doubtleſs, will be wiſer found,

Though this is but a Stone, th’ other a Hound.

So much for Reaſon, th’ next Attempt’s for Man,

For him I muſt defend, and him I can.

Well then: Man is compos’d of Cruelty and Fear,

From theſe his great, and his beſt Actions are;

The charge runs high, and deeply Man’s arraign’d,

His Blood is poyſon’d, and his Nature ſtain’d.

But I ſhall make it ſtraight with eaſe appear,

That the brisk accuſation’s too ſevere;

For undertaking to diſparage him,

They leave their Text, and make the Beaſt their Theme.

Ff3 And 188 Ff3v 70

And firſt the Fears that trouble him within,

Proceed not from his Nature, but his Sin;

Which, like pale Ghoſts, while they the Murth’rer haunt,

Do cramp his Soul, and all his Courage daunt.

Frame gaſtly Fantomes in his guilty Mind,

Frightfull above, below, before, behind:

If in the Houſe, alas the Houſe will fall;

If in the Street, each is a tot’ring Wall;

If in the Fields, what if the Poles ſhou’d crack,

And the vaſt Orbs come tumbling on his back?

A Bird, a Waſp, a Beetle, and a Fly,

With no ſmall dread approach his trembling Eye;

For lately ’tis evinc’d, all Creatures are

No leſs than Man, in the wild ſtate of War;

Which long ago the wary Emp’rour knew,

Who hoſtile flies, with Princely Valour flew.

Is he alone? he ſtartles when he ſees

His moving ſhadow, and his ſhadow flees.

For who can evidence but that may be

No meer privation, but an Enemy?

So when alone a tim’rous Wretch is ſcar’d,

And when he’s not, he’s fearfull of his Guard.

What 189 Ff4r 71

What ſhall he do? or whither ſhall he fly?

Who durſt not live, and yet he durſt not dye:

Say you who e’er have felt thoſe painfull ſtabs;

Say wretched Nero, or more wretched Hobbs.

Guilt is of all, and always is afraid,

From fear to fear ſucceſſively betray’d;

’Tis guilt alone breeds cow’rdiſe and diſtruſt,

For all Men wou’d be Valiant if they durſt;

Thoſe only can’t, who ſwear, and whore, and cheat,

And ſell their Honour at the cheapeſt rate:

Whom brawling Surfeits, Drunkenneſs and Claps;

Hurry on head-long to the Grave perhaps:

Such ſome call Devils, but we think the leaſt,

And therefore kindly head them with the beſt

Chuſe they themſelves whoſe Caſe they’ll pleaſe to wear,

The Caſe of Dog, the Monkey, or the Bear.

So far, I doubt not, but you’ll find it clear,

He’s no true Man, who’s thus compos’d of Fear:

He o’er whoſe Actions Reaſon doth preſide,

Who makes the radiant Light his conſtant Guide;

Vain fear can never o’er his Mind prevail,

Integrity to him’s a Coat of Mail;

Ff4 Of 190 Ff4v 72

Of Vertues and of Honeſty poſseſt,

Againſt all ills h’as trebly arm’d his Breaſt:

Steel, Braſs, and Oak, are but a weak defence,

Compar’d to firm-reſolved Innocence.

This makes the Champion, ’midſt the Bloody Field,

Bolder than he who wore the ſev’n-fold Shield,

To brave the World, and all the dangers there,

Though Heav’n, Air, Sea & Land all conſtant were.

As unconcern’d as were the Forreſt Oak,

He feels the Lightning, and the Thunder-ſtroak:

He meets the Lyon, and the Ragged Bear,

With a great mind that never ſtoop’d to fear.

If the Winds blow, they ſpend their Breath in vain,

Tho’ they enrage and ſwell their boiſt’rous Main.

Till Waves ariſe, and foaming Billows rowl,

For calm in ſpight of Tempeſt is his Soul;

And Syren-like he ſings amongſt the Storms:

The brave can dye, but can receive no harms.

But Men are cruel: no, they’re never ſo

While they continue Men, not Monſters grow:

But when degen’rate, they their pow’r employ,

Not to preſerve their kind, but to deſtroy.

When 191 Ff5r 73

When once unnat’ral, they themſelves engage

In Blood and Rapine, Cruelty and Rage.

Then Beaſts on Beaſts with greater Mercy prey,

The rav’nous Tygers are leſs fierce than they.

The greateſt Good abus’d, turns greateſt Evil,

And so fall’n Lucifer became a Devil.

But who’d not therefore Bleſsed Michael be,

’Cause Devils are Angels too as well as he?

Or elſe to inſtance in their proper ſphere,

Pale and corrupted Wine turns Vinegar,

Will they beyond it therefore praiſe ſmall Beer?

While they debauch’t, are to each other Fiends,

True Men are good unto themſelves and Friends.

Whoſe kindneſs, affability and Love,

Make theſe aboad below, like thoſe above:

Good without ſelf, and without fawning kind,

And own no Greatneſs but a Vertuous Mind:

Grave, Learned, Noble, Valorous and Wiſe;

High without pride, and meek without diſguiſe.

Having at large compleated our defence,

We will in ſhort deſcribe the Men of Sence.

And firſt their Proweſs, next their Learning ſhew;

Laſtly their Wit, and then we’ll let them go:

“For 192 Ff5v 74

For that which Fools the World, Religion,

Your pains are ſav’d, becauſe the Wiſe have none.

Here Hell’s great Agent Hobbs i’th’front appears,

Trembling beneath a load of guilt and fears:

The Devil’s Apoſtle ſent to preach up Sin,

And ſo convert the debauch’d World to him;

Whom Pride drew in as Cheats, their Bubbles catch,

And made him venture to be made a Wretch.

Hobbs, Natures peſt, unhappy England’s ſhame,

Who damns his Soul to get himſelf a Name.

The Reſolute Villain from a proud deſire,

Of being Immortal, leaps into the fire:

Nor can the Caitiff miſs his deſp’rate aim,

Whoſe luſcious Doctrine Proſelytes will gain,

(Though ’tis ſufficiently abſurd, and vain)

Whilſt proud, ill-natur’d, luſtfull Men remain.

And that’s as long as Heav’n and Earth endure;

This th’Halter once, but nothing now can cure.

Next him his learn’d and wiſe Diſciples view,

Perſons of ſignal parts, and honour too,

As the enſuing Catalogue will ſhew.

Huffs, 193 Ff6r 75

Huffs, Fops, Gameſters, Highway-Men, and Players,

Bawds, Pimps, Miſses, Gallants, Grooms, Lacquies, and Pages;

Such as the Poet juſtly thought a crime,

To place in Verſe, or grace them with a Rhime.

But now methinks I ſee towards me Jig,

Huge Pantaloons and huffing Periwig;

With Hat and gaudy Feather o’er it ſpread,

And underneath looks ſomething like a Head.

Bleſs me! what is this Antick ſhape? I can

Believe it any thing beſides a Man:

But ſuch it is, for I no ſooner ask,

But he bears up, and takes me thus to task.

The Devil— ſtraight down drop I,

And my weak under-hearted Friends that’s by:

A Fiend broke looſe, cry’d he, I fear him worſe,

He ſhou’d a Hobbiſt be by th’ ſize of’s Curſe.

Plague—for a peeviſh ſnarling Curr;

Mercy, I cry your Mercy, dreadfull Sir;

For a Broad-ſide theſe Weapons fitter are,

Three wou’d at leaſt ſink a Dutch Man of War.

Theſe are the Sparks, who friends with ſtabs do greet,

And bravely Murther the next Man they meet;

With 194 Ff6v 76

With boldneſs break a ſturdy Drawer’s pate,

If the Wine’s bad, or Reck’ning is too great.

Kill a poor Bell-man, and with his own Bell,

’Tis a rare jeſt to ring the Raſcal’s Knell:

Cry, Dam you to a Dog that takes the Wall,

And for th’ affront the ill-bread Cur muſt fall:

Swear at a Coach-man, and his Horſes kill,

To ſend th’ uncivil Sons of Whores to Hell.

Upon a rude and juſtling Sign-poſt draw,

Though the fam’d Champion George look’t down and ſaw.

Aſsault Glaſs-windows, which like Cryſtal Rock,

Had firmly ſtood the ſharp impetuous ſhock

Of Twenty Winters, and deſpis’d their pow’r,

Yet can’t withſtand their matchleſs Rage one hour.

From all th’ Atchievements of Romantick Knights,

Their bold Encounters and heroick Fights;

One only Parallel to this is brought,

When furious Don the Gyant Windmill fought.

Oh that this Age ſome Homer wou’d afford!

Who might theſe deeds in deathleſs Verſe record.

Here wou’d his large Poetick Soul obtain

A ſubject worthy his immortal vein;

Where 195 Ff7r 77

Where greater deeds wou’d his great Muſe employ,

Than when ſhe ſang the tedious Seige of Troy.

Then ſtout Achilles, Ajax, Diomede,

The future Ages with contempt wou’d read;

Deſpiſe their Name, and undeſerv’d Renown,

Who Ten years ſpent to win a paultry Crown;

For War-like boldneſs, and Advent’rous deeds,

The Camp of Venus that of Mars exceeds.

’Tis an Exploit, no doubt, that’s nobler far

T’ attempt the Dangers of a Female War;

Where in vaſt numbers, reſolute and bold,

Viragoes fight for Honour, and for Gold;

And with unweary’d Violence oppoſe

The fierceſt Squadrons of aſsaulting Foes;

With juſt ſuch weapons, and ſuch courage too,

Did war-like Amazons their Men ſubdue,

Such venom’d Arrows from their Quiver flew.

Next we’ll deſcribe, from a few gen’ral hints,

Their uſual Learning, and Accompliſhments.

In the ſtarch’t Notions of the Hat and Knee,

T’excell them, they defie the braveſt He.

How long they cringe, when within doors they greet,

And when y’ accoaſt one in the open Street.

Whe- 196 Ff7v 78

Whether a Lady led muſt have the Wall;

And if there’s none, which Hand to lead withall.

Which of the two the Houſe firſt enters in,

And then which firſt ſhou’d the vain prate begin.

When three full hours, without one word of ſenſe,

They’ll talk you on genteel impertinence;

And all ſhall be ſurprizing Complement,

And each ſhall have at leaſt five Madams in’t;

Beſides the Courtiſh A-la-modiſh He,

Intriegue Divine, and pleaſant Repartee.

Ladies of Pleaſure, they from Honour know,

By the Hood-knot, and the looſe Geſtico:

They’ll tell exactly, if her temper Red

Be bounteous Nature’s gift, or borrowed.

Deſcry a Beauty through her Maſk and Shroud,

Call her a Sun that’s got behind a Cloud.

The vigour of thoſe fopperies I loſe

For want of breeding, but you muſt excuſe

For this a Clowniſh, rude and Cloyſter’d Muſe.

Nor muſt we all their Acts of Luſt forget,

In Excellence ſurpaſſing any yet:

For Luſt’s more beaſtly, and more num’rous too,

Than Nero’s Pimp, Petronius, ever knew:

More 197 Ff8r 79

More than Albertus, or the Stagyrite,

Though both profoundly on the Subject write.

Now for their Wit.

They have one waggery the top o’th’ reſt,

Which we’ll put firſt, becauſe it is the beſt;

To cheat a Link-Boy of three-half pence pay,

By ſlily ſtealing through ſome blind back-way.

But what compleats the Jeſt, the Boy goes on,

Untill the place appointed he’s upon,

Never ſuſpects the cunning Hero’s gone.

Having thus chous’d the Boy, and ’ſcap’d by flight,

He ſcarcely ſleeps for laughing all the Night.

Tricks himſelf up th’ next Morn, and hies with ſpeed

To tell his Miſs th’ intriegue of what he did;

Who makes reply, ’Twas neatly done indeed.

Then he all Company do’s tire and worry

For a whole week with that ridic’lous Story:

Laſt night I hapned at the Tavern late,

To be where five of theſe great Wits were ſate,

And was ſo nigh as to o’er-hear their prate:

I dare to ſwear, that three amongſt the five,

Were Woodcock, Ninney, and Sir Loſlitive.

Had Shadwell heard them, he had ſtol’n from thence

A Second part of his Impertinence:

Pro- 198 Ff8v 80

Prologues and Epilogues they did reherſe,

With ſcraps and ends of ſtiff untoward Verſe;

And ſtrong Almanſor Rants cull’d from the Plays

Of Goff and Settle, and great Poet-Bays.

An hour or two being ſpent in this diſcourſe,

And all their ſtore quite drein’d, they fall to worſe;

T’ applaud th’ invention of a ſwinging Oath,

And better-humour’d Curſe that fills the Mouth.

A Bawdy Jeſt commands the gen’ral Vogue,

And all admire and hug the witty Rogue.

And if you once but chance to break a Jeſt,

On the dull phlegmatick and formal Prieſt:

Or rather vent a Droll on Sacred Writ,

For th’ more ingenious ſtill, the better Wit.

If he can wreſt a ſcrap to’s preſent Theme,

And pretty often daringly blaſpheme;

Oh, ’tis the Archeſt Rogue, the wittieſt Thing,

He ſhall e’er long be Jeſter to the King:

He parallels the Thrice-renown’d Archee,

And he ſhail write a Book as well as He:

Nay more, Sir, he’s an excellent Poet too,

He’ll all the City Ballad-men out-doe;

Their formal high-bound Muſe waits to expect,

When penſive Mony-wanters will contract

With 199 Gg1r 81

With Clov’n-foot Satan, or ſome wanton Maid,

In ſhape of Sweet-heart is by him betray’d.

Each common trivial humour of the City,

Fills him with Rapture, and creates a Ditty.

The bawlers of Small-coals, Brooms, Pins & Spoons,

Afford him matter to endite Lampoons.

If Sir Knight take a Purge at Tunbridge Waters,

He’ll ſhew in rhime how oft, how far he Squatters.

In forty couples of Heroick Verſe,

Expreſs the features, and the ſprings of’s A—.

Had Hopkins burleſqu’d David with deſign,

Theſe Wits had ſtyl’d his ſilly rhimes divine:

But ſince he did it with an honeſt Heart,

Tom Hopkins Muſes are not worth a F—.

Certainly if the Dev’l ſtruck up and ſung,

After a pawſe ſo many Ages long;

And play’d the Poet after once again,

Though in that old abominable ſtrain,

He once deliver’d his dark Oracle;

’Twoud paſs for Wit, becauſe it came from Hell.

But being of Patience totally bereft,

The Room and Houſe in rage and haſte I left.

Gg Now 200 Gg1v 82

Now ſum up all their Courage, Wit, and then

Tell me if Reaſon will allow them Men;

Rather a large and handſome fort of Apes,

Whom Nature hath deny’d our Sulphur, giv’n our Shapes.

Such in hot Africk Travellers relate,

Mankind in folly only imitate.

But if a thing s’unlikely ſhou’d be true,

That they both wear our Shape and Nature too;

I’d live contented under any ſtate,

Rather than prove ſo vain, abſurd, degenerate:

An Owl, a Kite, a Serpent, or a Rat,

If a more hated thing, let me be that.

Let them laugh on, and ſite the thinking Fools

In Rev’rend Bedlam’s Colledges and Schools.

When men diſtracted do deride the Wiſe,

’Tis their concern to pity and deſpiſe;

Let me to Chains and Nakedneſs condemn’d,

My wretched life in frantick Bedlam ſpend;

There ſigh, pick ſtraws, or count my fingers o’er,

Weep, laugh, ſwagger, huff, quarrel, ſing and roar;

Or with Noll’s heav’nly Porter preach and pray,

Rather than live but half ſo mad as they.

A Con- 201 Gg2r 83

A Congratulatory Poem

To His moſt Sacred Majeſty James the Second, &c; On His late Victories o’er the Rebels in the Weſt.

Since Heav’n your Righteous Cauſe has own’d,

And with ſucceſs your pow’rful Army Crown’d;

Silence were now an injury as rude,

As were the Rebel’s baſe ingratitude.

While th’ Glories of your Arms & Triumphs ſhine,

Not to Congratulate, were to repine,

Your Enemies themſelves wou’d ſtrangely raiſe

By diſ-ingenious and inglorious Ways;

By means no Vulgar Spirit wou’d endure,

But ſuch as either Courage want, or Power.

Gg2 But 202 Gg2v 84

But while your Clemency proclaims aloud,

Compaſſion to the miſerable Croud.

Your Royal Breaſt with Love and Anger burns,

And your Reſentment into Pity turns.

But they your Princely Pardon did refuſe,

And were reſolv’d all Outrages to uſe.

Stern Murtherers, that riſe before the light

To kill the Innocent, and rob at Night:

Unclean Adulterers, whoſe longing Eyes

Wait for the Twilight; Enter in diſguiſe,

And ſay, Who ſees us? Thieves, who daily mark

Thoſe Houſes which they plunder in the dark.

Yet whilſt your Loyal Subjects Blood they ſeek,

With th’Gibbet or the Ax at laſt they meet.

On 203 Gg3r 85

On the ſame.

Cou’d I but uſe my Pen, as you your Sword,

I’d write in Blood, and kill at ev’ry Word:

The Rebels then my Muſe’s pow’r ſhou’d feel,

And find my Verſe as fatal as your Steel.

But ſure, Great Prince, none can preſume to write

With ſuch ſucceſs as you know how to Fight;

Who carry in your Looks th’ Events of War,

Deſign’d, like Cæſar, for a Conquerour.

The World of your Atchievements are afraid,

And th’ Rebels fly before you quite diſmay’d.

And now, Great Prince, may you Victorious be,

Your Fame and Arms o’er-ſpreading Land and Sea,

May you our haughty Neighbours over-come,

And bring rich Spoils and peaceful Laurels home;

Whilſt they their Ruine, or your Pardon meet,

Sink by your Side, or fall before your Feet.

Gg3 A Pa- 204 Gg3v 86

A Panegyrick On His Preſent Majeſty

James the Second:

Occaſionally Written since His late Victories obtained over the Scotch and Weſtern Rebels.

Whilſt with a ſtrong, yet with a gentle hand,

You bridle Faction, & our Hearts command;

Protect us from our ſelves, and from the Foe;

Make us Unite, and make us Conquer too.

Let partial Spirits ſtill aloud complain,

Think themſelves injur’d, ’cauſe they cannot reign;

And own no liberty, but whilſt they may,

Without controul, upon their Fellows prey.

Above the Waves, as Neptune ſhew’d his Face,

To chide the Winds, and ſave the Trojan Race:

So has your Majeſty (rais’d above the reſt)

Storms of Ambition toſſing us repreſt:

Your 205 Gg4r 87

Your drooping Country torn with Civil hate,

Preſerv’d by you remains a Glorious State.

The Sea’s our own, and now all Nations greet

With bending Sails, each Veſsel of our Fleet.

Your Power extends as far as Winds can blow,

Or ſwelling Sails upon the Globe can go.

Heav’n, that has plac’d this Iſland to give Law

To ballance Europe, and her States to awe:

In this Conjunction do’s o’er Brittain ſmile,

The greateſt Monarch, and the greateſt Iſle.

Whether the portion of this World were rent

By the rude Ocean from the Continent:

Or thus Created, it was ſure deſign’d

To be the ſacred refuge of Mankind.

Hither th’ Oppreſsed ſhall henceforth reſort,

Juſtice to crave, and Succour from your Court,

And then, Great Prince, you not for ours alone,

But for the World’s Defender ſhall be known.

Fame, ſwifter than your Winged Navy, flyes

Through ev’ry Land that near the Ocean lyes;

Sounding your Name, and telling dreadfull News

To all that Piracy and Rapine uſe.

Gg4 With 206 Gg4v 88

With ſuch a King the meaneſt Nation bleſt,

Might hope to lift her head above the reſt

What may be thought impoſſible to doe,

For us embraced by the Sea and You;

Lords of the Worlds vaſt Ocean, happy We,

Whole Forreſts ſend to reign upon the Sea:

And ev’ry Coaſt may trouble or relieve,

But none can viſit us without our leave.

Angels and we have this Prerogative,

That none can at our happy Seat arrive:

Whilſt We deſcend at pleaſure to invade,

The Bad with Vengeance, and the Good with Aid.

Our Little World, the Image of the Great,

Like that about the Boundleſs Ocean ſet:

Of her own Growth, has all that Nature craves;

And all that’s rare, as Tribute from her Slaves.

As Egypt do’s not on her Clouds rely,

But to her Nile owes more than to the Sky.

So what our Earth, and what our Heav’n denies,

Our ever conſtant friend the Sea ſupplies.

The taſt of hot Arabia Spice we know,

Free from the ſcorching Sun that makes it grow.

“With- 207 Gg5r 89

Without the Worm in Perſian Silk we ſhine,

And without Planting drink of ev’ry Vine.

To dig for Wealth, we weary not our limbs;

Gold, though the heavieſt Metal, hither ſwims:

Ours is the heavieſt where the Indians mow;

We plough the deep, and reap what others ſow.

Things of the nobleſt kind our own Sail breeds;

Stout are our Men, and war-like are our Steeds.

Here the Third Edward, and the Black Prince too,

France conquering, did flouriſh, & now you,

Whoſe conqu’ring Arms whole Nations might subdue;

Whilſt by your Valour, and your Courteous Mind,

Nations, divided by the Seas, are joyn’d.

Holland, to gain your Friendſhip, is content

To be your ſafe-guard on the Continent:

She from her Fellow Provinces will go,

Rather than hazard to have You her Foe.

In our late Fight, when Cannons did diffuſe

Preventing Paſts, the terrour and the news;

Our Neighb’ring Princes trembled at the roar,

But our Conjunction makes them tremble more.

Your Army’s Loyal Swords made War to ceaſe,

And now you heal us with the Acts of Peace.

Leſs 208 Gg5v 90

Leſs pleaſure take, brave Minds, in Battles won,

Than in reſtoring ſuch as are undone.

Tygers have courage, and the Ragged Bear;

But Man alone can, whom he conquers, ſpare.

To pardon willing, and to puniſh loth;

You ſtrike with one hand, but you heal with both.

As the vex’t World, to find repoſe at laſt,

It ſelf into Auguſtus Arms did caſt:

So England now doth, with like toil oppreſs’d,

Her weary Head into your Boſom reſt,

Then let the Muſes with ſuch Notes as theſe,

Inſtruct us what belongs unto our Peace.

Your Battles they hereafter ſhall indite,

And draw the Image of our Mars in ſight.

Illuſtrious Acts high raptures do infuſe,

And ev’ry Conqueror creates a Muſe.

Here in low ſtrains thy milder deeds we ſing,

And then, Great Prince we’ll Bays and O live bring,

To Crown your Head, while you Triumphant ride

O’er vanquiſh’d Nations, and the Sea beſtride;

While all the Neighbouring Princes unto you,

Like Joſeph’s ſlaves, pay reverence and bow.

A Con- 209 Gg6r 91

A Congratulatory Poem on His Sacred Majesty James the Second’s Succeſſion to the Crown.

No ſooner doth the Aged Phœnix dye,

But kind indulging Nature gives ſupply.

Sick of her Solitude, ſhe firſt retires,

And on her Spicy Death-bed then expires.

Thus God’s Vicegerent unconcern’d, declines

The Crown, and all his Dignities reſigns:

Like dying Parents, who do firſt commend

Their Iſsue to th’ tuition of a Friend;

And then, as if their chiefeſt care was paſt,

Pleas’d with the Settlement, they breathe their laſt:

So he perceiving th’ nigh approach of Death,

That with a Period muſt cloſe his Breath.

His 210 Gg6v 92

His Soul he firſt to God doth recommend,

Then parts from’s deareſt Brother, and beſt Friend-

Contentedly reſigns his dying claim,

To him Succeſsor of his Crown and Fame:

One whoſe wiſe Conduct knows how to diſpence,

Proper rewards to Guilt and Innocence:

A Prince, within the Circle of whoſe Mind

All the Heroick Vertues are confin’d;

That diff’rently diſpers’d, have made Men great,

A Prince ſo juſt, ſo oft preſerv’d by Fate.

On then, Great Potentate, and like the Sun,

Set with the ſplendid Glory you’ve begun.

Diſperſe ſuch hov’ring Clouds as wou’d benight,

And interpoſe themſelves ’twixt us and light.

You boldly dare Jehovah’s Truſt atteſt,

Without a baſe perſwading intereſt

When pleaſing flattery puts on her charms,

To take with gentle Arts and ſoft Alarms;

Fix’t with a Gallant reſolution, you

Uncaſe the Hypocrite, who bids adieu

To this confus’d and ill-digeſted State,

Where Plots new Plots to Counter-plot create:

Truſting 211 Gg7r 93

Truſting to Reaſon’s Conduct as your guide,

You leave the threatning Gulphs on either ſide;

And then erect ſuch marks as may appear,

To caution others from a Shipwrack there.

And ſince your Reign the Rebels plainly ſee

The mean effects of their black Treachery,

The Puritans may now expect in vain,

To Gull with Pious Frauds the Land again;

You, like a Great Columbus, will find out

The hidden World of deep intriegues and doubt.

England no more of Jealouſies ſhall know,

But Halcyon Peace ſhall build, and Plenty flow.

And the Proud Thames, ſwell’d high, no more complains,

But ſmilingly looks on the peaceful Plains.

No Angry Tempeſt then ſhall curl her Brow.

Glad to behold revived Commerce grow;

Whilſt We to James the Second make Addreſs,

Striving who moſt ſhall Loyalty expreſs.

No Faction ſhall us from our ſelves divide,

More than the Sea from all the World beſide,

But link’d together in one Chain of Love,

And with one Spring Unanimous we’ll move;

That 212 Gg7v 94

That to our Foes regret it may be ſaid,

We are again one Body, and one Head:

Which God preſerve, and grant that long you may,

In Righteouſneſs and Peace the Scepter ſway.

On the Presentation of a Bird to his Mistriss.

Walking abroad to taſt the welcom Spring,

And hear the Birds their lays moſt ſweetly

Plac’d on a ſpreading Elm amongſt the reſt, ſing;

(Whoſe rare harmonious warbling pleas’d me beſt)

Was one I tempted to my lure, and caught,

Which now (fair Saint) I ſend you to be taught:

’Tis young, and apt to learn; and ſure no Voice

Was e’er so full of Art, ſo clear and choice

As yours, t’inſtruct it, that in time ’t may riſe

To be the ſweet-tongu’d Bird of Paradiſe.

Advice 213 Gg8r 95

Advice to Silly Maids

By an Unknown Authour.

Within a Virgins Boſom of Fifteen,

The God of Love doth place his Magazeen:

Hoards up his treaſure, all his pow’rfull Charms;

Her Breaſts his Quiver, and his Bow her Arms.

Beauty ſits then triumphant on her brow,

She doth command the World, all Mortals bow,

And worſhip at the Altars of her Eyes;

She ſeems a Goddeſs, and Men Idolize.

At theſe years Nature hath perform’d her part,

And leaves the reſt to be improv’d by Art;

Which with ſuch skill is manag’d five years more,

Each day freſh Glories add to th’ former ſtore.

The motion of the Body, rich attire,

Obliging look, kind language; all conſpire

To catch poor Man, and ſet his Heart on fire.

During 214 Gg8v 96

During this harveſt, they may pick and chooſe;

But have a care, fair Virgins, leſt you loſe

Th’ advantage which this happy ſeaſon yields:

Cold Winter-froſts will nip your blooming Fields,

Wither your Roſes, make your Lillies dye,

And quench the ſcorching Flambeau of your Eye.

For when the clock of Age has Thirty told,

And never Man yet touch’d your Copy-hold,

A ſudden alteration then you’ll find,

Both in your ſtate of Body, and of Mind:

You then ſhall pine, for what you now do ſlight;

Fret inwardly all day, and cry all night;

Devour the Sheets with folded Arms, complain,

And wiſh you had him there, but wiſh in vain.

Then in your Thoughts inſipid pleaſures ſteal,

And on lean Fancy make a hungry meal.

Your Bodies too will with your Minds decay;

As thoſe grow crais’d, ſo theſe will waſt away.

All nauſeous food your Appetites will pleaſe,

And nouriſh indigeſted Crudities.

When once your Mind’s diſturb’d, Nature begins

To furl her Trophies up in wrinkled Skins.

Who can expect the Body e’er ſhou’d thrive,

And lack its natural preſervative?

Want- 215 Hh1r 97

Wanting due ſeaſoning, all fleſh will taint,

’Tis Man preſerves Complexion more than Paint;

So high a Cordial he doth prepare,

In Natures Limbeck, if apply’d with care,

It will perform the very work of Fate;

Not only Life preſerve, but Life create.

Be wiſe in time, leſt you too late repent,

And by ſome prudent choice thoſe ills prevent:

Get a brisk Conſort to ſupply your want,

But let him be a Huſband, no Gallant.

There lies much virtue in a Levite’s Spell;

But more in th’ active part, performing well;

There’s the intrinſick worth, the charming bliſs,

That do’s conveigh your Souls to Paradiſe;

’Twill make you dye with a delightfull pain,

And with like ecſtaſie revive again.

Part with that Virgin Toy, while in the prime,

The Fruit will rot o’th’ Tree, not took in time.

But if you will continue proud and coy,

And ſlight thoſe Men who court you to enjoy;

Here you in wretched Ignorance ſhall dwell,

And may deſervedly lead Apes in Hell.

Hh Far- 216 Hh1v 98

Farther Advice to Young Ladies.

By another Hand.

Be prudent, Ladies; Marry while you may,

Leſt, when too late, you do repent and ſay,

You wiſh you had, whilſt Sun had ſhone, made Hay.

If in th’ principium of your youthfull days,

Your Beauties’s like to Sol’s bright ſhining Rays,

Then you are Critical, and hard to pleaſe.

When as you do begin to chuſe your Mate,

You chuſe him firſt for Name and great Eſtate,

And qualify’d, as I ſhall here relate.

Good- 217 Hh2r 99

Good-natur’d, handſome, Eloquent and wiſe,

Well learn’d, and Skill’d in Arts, of equal ſize,

’Tis Lady’s Niceties to be preciſe.

But when to Twenty-one arriv’d you be,

You do begin to chuſe reſervedly,

Then the young Squire who keeps his Coach is he.

But when as your Meridian is paſt,

As poſting Time doth ſwiftly paſſing haſt,

So will your Cryſtal Beauties fade as faſt

Veſper ſucceeds Aurora in ſmall ſpace,

And Time will ſoon draw wrinkles in that Face,

Which was of late ador’d in ev’ry place.

Hh2 Advice 218 Hh2v 100

Advice to a Town-Miſs.

By Mr. Worſdell.

Dear Mrs. Anne, I’m certain you’ll find true

The late Advice, in writing ſent to you;

And I aſsure you now with Pen in hand,

In Verſe or Proſe I’m ſtill at your command.

If by Poetick Art I could aſsay

To Stigmatize the blackneſs of your way,

I’d fright you from that brutiſh, luſtfull Sin,

Which you ſo much delight to wallow in.

Soar with your thoughts, and penetrate the Sky,

And view the Wing’d Celeſtial Hierarchy.

Think 219 Hh3r 101

Think to what Heav’nly joys you’r free-born Heir,

If you’ll but follow vertuous Actions here,

And that your Ranſom coſt your Saviour dear.

Strive ſtill for Vertue’s Paths with ſtrong deſire,

For flames of Luſt will end in flames of Fire.

If once to Drunkenneſs inclin’d you be,

You’ve ſprung a Leak to all debaucherie;

And drinking Healths, the Body heats with Liquor,

Which makes it proſtitute to Luſt the quicker.

Shun then thoſe paths, don’t foſter in your Breaſt

Such wicked Sins, they’ll but diſturb your Reſt

Torture your Mind till Atropos divide

The fatal twiſt, and ſend you to reſide

In horrors darkſome ſhades, without a guide;

Where you will find for your laſcivious tricks,

Charon muſt waft you o’er the River Styx:

Too ſure you’ll find he’ll not his way miſtake,

But row you ſafe unto Averna’s Lake;

And where you’ll ſurely be compelled to land,

Pluto himſelf will let you underſtand.

Hh3 The 220 Hh3v 102

The Preference of a Single Life before Marriage.

Written at the Requeſt of a Lady. By the ſame.

She that intends ever in reſt to be,

Both for the preſent and the future, free

From cares and troubles, intermix’t with ſtrife,

Muſt flee the hazard of a Nuptial Life:

For having once had touch of Cupid’s Dart,

Once overcome by th’ crafty Courtier’s Art;

And brought at laſt unto the Nuptial Bed,

Adieu to Joy and Freedom, for they’re fled.

She’s then involv’d in troubles without end,

Which always do’s a Married Life attend:

When as before ſhe might have liv’d at eaſe,

In Prayers, and Hymns, and Pſalms have paſs’d her days;

Been chief Commandreſs of her Will and Mind,

And acted any thing her Will deſign’d;

She 221 Hh4r 103

She might go travel where and when ſhe pleaſe,

To paſs away the tedious time with eaſe:

But when once ſubject to the Jugal Band,

Her Wills confin’d, ſhe’s under a Command;

And to reſide at home muſt be her lot,

Till Atropos unlooſe the Nuptial Knot.

Upon Clarinda’s Putting on Her Vizard Mask.

So have I ſeen the Sun in his full pride,

O’er caſt with ſullen Clouds, and then deny’d

To ſhew its luſtre in ſome gloomy night,

When brighteſt Stars extinguiſh’d were of light:

So Angels Pictures have I ſeen vail’d o’er,

That more devoutly Men ſhou’d them adore;

Hh4 So 222 Hh4v 104

So with a Maſk ſaw I Clarinda hide

Her Face, more bright than was the Lemnian Bride.

So I an off’ring to her ruby Lips

Wou’d make, but cannot pay’t for the Eclipſe,

That keeps off my be-nighted Eye; I mean

The Curtain that divides it from the Scene.

Say, my Clarinda, for what Diſcontent,

Keep thy all Roſie Cheeks ſo ſtrict a Lent?

Or is thy Face, which thou do’ſt thus diſguiſe,

In Mourning for the Murthers of thine Eyes?

If ſo, and thoud’ſt reſolve not to be ſeen,

A Frown to me had more than Mid-night been.

The 223 Hh5r 105

The Middle Sister Aſcribed to Clarinda.

Dame Nature ſeems to make your Siſters ſtand,

As Handmaids that attend on either hand;

To right or left I turn not, Poets ſay,

The middle is the beſt and ſafeſt way.

Fortune and Nature are your Friends (my Fair)

For they have plac’d you here in Vertue’s Chair:

Doubtleſs in you the Middle Grace I ſee,

On this ſide Faith, on that ſweet Charity.

Your Siſters ſtand like Banks on either ſide,

Whilſt you the Cryſtal ſtream betwixt them glide;

Or, if you will, they walk on either ſide

Like Bride-Maids, you in middle like a Bride.

What ſhall I farther add? The Trav’ller ſees

A pleaſant Walk between two rows of Trees:

The ſmooth and ſilent Flood in th’ middle flows,

But the Shoars murmur from the Banks rough Brows.

An 224 Hh5v 106

An Elogy on Mrs. M. H.

By a Student of the Inner-Temple.

Some do compare their Miſtreſs in dull Rhimes,

To Pearl and Diamonds brought from Indian Mines;

Their Lips to Corral, & their Neck to Snow,

Robbing both Indies to adorn them ſo.

But theſe, alas, are Metaphors too bare

To make perfection half it ſelf appear;

And to prophane you ſo, wou’d be a Sin,

Worſe to be pardon’d, than commenced in:

A Crime, that brings my Muſe into ſuſpence,

’Twere blaſphemy to fetch a Simile hence.

In You each Member ſhows the whole to be,

Not bare perfection, but a Prodigie.

Nature 225 Hh6r 107

Nature turn’d ſpend-thrift, now deſigns no more

T’ amuſe poor Mortals with ſuch monſt’rous ſtore,

Since you have made her Bankrupt quite, and poor.

Your Eyes (like Heav’ns Illuſtrious Lamps) diſpence

By Beams more bright a ſecret influence

On all Admirers; and, like Heav’n, do give

A Pow’r whereby poor Mortals be and live:

Nor is this all, the Charms that conſtellate

In your fair Eyes, they do not terminate.

An equal ſhare of thoſe Celeſtial Rays,

Crowns ev’ry Member with an equal praiſe;

They’re not confin’d to Lip, or Chin, or Hand,

But univerſal are, as Sea and Land.

Who views your Body with a curious Eye,

May through that milky hew a Soul deſcry:

A Soul! that breaths nought but Seraphick Love,

The ſweet Monopoly of that above:

Modeſt as Virgins are, yet not unkind;

Fair, but not proud; your Goodneſs unconfin’d

To Time or Perſon, and your Judgment great,

But not poſseſsed with a ſelf-conceit:

Per- 226 Hh6v 108

Perfection ſo divine, ſo pure and bright,

Nor Pen nor Tongue can e’er expreſs it right.

The loftieſt Epithite my Muſe e’er knew,

Admits a Greater, when apply’d to You;

Who can reſiſt ſuch Charms, at whoſe Acceſs

Sol ſneaks away to the Antipodes:

Or in the Umbrage of ſome Cloud do’s hide

His Face, as if he fear’d to be out-vy’d.

A Fabrick so Polite, and ſo compleat,

Heav’n may behold with Envy and regret;

To ſee in one poor Mortal thus Ingroſt,

All the perfections that ſhe e’er cou’d boaſt

And were you but immortal too (like it)

Angels wou’d pay that duty we omit;

As if you were a Deity confin’d

To humane Fleſh, not wretched, but refin’d.

A 227 Hh7r 109

A Love-Poem.

By an Oxford Gentleman.

To what kind God am I in debt for this

Obliging Minute that beſtows ſuch bliſs,

As now to repreſent unto my ſight,

That which to Me alone can cauſe delight!

How long in mournful Silence has my Sighs

Bemoan’d thy Abſence? witneſs, O ye Skies.

But now I have obtain’d my wiſh’d ſucceſs,

And have in view my chiefeſt happineſs;

I muſt with haſt my priſon’d thoughts reveal,

Which has been long a torment to conceal.

Phyllis, ah lovely Phyllis, thou art ſhe

Who ſhoweſt Heav’n in Epitome.

Angels with pleaſure view thy Matchleſs Grace,

And both admire and love thy beauteous Face.

Cou’d 228 Hh7v 110

Cou’d Heav’n ſome greater Maſter-piece deviſe,

Set out with all the Glories of the Skies;

That Beauty yet in vain he ſhou’d decree,

Nothing like you can be belov’d by Me.

What Ornament and Symmetry I view,

Where each part ſeems as Beautiful as New.

I long t’enjoy thoſe Hands, thoſe Lips, thoſe Eyes,

Which I, who love you moſt, know how to prize.

But when my Arms imbrace thy Virgin-Love,

Angels ſhall ſing our Bridal Hymn above.

Nature then pleas’d, ſhall give her glad conſent,

And gild with brighter Beams the Firmament.

Roſes unbud, and ev’ry fragrant Flower

Shall ſtrip their Stalks to ſtrow the Nuptial Bower:

The firr’d and feather’d kind the triumph ſhall purſue,

And Fiſhes leap above the Water to ſee you;

And whereſoe’er thy happy foot-ſteps tread,

Nature in triumph after thee is led.

My Eyes ſhall then look languiſhing on thine,

And wreathing Arms our ſoft Embraces joyn;

And in a pleaſing trembling ſeiz’d all o’er,

Shall feel delights unknown to us before.

What 229 Hh8r 111

What follows will our pleaſures moſt inhance,

When we ſhall ſwim in Ecſtaſie and Trance,

And ſpeechleſs Joys; in which ſweet tranſport toſs’d,

We both ſhall in a pleaſant Death be loſt

I know not where to end this happy Theam;

But is it real? or ſome airy Dream?

A ſudden fear do’s all my thoughts ſurprize,

I dare not truſt the witneſs of my Eyes.

How fixt I ſtand, and indiſpos’d to move

Theſe pleaſant Charms, unwilling to diſprove:

Like him, who Heav’n in a ſoft Dream enjoys,

To ſtir and wake, his Paradiſe deſtroys.

Ano 230 Hh8v 112

Another Love-Poem. By the ſame Authour.

Pride of the World in Beauty, Pow’r, and Love;

Beſt of thy Sex! Equal to Gods above:

Unparalell’d Vertue; they that ſearch about

The World, to find thy Vertues equal out,

Muſt take a Journey longer than the Sun;

And Pilgrims dye e’er half their race is run.

Your charming Beauty can’t but pleaſe the ſight,

With all that is in Nature exquisite.

About thoſe Lips Ambroſial odours flow,

Nectar, and all the Sweets of Hybla grow.

Thoſe ſparkling Eyes reſiſtleſs Magick bear;

I ſee young wanton Cupids dancing there.

What melting Charms there waves about thy Breaſt!

On whoſe tranſporting Billows Jove might reſt’

And with immortal Sweets be ever bleſt

Shall I but name the other charming Bliſs,

That wou’d conveigh our Souls to Paradise?

Gods! 231 Ii1r 113

Gods! how ſhe charms! none ſure was e’er like thee,

Whoſe very ſight do’s cauſe an Ecſtaſie:

Thou art ſo ſoft, ſo ſweet, and ſilent all,

As Births of Roſes, or as Bloſsoms fall.

Hide then thoſe Eyes; take this loſt Magick hence,

My Happineſs ſo much tranſports my Sence;

That ſuch another look, will make me grow

Too firmly fix’t, ever to let you go.

Soul, ſummon all thy force thy joy to bear,

Whilſt on this Hand eternal Love I ſwear.

Sweeteſt of Creatures! if there Angels be!

What Angel is not wiſhing to be Thee?

Can any happineſs compare with mine?

’Tis wretched ſure to be a Pow’r Divine;

And not the Joys of happy Lovers know:

Wou’dſt thou, my Deareſt, be an Angel now?

O how the Moments ſweetly glide away!

Nothing of Night appears, but all is Day.

Inflam’d with Love, theſe Minutes I’ll improve,

And ſum an Ages Bliſs in one Hours Love.

But ſhou’d I long ſuch vehement raptures feel,

I fear the tranſports of delight wou’d kill.

Ii The 232 Ii1v 114

The Lover’s Will.

Let me not ſigh my laſt, before I breathe

(Great Love) ſome Legacies; I here bequeathe

Mine Eyes to Argus, if mine Eyes can ſee;

If they be blind, then Love I give them thee;

My Tongue to Fame, t’Embaſsadors mine Ears,

And unto Women, or the Sea, my Tears.

My Conſtancy I to the Planets give,

My Truth to them who at the Court do live;

My Silence t’any who abroad have been,

My Money to a Capuchin;

My Modeſty I give to Souldiers bare,

And all my Patience let the Gameſters ſhare.

I give my Reputation unto thoſe

Which were my Friends; my Induſtry to Foes;

To 233 Ii2r 115

To School-men I bequeath my Doubtfulneſs,

My Sickneſs to Phyſicians or Exceſs;

To Nature all that I in Rhime have writ,

And to my Company I leave my Wit.

To him for whom the Paſſing-bell next tolls,

I give my Phyſick-Books my Written Rolls

Of Moral Counſels I to Bedlam give,

My Brazen Medals unto them which live

In want of Bread; To them which paſs among

All Foreigners, I leave my Engliſh Tongue.

Thou Love taught’ſt me, by making me adore

That charming Maid, whoſe Twenty Servants more,

To give to thoſe who had too much before;

Or elſe by loving where no Love receiv’d cou’d be,

To give to ſuch as have an incapacitie.

Ii2 A 234 Ii2v 116

A Love-Letter.

By W.S. M.D.

Sweet Lady,

Your conqu’ring Eyes have by their Magick Art,

Convey’d ſuch Flames into my Captiv’d Heart,

I cannot reſt; Ah therefore, do not prove

Cruel to him whom your Eyes taught to Love;

Nor blame this rude attempt, ſince what I do,

My ardent Paſſion do’s compell me to;

I wou’d be ſilent, fearing to offend,

But then my Torments ne’er wou’d have an end.

Yet though in this I may appear too bold,

My Love is pure, and therefore may be told:

Beſides, you are ſo fair, your Vertues ſuch,

That ſhou’d I ſtrive, I cannot ſay too much.

So well accompliſh’d you’re in th’ Art of Love,

You’ve Charms enough t’ inflame another Jove.

Let not your coyneſs therefore blind the light

Of your fair Eyes, which now do ſhine ſo bright;

For ſhe that gives occaſion to deſpair,

By all that’s good is neither kind nor fair;

Though 235 Ii3r 117

Though outward Beauty ſoon may charm the Mind,

And make the moſt obdurate Heart prove kind:

Yet nothing charms an Am’rous Heart ſo ſtrong,

As the ſweet Notes of a fair Female Tongue,

That charms the Soul, and all the Senſes move,

And adds new Sweets to the delights of Love.

Love is the nobleſt Paſſion of the Mind,

And ſhe that unto it can prove unkind,

Is either ſimple, deſtitute of Wit,

Or elſe her Pride will not acknowledge it.

But that’s too black to dwell in your fair Breaſt,

Nothing but things divine can there have reſt

If therefore wilfull Pride don’t taint your Mind,

But as your Face is fair, your Heart is kind.

My Pen ſhall then maintain your worth and praiſe,

And from all others I’ll poſseſs the Bays:

But if by frowns againſt me you take Arms,

Your Beauty has no Snares, your Eyes no Charms.

And though a Stranger yet to you I am,

If you prove kind, I’ll not conceal my Name;

Till then I reſt to ſee theſe lines ſucceſs,

On which depends my future happineſs.

Ii3 A Speech 236 Ii3v 118

A Speech to his Miſtreſs in a Garden.

The Glory which we ſee inveſt theſe Flow’rs

Is lent, & they muſt live but ſome few hours;

So Time, what we forbear to uſe, devours.

From fading Leaves, you ſee how Time reſumes

Their fragrant ſcent, and ſweet perfumes.

Look but within the moſt retired places,

Where utmoſt Skill is us’d to keep good Faces.

Yet in ſome diſtant time they will be ſeen

The ſpoil of Age: witneſs th’ Egyptian Queen;

Or the fair charming Hellen, who by Time

Had nothing left———

But what at laſt expreſs’d were by her Shrine.

Or thus; Shou’d ſome Malignant Planet bring

Upon the Autumn, or the blooming Spring

A barren drought, or rain a ceaſeleſs ſhow’r,

Yet ’twou’d not Winters coming ſtop one hour.

But cou’d you be preſerv’d by Loves neglect

From coming Years decay, then more reſpect

Were juſtly due to ſo divine a Faſhion,

Nor wou’d I give indulgence to my paſſion.

An 237 Ii4r 119

An Address to a Gentlewoman Walking in a Garden.

By an Oxford Gentleman.

Madam, I hope, though I a Stranger am,

Your candid Goodneſs will not let you blame

This bold intruſion, that do’s now bereave

You of theſe privacies without your leave;

And as you’re fair, I hope you’re no leſs kind,

Craving your pardon then, I’ll ſpeak my mind:

But oh! I fear my troubled Heart bodes ill,

One word from you my life do’s ſave or kill;

Firſt for your pity then I muſt beſeech,

Lodg’d at your feet, you would behold this wretch.

O that the Gods above wou’d bring to paſs,

You might my ſuit, without my ſpeaking gueſs;

But that won’t be, relating then, fair Saint,

My firm-fix’t Love in murmuring complaint.

Ii4 Not 238 Ii4v 120

Not long ſince, walking through the ſhady Grove,

To ſee thoſe tender budding Plants improve;

And coming downwards from the Rivers head,

To hear the noiſe the purling Waters made,

And ſee her various and delightfull pride,

Streaming in Circles as the Waters glide.

Then ’twas I heard a ſhrill melodions ſound,

Pleaſanter far than what I there had found.

One while I thought it was ſome Angel’s tune,

Whoſe pleaſing Echo ſtill wou’d re-aſsume

Its firſt high quav’ring ſtrein, and then fall low’r;

In ſhort, too charming for the ſtrongeſt pow’r.

My curioſity then brought me to

A loneſome Grotto, where as prying through

Its verdant ſpreading branches, I did ſee

That beauteous Form which thus has wounded me;

And ever ſince my Paſſion is the ſame,

Reſiſt not then ſo true and pure a Flame;

But with kind pity ſend me ſome relief,

Since my Heart’s ſtole by you, the pretty Thief,

From whoſe bright Eyes ſuch conqu’ring Charms do dart,

As might enſlave and captivate each Heart:

The 239 Ii5r 121

The greateſt Praiſe is to your Beauty due,

All muſt their Homage pay when ſeen by you.

The Fruit-tree nodding with each blaſt that blows,

Through the great preſsure of her loaden Boughs,

Seems to deſign none but your hand to crop

Her pendent Cluſters, from her Branches top.

The purple Vi’let, and the bluſhing Roſe,

With ſweet Carnations, wait till you diſpoſe

Their fragrant ſcent to your ſagacious Noſe.

If you’re diſpleas’d the faireſt downwards drop.

Its fading penſive head, and wither’d top:

But if you’re angry, poſſibly the Sun

Might ſtop his courſe, and not his journey run;

At which th’amazed and affrighted World

Might to its firſt rude Chaos ſoon be hurl’d.

And ſince my Fate’s wrapt up in what you doom,

Do not my Paſſion with your ſcorn o’er-come;

But with the Sweets of Love, and then we’ll be

Lock’t in Embraces to Eternity.

Upon 240 Ii5v 122

Upon A Gentlewomans Refuſal of a Letter from one ſhe was ingaged to.

By Sir C.S.

Not hear my Meſsage, but the Bearer ſhun!

What helliſh Fiend inrag’d cou’d more have done?

Surely the Gods deſign to make my Fate

Of all moſt wretched, and unfortunate.

’Twas but a Letter, and the Words were few,

Fill’d with kind wiſhes, but my Fate’s too true.

I’m loſt for ever, baniſh’d from her ſight,

Although by Oaths and Vows ſhe’s mine by right.

Ye Gods! look down, and hear my Sorrows moan,

Like the faint Echoes of a dying groan.

But how is’t poſſible ſo fair a Face

Shou’d have a Soul ſo treacherous and baſe,

To promiſe conſtancy, and then to prove

Falſe and unkind to him ſhe vow’d to love?

Oh, 241 Ii6r 123

Oh, Barb’rous Sex! whoſe Nature is to rook

And cheat Mankind with a betraying look.

Hence I’ll keep guard within from all your Charms,

And ever more reſiſt all freſh Alarms;

I’ll trace your windings through the darkeſt Cell,

And find your Stratagems, though lodg’d in Hell.

Your gilded Paintings, and each treacherous Wile,

By which ſo eas’ly you Mankind beguile;

Winds are more conſtant than a Womans Mind,

Who holds to none but to the preſent kind:

For when by abſence th’ Object is remov’d,

The time is gone and ſpent wherein ſhe lov’d.

And is it not the very ſame with me,

To ſlight my Love, when I muſt abſent be?

Perhaps ſh’has ſeen a more attracting Face,

And a new Paramour has taken place.

And ſhall my injur’d Soul ſtand Mute, and live,

Whilſt that another reaps what ſhe can give?

Glutted with pleaſures, and again renew

Their paſt delights, although my claim and due.

Oh, no, my Soul’s inrag’d, revenge calls on,

I’ll tear her piece-meal e’er my fury’s gone;

Stretch 242 Ii6v 124

Stretch out my Arm all o’er th’inconſtant ſtain,

And then cleave down her treach’rous limbs in twain:

The greateſt plagues Invention e’er cou’d find,

Is not ſufficient for th’ inconſtant Mind.

I think I have o’er-come my Paſſion quite,

And cou’d not love, although ’twere in deſpight.

As for the Man who muſt enjoy my room,

He’ll ſoon be partner in my wretched doom;

He by her Faith, alas, no more will find,

Than when ſhe ſwore to me to prove moſt kind.

Therefore I’ll leave her, and eſteem her leſs;

And in my ſelf both joy and acquieſce.

But oh, my Heart, there’s ſomething moves there

Sure ’tis the vigour of unbounded Will.

Too much, I fear, my Fetters are not gone, ſtill,

Or I at leaſt again muſt put them on.

Methinks I feel my Heart is not got free,

Nor all my Paſſions ſet at liberty,

From the bright glances of her am’rous Eye.

Down Rebel-love, and hide thy boyiſh Head,

I’m too much Man to hear thy follies plead:

Go ſeek ſome other Breaſt of lower note;

Go make ſome Old decrepit Cuckold dote:

Begone, 243 Ii7r 125

Begone, I ſay, or ſtrait thy Quiver, Bow,

And thou thy ſelf fall to deſtruction too.

But oh, I’m gone, my Foes have all got ground,

My Brains grow giddy, and my Head turns round.

My Heart’s intangled with the Nets of Love;

My Paſſions rave, and now ye Gods above

Help on my doom, and heave me to your Skies;

Look, look, Mervinda’s juſt before my Eyes:

Help me to catch her e’er her Shadow fly,

And I fall downward from this rowling Sky.

In Praiſe of a Deformed, but Virtuous, Lady;

Or, A Satyr on Beauty.

Fine Shape, good Features; and a handſom Face,

Such do the glory of the Mind deface;

But Vertue is the beſt and only grace.

Venus Man’s Mind inflames with luſtfull fires,

Conſumes his Reaſon, burns his beſt deſires.

Wer’t 244 Ii7v 126

Wer’t thou, my Soul, but from my Body free;

Had Fleſh and Blood no influence on thee;

Then woud’ſt thou love a Woman, & woud’ſt chuſe

The Soul-fair-ſhe to be thy bleſsed Spouſe.

Beauty’s corrupt, and like a Flower ſtands,

To be collected by impureſt hands;

’Tis hard, nay ’tis ſcarce poſſible to find

Vertue and Venus both together joyn’d;

For the fair She, who knows the force and ſtrength

Of Beauty’s charms, grows proud, and then at length

Luſt and Ambition will poſseſs her Breaſt,

Which always will diſturb Man’s peacefull reſt

Beware my Soul, leſt ſhe enſnare thy ſence;

Againſt her Wiles, let Vertue be thy fence.

Some pleaſe their fancies with a Picture well,

And for meer toys, do real pleaſures fell:

No bliſs, fond Cupid thinks like what is in

The ſmoothing of his Ladies tender Skin.

Her ſnowy Breaſts, kind Looks, and ſparkling Eye,

Strait Limbs, with bluſhing Cheeks and Forehead high,

In theſe his beſt and chiefeſt pleaſures lye:

What other parts ſhe can for pleaſure ſhow,

You can produce as well as ſhe, I know.

When 245 Ii8r 127

When Age with furrows ſhall have plow’d her Face,

And all her Body o’er thick wrinkles place;

Her Breaſts turn black, her ſparkling Eyes ſink in,

Fearfull to ſee the briſtles on her Chin,

Her painted Face grown ſwarthy, wan, and thin;

Her Hands all ſhrivel’d o’er, her Nails of length

Enough to dig her Grave, had ſhe but ſtrength.

Such is the Miſtreſs, that blind Poets praiſe;

Such fooliſh Theams, their grov’ling fancies raiſe.

My Miſtreſs is more lovely, and more fair;

Graces divine in her, more brighter are:

She is the ſource of Bliſs, whilſt Vertue reigns

In her, all things impure her Soul diſdains.

Thoſe fools ne’er knew pure Love’s moſt ſacred Arts,

That e’er were conquer’d by blind Cupid’s Darts,

Or ſtand as ſlaves to their own carnal hearts.


’Tis the preheminence that’s ſeen in you,

Which do’s with ſacred Love my heart ſubdue;

For all muſt own who’ve read in Nature’s Books,

Modeſty and Good-nature’s in your Looks:

Your 246 Ii8v 128

Your Converſation’s mild, theſe ſacred Charms,

Protection are ’gainſt Luſts impurer harms.

Theſe and your other Vertues do excell,

And matchleſs ſeem to want a parallel.

In your moſt ſacred Preſence none can think

Of Luſt, or once its horrid Venom drink;

You are an object that will ſoon diſpell

Luſts moſt delightfull poiſons ſent from Hell;

Your Self’s the ſubſtance of the Saints above,

You move my Soul with chaſt and holy Love;

For you alone large Off’rings I deſign,

And with continual prayers I wiſh you mine.

Oh that Omnipotence wou’d Bounty ſhew,

And make me happy in contracting you.

A 247 Kk1r 129

A Love-Letter. By W. S. Gent.


Twou’d prove a needleſs thing, ſhou’d I

Strive to ſet forth what’s obvious to each Eye;

To ſpeak your Worth and Beauty, wou’d but be

To ſhow the Sun at noon, which all Men ſee.

Beauty it ſelf, Youth ſmiles, and ev’ry grace,

Do all pay tribute to your Heav’nly Face.

One smile from you might make the Dead to live,

Yielding more Wealth than laviſh Worlds can give.

Your ſparkling Eyes out-dart the pale-fac’d Moon;

You are far brighter than the Eye of Noon.

Phoebus his Golden Fleece looks not ſo fair,

As the fine ſilver threads of your ſoft Hair.

Aurora mantled in her ſpreading Beams,

To rouſe up Mortals from their ſlumb’ring Dreams;

When ſummoning the Morning, can’t compleat

That modeſt bluſh which in your Cheeks takes ſeat:

Kk Whiter 248 Kk1v 130

Whiter than untrod Snow on Mountains ſeen,

And which I muſt confeſs beyond eſteem,

Are thoſe white Iv’ry Teeth, whoſe even row,

The harmony of Love in Union ſhow.

In various wantonneſs, each branching Vein

Do’s your white Breaſts with blue Meanders ſtain;

From which clear Fountains flow with greateſt meaſure,

The moſt delightfull Magazine of treaſure.

The Muſes and the Syrens ceaſe their Song,

At the ſoft Muſick of your charming Tongue:

Angel or Saint, I know not which by feature,

Sure both are joyn’d to make ſo ſweet a Creature,

The lovely chance-work, Maſter-piece of Nature.

As if the Gods miſtaking Mould, that time

Had caſt your Species more than half divine;

Who can his Paſſion from ſuch Beauty tame,

You’ve Charms enough to ſet the World on flame;

Mix’t with more tempting and attractive graces,

Than can extracted be from humane Faces!

Oh let me at thoſe balmy Lips take fire,

And with purſuit of Kiſses ev’n tire;

Which do diſplay ſuch a Vermilion red,

And when with pleaſure fill’d, then hold thy head

Faſt 249 Kk2r 131

Faſt to my kindled and inflamed Heart,

Pierc’d by your Eyes bright glancing beams, which dart

Through my Souls ſecret and moſt inward part;

Which done, let mine in your fair Boſom lye,

Till in exceſs of joy and ecſtaſie,

I there ſhall languiſh out my Soul and dye;

And afterwards with like tranſport of Mind,

Revive again, and all my Senſes find.

In Praiſe of Letters.

Letters are wing’d Poſtillions, and do move

From Eaſt to Weſt on Embaſſies of Love.

The baſhfull Lover, when his ſtamm’ring Lips

Falter with fear from unadviſed ſlips,

May boldly Court his Miſtreſs with the Quill,

And his hot Paſſions to her Breaſt inſtill.

The Pen can furrow a fond Females Heart,

And pierce it more than Cupid’s feigned Dart.

Letters a kind of Magick Vertue have,

And like ſtrong Philtres humane Souls inſlave;

Kk2 They 250 Kk2v 132

They can the Poles, and Emperour inform,

What Towns in Hungary are won by ſtorm

From the great Turk: Mounſieur of them may know

How Foreign States on French Intriegues do blow.

The lucky Gooſe ſav’d Jove’s beleagu’rd Hill,

Once by her Noiſe, but oftner by her Quill.

It twice prevented Rome was not o’er-run,

By the tough Vandal, and the rough-hewn Hun.

Letters can Plots, though moulded under-ground,

Diſcloſe, and their fell complices confound.

Witneſs that fiery Pile, which wou’d have blown

Up to the Clouds, Prince, People, Peers, and Town,

Tribunals, Church, and Chappel, and had dry’d

The Thames, though ſwelling in her higheſt pride;

And parboyl’d the poor Fiſh, which from her Sands

Had been toſs’d up to the adjoyning Lands.

Lawyers as Vultures, had ſoar’d up and down,

Prelates like Magpyes in the Air had flown,

Had not the Eagle’s Letter brought to light

That Subterranean horrid work of Night.

Letters may more than Hiſtory incloſe,

The choiceſt learning both in Verſe and Proſe:

Witneſs 251 Kk3r 133

Witneſs Mich. Drayton, whoſe ſweet-charming Pen

Produc’d thoſe Letters ſo admir’d by Men.

Words vaniſh ſoon, and vapour into Air,

While Letters on record ſtand freſh and fair;

And like to Gordian Knots do Nature tye,

Elſe all Commerce and Love ’twixt Men wou’d dye.

The Idea. By Charles Cotton, Eſq;.

Art thou then abſent, O thou dear

And only Subject of my Flame?

Are theſe fair Objects that appear

But ſhadows of that noble frame,

For which I do all other form diſclaim?

Am I deluded? do I only rave?

Was it a Phantaſme only that I ſaw?

Have Dreams ſuch power to deceive?

Kk3 Oh, 252 Kk3v 134

Oh, lovely Shade, thou did’ſt too ſoon withdraw,

Like fleecy Snow, that as it falls, doth thaw.

Glorious Illuſion! Lovely ſhade!

Once more deceive me with thy light;

’Tis pleaſure ſo to be betray’d,

And I for ever ſhall delight,

To be purſu’d by ſuch a charming Sprite.

Love’s Sympathy.


Soul of my Soul! it cannot be

That you ſhou’d weep, and I from tears be free.

All the vaſt room between both Poles,

Can never dull the fence of Souls,

Knit in ſo faſt a knot:

Oh can you grieve, and think that I

Can feel no ſmart, becauſe not nigh,

Or that I know it not.

Th’are 253 Kk4r 135


Th’are heretick thoughts, Two Lutes when ſtrung,

And on a Table tun’d alike for Song;

Strike one, and that which none did touch,

Shall ſympathizing ſound as much,

As that which touch’d you ſee:

Think then this World (which Heav’n inrolls)

Is but a Table round, and Souls

More apprehenſive be.


Know they that in their groſseſt parts,

Mix by their hallow’d Loves intwined Hearts;

This priviledge boaſt, that no remove

Can e’er infringe their ſenſe of Love:

Judge hence then our Eſtate,

Since when we lov’d, there was not put

Two Earthen hearts in one breaſt, but

Two Souls Co-animate.

Kk4 A 254 Kk4v 136

A Pindarique Ode on Mr. Cowley.

To tune thy praiſe, what Muſe ſhall I invoke, what Quire?

None but thy Davideis, or thy David’s Lyre:

True Poet, and true Man,

Say more than this who can;

No, not an Angel’s mighty Eloquence.

Theſe two,

Theſe only doe,

Of all perfections make a Quinteſsence.

Then, my dear Cowley, dye,

For why ſhou’d fooliſh I,

Or fooliſh Sympathy,

Wiſh thee to live? ſince ’tis no more to live, no more to dye,

Than to be here on Earth, and to be there about the Sky,

Both to you ſhared equally.

An 255 Kk5r 137

An Ode. By Mr. R. D. of Cambridge.

O Ye bleſt Pow’rs, propitious be

Unto my growing Love!

None can create my Miſery,

If Cloe but conſtant prove.

Tell her if that ſhe pity me,

From her you’ll ne’er remove.

Each Brize of Air, my groans ſhall bear,

Unto her gentle Breaſt;

Silently whiſp’ring in her Ear,

I never can be bleſt;

If ſhe refuſe to be my Dear,

I never can have reſt.

Ye Groves, that hear each day my grief,

Bear witneſs of my pain;

Tell 256 Kk5v 138

Tell her I dye, if no relief

I from her Pow’r can gain;

Tell her, ah, tell that pretty Thief,

I dye through her diſdain.

Likely ſhe may with piteous Eyes,

When dead, my Hearſe ſurvey;

And when my Soul ’mongſt Deities

Doth melt in Sweets away,

Then may ſhe curſe thoſe Victories

That did my Heart betray.

An Ode of Anacreon Paraphras’d. Beauties Force.


I Wonder why Dame Nature thus

Her various gifts diſpences,

She ev’ry Creature elſe but us

With Arms or Armour fences.

The 257 Kk6r 139

The Bull with bended horns ſhe arms,

With hoofs ſhe guards the Horſe;

The Hare can nimbly run from harms,

All know the Lyon’s force.


The Bird can danger fly on’s Wing,

She Fiſh with Fins adorns;

The Cuckold too, that harmleſs thing,

His patience guards, and’s horns:

And Men ſhe Valiant makes, and wiſe,

To ſhun or baffie harms;

But to poor Women ſhe denies

Armour to give, or Arms.


Inſtead of all, ſhe this do’s do;

Our Beauty ſhe beſtows,

Which ſerves for Arms, and Armour too,

’Gainſt all our pow’rfull Foes:

And ’tis no matter, ſo ſhe doth

Still beauteous Faces yield;

We’ll conquer Sword and Fire, for both

To Beauty leave the Field.

A Pin- 258 Kk6v 140

A Pindarique Ode.

By Mr. John Whitehall.


Madam, at firſt I thought,

My Paſſions might to my Commands be brought,

When, Love me not, you cry’d,

And ſaid in vain I did purſue

The hopes of ever winning you;

So I to ſlight it try’d,

But ’twou’d not doe;

For in the conflict I was almoſt crucify’d.


At firſt did riſe

Beauty, which fought me with your pow’rfull Eyes;

And when I had in vain

Driv’n th’ Uſurper from my heart,

She drew her Bow, and ſhot a Dart,

Which vanquiſh’d me again:

What ſtrength of Man, what Art

Cou’d with this Amazon a Combat long maintain.

Next 259 Kk7r 141


Next after her,

Vertue well arm’d for Battle did appear,

Attending on her ſide,

Charity, Mercy, Eloquence,

Wit and a Virgin Innocence,

In war-like ſtate did ride;

And I did ſince

I cou’d not with all theſe contend, but muſt have dy’d.


But if ſtill you

Do cry, forbear this Conqueſt to purſue;

You muſt debauch your Mind,

Turn all your Vertues into Vice,

And make an Hell of Paradiſe,

Be falſe, deform’d, unkind:

By this device,

And by no other, I from Love may be declin’d.


But why? but why

Name I this great impoſſibility?

I ſcarce cou’d ſo remove

The 260 Kk7v 142

The great affection which I bear,

Were you as bad, as good you are,

So difficult ’twill prove

To you, I ſwear;

Eternal is your Goodneſs, and Eternal is my Love.

From Ovid’s Amorum, lib. 2. El. 4. and Lucretius, lib. 4. That he loves Women of all ſorts and ſizes.

Preſ’d with my thoughts, I to confeſſion fall,

With anxious fears, till I lay open all;

I ſin and I repent, clear of the ſcore,

Then afterward relapſe in Sin the more.

My ſelf I guide, like ſome ſwift Pinnace toſs’d

In Storms; the Rudder gone, and Compaſs loſt;

No certain ſhape or features ſtint my mind,

I ſtill for Love a thouſand Reaſons find;

Melodiouſly one ſings, then ſtraight I long

To quaver on her Lips, ev’n in her Song.

If ſhe be vers’d in Arts, and deeply read,

I’m taken with her learned Maiden-head:

Or 261 Kk8r 143

Or if untaught, and ignorant ſhe be,

She takes me then with her ſimplicitie.

I like whom rigid Education fools,

Who wou’d not try to put her paſt her rules;

Though look demure, her Inclinations ſwerve,

And, once let looſe, ſhe jigs without reſerve.

Sanguine her looks, her colour high and good,

For all the reſt I truſt her fleſh and blood.

Here living Snow my paſſion ſtrangely warms,

And ſtreight I wiſh her melting in my Arms;

White, Red, or Guinny black, or Gypſey brown,

My dearly-well-beloved ev’ry one.

If ſhe is tall, my courage mounts as high,

To ſtamp ſome new heroick Progeny:

If little, oh how quick the Spirit moves!

If large, who wou’d not rowl in what he loves?

The lean provokes me with her naughty rubs;

But if ſhe’s plump, ’tis then my pretty Fubs;

And doubtleſs one might truck convenient ſport,

With either fat, or lean, or long, or ſhort,

With yellow Curls Aurora pleas’d her Fop,

And Leda (Jove well saw) was black-a-top.

The 262 Kk8v 144

The black or yellow are alike to me,

My Love will ſuit with ev’ry Hiſtory.

If Caelia ſing, ſhe, like a Syrene, draws;

If ſhe ſing not, we kiſs without a pauſe:

I love to rifle amongſt Gems and Dreſs;

Yet lumber they to God-like nakedneſs.

Buzzards and Owls on ſpecial quarry fall,

Mine is a gen’rous Love, and flies at all.

I like the Rich, ’cauſe ſhe is pamper’d high,

And merry Beggar love for Charity;

Widow or Wife, I’m for a Pad that’s made;

If Virgin troth, who wou’d not love a Maid?

If ſhe be young, I take her in the nick;

If ſhe has Age, ſhe helps it with a trick.

If nothing charms me in her Wit or Face,

She has her Fiddle in ſome other place.

Come ev’ry ſort and ſize, the great or ſmall,

My Love will find a Tally for ’em all.

The foregoing Elegy having been Publiſh’d imperfect, is here Printed from the beſt Copy.

The 263 Ll1r 145

The Parallel.

As when proud Lucifer aim’d at the Throne,

To have Uſurp’t it, and made Heav’n his own:

(Blaſphemous, damn’d deſign) but ſoon he fell,

Guarded with dreadfull lightning down to Hell;

Or as when Nimrod lofty Babel built,

(A Structure as Eternal as his guilt;)

Let us, ſaid he, raiſe the proud Tow’r ſo high,

As may amaze the Gods, and kiſs their Sky;

He ſpoke———but the ſucceſs was diff’rent found,

Heav’ns angry Thunder cruſh’t him to the ground;

So Lucifer, and ſo proud Babel fell,

And ’tis a curſed fall from Heav’n to Hell.

So falls our Courtier now to Pride a prey,

And falls too with as much reproach as They:

And juſtly———

That with his nauſeous Courtſhip durſt defile

The ſweeteſt, choiceſt Beauty of our Iſle:

Ll That 264 Ll1v 146

That he was proud, we knew; but now we ſee,

Like Janus, looking on Eternity,

Both what he was, and what he meant to be.

Stern was his Look, and ſturdy was his Gate;

He walk’t, and talk’t, and wou’d have kiſs’d in ſtate.

Diſdain and Scorn ſate perching on his Brow;

But, Preſto! where is all that Grandeur now?

Why vaniſh’t, fled, diſsolv’d to empty Air,

Fine Ornaments indeed to cheat the Fair:

And which is yet the ſtrangeſt thing of all,

He has not got one Friend to mourn his fall:

But ’tis but juſt that he who has maintain’d

Such ill deſigns, ſhou’d be by all diſdain’d.

Had not the lazy Drone been quite as blind,

Equally dim both in his Eyes and Mind,

He might have plainly ſeen—

For the Example’s viſible to all,

How ſtrangely low ingratefull Pride may fall.

Preſumptuous Wretch! but that’s too kind a Name

For one ſo careleſs of a Virgins Fame:

For as the Serpent did by fraud deceive

Th’ unwary Soul of the firſt Virgin Eve;

So 265 Ll2r 147

So he as impudently ſtrove t’inſpire

The lovely Maid with his deluſive fire:

But Heav’n be prais’d, not with the ſame ſucceſs;

For though his pride’s as great, his cunning’s leſs.



Muſing on Cares of humane Fate,

In a ſad Cypreſs Grove;

A ſtrange diſpute I heard of late,

’Twixt Vertue, Fame, and Love.

A Penſive Shepherd ask’d advice,

And their Opinions crav’d,

How he might hope to be ſo wiſe,

To get a place beyond the Skies,

And how he might be ſav’d.


Nice Vertue preach’d Religions Laws,

Paths to Eternal Reſt;

To fight his Kings and Countries Cauſe,

Fame Counſell’d him was beſt

Ll2 But 266 Ll2v 148

But Love oppos’d their noiſy Tongues,

And thus their Votes out-brav’d;

Get, get a Miſtreſs, fair and young,

Love fiercely, conſtantly and long,

And then thou ſhalt be ſav’d.


Swift as a thought the Am’rous Swain

To Sylvia’s Cottage flies,

In ſoft Expreſſions told her plain

The way to Heav’nly Joys.

She who with Piety was ſtor’d,

Delays no longer crav’d;

Charm’d by the God whom they ador’d,

She ſmil’d and took him at his Word;

And thus they both were ſav’d.

Song. 267 Ll3r 149

Song. The Young Lover.

By Mr. Wright.


Tuſh, never tell me I’m too Young

For loving, or too green;

She ſtays at leaſt ſev’n years too long,

That’s wedded at fourteen.

Lambs bring forth Lambs, and Doves bring Doves,

As ſoon as they’re begotten:

Then why ſhou’d Ladies linger Loves,

As if not ripe till rotten.


Gray hairs are fitter for the Grave,

Than for the Bridal Bed;

What pleaſure can a Lover have,

In a wither’d Maiden-head?

Nature’s exalted in our time,

And what our Grandams then

At four and twenty ſcarce cou’d climb,

We can arrive at Ten.

Ll3 Song 268 Ll3v 150

Song. The Prodigal’s Reſolution.


I Am a luſty lively Lad,

Arriv’d at One-and-Twenty;

My Father left me all he had,

Both Gold and Silver plenty.

Now He’s in Grave, I will be brave,

The Ladies ſhall adore me;

I’ll Court and Kiſs, what hurt’s in this?

My Dad did ſo before me.


My Father, to get my Eſtate,

Though ſelfiſh, yet was ſlaviſh;

I’ll ſpend it at another rate,

And be as leudly laviſh

From Mad-men, Fools, and Knaves he did,

Litigiouſly receive it;

If ſo he did, Juſtice forbid,

But I to ſuch ſhou’d leave it.

Then 269 Ll4r 151


Then I’ll to Court, where Venus ſport,

Doth Revel it in plenty;

And deal with all, both great and ſmall,

From twelve to five and twenty.

In Play-houſes I’ll ſpend my Days,

For there are ſtore of Miſses;

Ladies, make room, behold I come,

To purchaſe many Kiſses.

Song. The Doubtfull Lover Reſolv’d.

Fain wou’d I Love, but that I fear

I quickly ſhou’d the Willow wear:

Fain wou’d I Marry, but Men ſay,

When Love is try’d, he will away.

Then tell me, Love, what I ſhall doe,

To cure theſe Fears when e’er I Wooe.

Ll4 The 270 Ll4v 152

The Fair one, ſhe’s a mark to all;

The Brown one each doth lovely call;

The Black a Pearl in fair Mens Eyes,

The reſt will ſtoop to any prize.

Then tell me, Love, what I ſhall doe,

To cure theſe Fears when e’er I Woe.


Go, Lover, know, it is not I

That wound with fear or jealouſie;

Nor do Men feel thoſe ſmarts,

Untill they have confin’d their Hearts.

Then if you’ll cure your Fears, you ſhall

Love neither Fair, Black, Brown, but all.

Ll4 Song 271 Ll5r 153

Song. The Cavalier’s Catch.


Did you ſee this Cup of Liquor,

How invitingly it looks;

’Twill make a Lawyer prattle quicker,

And a Scholar burn his Books:

’Twill make a Cripple for to Caper,

And a Dumb Man clearly Sing;

’Twill make a Coward draw his Rapier,

Here’s a Health to James our King.


If that here be any Round-head,

That refuſe this Health to pledge;

I wiſh he then may be confounded,

Underneath ſome rotten Hedge,

May the French Diſeaſe o’er-take him,

And upon his Face appear,

And his Wife a Cuckold make him,

By ſome Jovial Cavalier.

Song 272 Ll5v 154


On Sight of a Lady’s Face in the Water.

Stand ſtill, ye Floods, do not deface

That Image which you bear:

So Votaries from ev’ry place,

To you ſhall Altars rear.

No Winds, but Lovers ſighs blow here,

To trouble theſe glad ſtreams;

On which no Star from any Sphere,

Did ever dart ſuch Beams.

To Cryſtal then in haſt congeal,

Leſt you ſhou’d loſe your bliſs;

And to my cruel Fair reveal,

How cold, how hard ſhe is.

But if the envious Nymphs ſhall fear,

Their Beauties will be ſcorn’d;

And hire the ruder Winds to tear,

That Face which you adorn’d.

Then 273 Ll6r 155

Then rage and foam amain, that we

Their Malice may deſpiſe;

And from your froths we ſoon ſhall ſee

A ſecond Venus riſe.



If mighty Wealth, that gives the Rules

To Vitious Men, and cheated Fools,

Cou’d but preſerve me in the prime

Of blooming Youth, and purchaſe Time;

Then I wou’d covet Riches too,

And ſcrape and cheat as others doe.


But ſince that Life muſt ſlide away,

And Wealth can’t purchaſe one poor day;

Why ſhou’d my cares encreaſe my pain,

And waſt my time with ſighs in vain;

Since Riches cannot Life ſupply,

It is a uſeleſs Poverty.

Swift 274 Ll6v 156


Swift time, that can’t be bought to ſtay,

I’ll try to guide the gentleſt way.

With chearfull Friends brisk Wine ſhall paſs,

And drown a care in ev’ry Glaſs.

Sometimes diverted with Loves Charms,

I’ll pleaſure take in Celia’s Arms.

On the Serpentine Combuſtion by Squibs on my Lord Mayor’s Day.

An Heroick Poem. Written 1686-10-29Octob. 29. 1686.

Of Hoods demoliſh’d, Towers laid full low,

Of Scarf conſum’d, and Periwig on fire, woe;

Flaming Cravat, and ruinated Squire;

Of lighted Petticoat, and Neck-cloth blazing,

Whisk turn’d to Aſhes, and fond Fops a gazing;

Cuffs chark’d to Coal, and Point turn’d all to Cinder,

And Gauſe ſoon Metamorphos’d into Tinder:

Of 275 Ll7r 157

Of ſhining Gorget, ſparkling Jump of Fuſtian,

And Apron deeply lac’d in dire Combuſtion;

Scorch’d Quoif aloft, and ſindged Smock alow,

I thought to ſing in ample wiſe, I trow,

Unto the tune of, Fortune is my Foe.

But found the task too great for my weak Quill,

For who is he that artfully can tell?

How skipp’d the Squire, how the frighted Maid;

And, like to Rocket, danc’d the Serenade.

To ſhun the track of Serpent, looking out

For neat-made Manto, and well-faſhion’d Suit.

As if when he had caſt his Paper-skin,

With thoſe he did intend to cloath again:

Or that to humane covering in ſpite,

He’d have each Mortal to turn Adamite;

And fire all, although but thinly clad,

Eſteeming Cloaths as Goods prohibited.

Fierce in a quick purſuit, he ſcouts around,

Where Linnen, or where Woollen’s to be found;

And in his greedy rage, and hungry wroth,

Devours Garments faſter than the Moth.

Within his blazing Circuit, as he wheels,

Still making faſter at the Head than Heels.

Mounting 276 Ll7v 158

Mounting aloft on ground, he makes ſmall ſtay,

But into arched Windows leads his way;

Where Myriads following, make each Balcone,

Involv’d in Flames, look like the torrid Zone.

Swiftly they move about, with diſmal queſt,

Not to be charm’d by an Egyptian Prieſt;

But ſtill muſt cruiſe about where good Attire is,

Spight both of Iſis and her Friend Oſiris;

Scorning each Taliſman, or Magick Spell,

Dreadfull as Dragons, and as Python fell;

Scarce e’er to be deſtroy’d, for Sages write,

Theſe Monſters ſtill will annually affright;

And Hoods and Perukes, with hot jaws will ſwallow,

Untill the City Praetor turn Apollo.

Leſt there ſhou’d ſome miſconſtruction be made of this laſt Verſe, let the Reader know that it alludes to that Fiction of Apollo’s killing the Serpent Python; And ſo Allegorically intimates, that thoſe fiery Serpents which uſually fly about on my Lord Mayor’s day, will annually continue ſo to do, unleſs deſtroy’d by him.

To 277 Ll8r 159

To My Much-eſteemed Friend Mr. J.N. On His Reading the firſt line of Pindar, Ἀριστον μὲν ὕδωρ, &c;

Hold, there’s enough, nay ’tis o’er mickle,

’Tis worſe than Cant in Conventicle.

Is this the much-fam’d Friend to th’ Muſes,

Who thus their Helicon abuſes?

Whoſe praiſe on Water thus is waſted,

Claret the Puppy never taſted:

What the Devil was his humour,

To raiſe ſo ſcandalous a rumour?

’Tis well ’tis Greek, that few may know it,

Or ’twere enough t’ infect a Poet:

It is High Treaſon (I’ll aver it)

Againſt the Majeſty of Claret.

Sternhold and Hopkins heard it ſaid ſo,

(Not that I believe they read ſo)

Therefore they gorg’d their Muſe with Water,

And ſpew’d up eke, and alſo after.

To 278 Ll8v 160

To bouze Old Wine, mad Pindar wonted,

Till by a Vintner being affronted,

The peeviſh Cur (what could be ruder?)

Forc’d on us Ἀριστον μὲν ὕδωρ.

He Water’s damn’d Encomium made,

Maliciouſly to ſpoil his Trade.

But that ſhan’t paſs on me, by th’ Maſs,

If I drink Water, I’m an Aſs.

To two great Kings I will be Loyal,

My Monarch James, and Claret-Royal:

Nor ſhall I love that Greek of thine,

Scarce any Greek, except Greek Wine.

Who’d be of Old mad Timon’s mind,

(Becauſe he did) to hate Mankind?

No, Soveraign Claret, I’ll adore thee,

Submiſſively fall down before thee;

And will by Whores be burnt to Tinder,

If I adore that Rebel Pindar.

Yours, J. Whitehall.

Theſe 279 Mm1r 161

A Dialogue Between Jack and Dick, Concerning the Prohibition of French Wines.


Ah Jack, had’ſt thou bin t’ other day,

To ſee the Teeming Vine diſplay

The ſwelling Glories of her Womb,

And hopefull Progeny to come,

(Which Mirth and Jollity create,

And ſweeten up the Frowns of Fate)

Thou would’ſt with me have ſigh’d and ſaid,

Why has Obliging Nature made

Mm Such 280 Mm1v 162

Such Juice to be Prohibited?

A Juice, which duly underſtood,

With kindly heats ferments the Blood;

Not makes it poſting to miſcarry,

As do’s the Hot-ſpur, ſtyl’d Canary;

Nearly related ’tis unto’t,

And colour’d o’er with the ſame Coat.

Half Blood already, in one round

It is aſſimulated found.

With gentle Tides, Poetick Vein

It ſwells into a comely ſtrain.

And binding all its Numbers tight,

Breeds nothing diſsolute, nor light.

Whereas Canary, with Combuſtion,

Makes ſtill the Writer ſpeak in Fuſtian.

When e’ry ſtroak by this devis’d,

Is in Red-letters ſignaliz’d.


Dear Dick, it is not thou alone,

That thus in wofull plaint makes moan;

The main of the whole Kingdom joyns,

And weeps the loſs of Claret Wines.

As 281 M2r 163

As t’other day I muſing went,

With unknown Griefs my Breaſt was pent:

The cauſe I knew not, but did fear

Some dreadfull danger to be near.

Turning my Eyes aſide, I found

A num’rous Croud, in wofull ſound,

Banning a Wight, with Accent fierce,

About to Stave a well-teem’d Tierce.

Oh, ’twas a diſmal ſight to view!

With Sleeves tuck’t up, and Apron blue,

The cruel and remorſleſs wretch,

His blow was ready for to fetch.

When ſtreight a Philoclareteer

Made up, and in this wiſe drew near:

Hold, hold, I ſay, that horrid Hand,

Enough our Mournfull Streets are fam’d

With Scarlet dye, of dire contuſion,

By braining Pipe in Execution.

What is the crime has bin committed

By this poor Liquor, how endited?

To which he grimly gives Reſponſe,

(As if he’d ſtave my Monſieur’s Sconſe.)

M2 Sir, 282 M2v 164

Sir, mind your buſineſs, you are ruder

Than e’er I yet found bold Intruder;

In ſhort, Sir, Ἄριστον μὲν ὕδωρ

’Twas all the anſwer he could get,

Which put my Youngſter in a pet,

And forc’d him to this language keen,

Oh thou more fierce than e’er has been:

The wildeſt Tigers Bacchus drew,

Or hotteſt Rage yet ever knew,

Of harmleſs Claret thus to ſpill

The Blood, and Urban gutters fill;

As ’twere no more to be lookt after,

Than Urine ſtale, or Kennel Water.

How many of the thirſty train,

Open their Mouths, as Earth for Rain;

For one poor drop of the rich Juice,

This ſwelling Veſsel do’s produce.

The better half of all the crude

And undigeſted multitude;

Now demi-Rogues, and near Diſloyal;

Two ſpoonfulls makes them all turn Royal.

When did you know the Lad did love

True Claret, and rebellious prove?

“Beſides, 283 Mm3r 165

Beſides, it Rubies do’s create,

Of richer dye, and greater ſtate,

Than e’er was planted as a Trophy

On Mogull’s Crown, or Perſian Sophy.

Raſcal, look to’t, you’ll rue it one day,

For ſpoiling of this brisk Burgundy.

Oh, had you ſeen the People ſtand,

Each one with Handkerchief in hand,

With watry Eyes, ſurveying o’er

The coming Floods of Purple gore.

You, you your ſelf had ſhed one Tear,

Among the Thouſands let fall there!

To ſee a hopefull Veſsel come,

With Gales of Sighs ’twas uſher’d from

The peacefull Harbour where it lay,

In ſhamefull wiſe, to view the day.

From Manſions of dark Sable Night,

And ſhady Grots, ſtor’d with delight,

Of luſcious taſt, and racy ſmell,

And roſie bluſh of Carbuncle;

With Hoops diſjoynted, Tackle broke,

Would force a Groan from Heart of Oak.

Mm3 Half 284 Mm3v 166

Half ruptur’d, bruis’d, in diſmal ſhew,

He thruſt up ev’ry avenue;

Till to the open Street he comes,

Beſtrid by many ill-bred Bums,

Over his bulky Body ſtriding,

You never ſaw ſo ill a riding;

For the fierce Wight no more regret had,

Than Greek or Tartar ready booted,

To ſeize with their light Horſe, the prey

Of Youth, or Damſel gone aſtray.

The Vagabond, and Truant Tub,

Which held ſo many Quarts of Bub,

Forc’d by Ill luck, and Wind, to fall

(By miſſing Port) on Canniball;

And ſavage Shoars, he baſely binding,

And all his Teeth together grinding.

With Words inſulting thus accoſts:

France, boaſt no more, that by thy Vine

Thou canſt an Engliſh Soul confine,

To ſoop up nought but what is gotten,

From ſowre Burgundian Grape grown rotten.

Old 285 Mm4r 167

Old Britiſh Drinks (which Bard of Yore

Taſted, and liv’d till near Five ſcore)

We’ave got the Art now for to heighten,

And our endarkned Souls enlighten,

Above what pitch you e’er can mannage,

By all your boaſting French Appannage.

The Apple o’er the Grape ſhall reign,

And Hereford’s above Campaign.

The Vine no more ſhall rule the Field,

But to Pomona, Bacchus yield.

This ſaid, he gives the fatal blow;

And now the Streets o’er-whelm’d do flow,

With ruddy Juice of Crimſon gore,

Which in loud Cataracts do pour

Through ev’ry Channel; and the Tide

Mounts up aloft on ev’ry ſide.

’Tis hard to gueſs which flow’d more high,

That in the Streets, or in the Eye.

Each Tunicle full deep was ſunk,

You’d thought all to be Maudlin drunk.

Yet, amongſt all this noiſe and weeping,

Some (though their Sorrows were full deep in)

Mm4 Made 286 Mm4v 168

Made ſhift to muſter Bowl or twain,

For to attend the Fun’ral train;

Which they had got from gorg’d Canal,

Leſt ſome to fainting Fits ſhould fall.

For why ſhould Gutter ſwallow all up,

When many a dry Soul wiſh’d a gullup?

Dams being made, the Goodwife brings out

Her Churn and Kettle; Damſel ſprings out

With Pipkin, Chamber-pot and Ladle,

And Sucking-Bottle (fetch’d from Cradle.)

Treys brought by Butcher, Trough by Maſon,

And forth the Barber brings his Baſon.

The Tinker (wiſely as I judge it)

Makes Leathern-Bottle of his Budget.

O’th’ broken Ribs, full many a piece

They got, and ſuck’d like Liquoriſh;

And to their Children Splinters good,

Of the ruby-tinctur’d Wood,

Inſtead of Coral, they beſtow,

To rub their Gums, aloft and low;

Whilſt others o’er the Dams lye lolling,

(As ready the Red Sea to fall in)

With 287 Mm5r 169

With frequent Laps, their Thirſt allaying,

Pronouncing many a ruefull ſaying,

Concerning loſs of Champaign, Burdeaux,

And what a grinning ugly Cur ’twas,

That daſh’d out brain of Hogshead awfull,

E’er Thirſty Mortal had his Maw full:

Giving out many words (half raving)

’Gainſt Hammers, Knocks, and Blows, and Staving.

Continuing ſuch a diſmal pother,

They’d like at laſt to ’ave ſtav’d each other.

All going handy-dandy to’t,

Till Conſtable do’s drive the Rout

To their own home, from Claret Bank,

There to weep out the Wine they’ave drank.


Troth, Jack, thy News in manner wofull,

My Heart has ſeiz’d, and fill’d up ſo full,

It through mine Eyes muſt take ſome vent,

Or I ſhall miſerably faint.

There never was more diſmal Tale

Repeated o’er Spic’d Cup of Ale,

By deep Cabal, and nodding Quire,

Of Matrons old, near Winter’s fire.

Weep, 288 Mm5v 170

Weep, Mortals, weep, untill your Eyes

Be red as th’ Wine they ſacrifice.

How will you now your Paſſions vent,

To her you long your Heart have lent?

Phillis without regard may go,

And lovely Amarillis too,

May often ſee her charming Name,

Without Attendant Anagram.

Gone is the Wine that did inſpire

The Poet with his Amorous fire;

That did aſſiſt him to invoke,

And gave his Pen the happy ſtroak.

Fools may go on, and Scribling write,

Yet fear no Satyr that ſhall bite;

Its ſting is dull’d by ev’ry blow

The wronged Veſsels undergo:

For all the Salt, and all the Flame,

Whence Wounds, and Plagues, and Vengeance came,

Is melted, quench’d, ſunk, loſt, and drown’d,

And never, never to be found,

Without the leave of pulling down,

The Dams of Prohibition;

And 289 Mm6r 171

And drawing up the Sluces all,

That ruby Floods again may fall,

And freely fill the Maſſie Bowl:

Then thou and I, and ev’ry Soul

That has a Muſe or Miſtreſs there,

Shall in one hand a Goblet bear,

And with the other charm the Ear.

Shall briskly each his brimmer drink,

And live and love, and laugh and think

Of ſomething fit to entertain

The peacefull hours once again.

Till then adieu; with Lips a-dry,

For once we’ll part; and ſo Good-buy.

For who with baſer Juice would ſully

His ſervile Lips, is much a Cully.

And though full thirſty, fit no more

To have his Body varniſh’d o’er;

Or ever to be ting’d again,

With its Roſie-colour’d grain.

Once more farewell, till kindly Seas

Rowl Claret Casks upon our Keys.

Then (Hæc) we’ll ſay, and laugh and kiſs ye,

Juvabit olim meminiſse.

Theſe 290 Mm6v 172

Theſe Ten following Poems done by a Conceal’d Author for his private Recreation.

To Clarinda on her Incomparable Painting and Wax-work.

Written 1686-09Septemb. 1686.

Soar now, my Muſe, to an unuſual flight,

Whilſt fair Clarinda’s Skill my Pen excite,

The Wonders of her Pencil to endite.

A modeſt Poet can’t be ſilent here,

Where ſo much Art and Excellence appear.

Your active Pencil ſcorns a conſtant dreſs,

It’s ſeen each day in Novelties afreſh;

Sometimes you curious Landskips repreſent,

And arch ’em o’er with gilded Firmament:

Then in Japan ſome Rural Cottage Paint,

You can with equal Skill draw Fiend and Saint.

A genuine ſweetneſs through your Pencil flows,

And charming Pictures to the Life it ſhows.

Next 291 Mm7r 173

Next Wax-work, Cupid’s by your Art made fair,

And ſparkling Stars ſeem hov’ring in the Air,

Supported only by a ſingle Hair.

But your enflaming Eyes ſhew Stars more bright;

Stars, which may ſerve thoſe leſser ones to light;

And pretty Cupids dancing there, do dart

More piercing Beams, than thoſe you’ve made by Art.

A Female Pencil now ſuch Art hath ſhown,

As neither Sex before could ever own:

For none could yet your matchleſs Paintings view,

But the ſame Paſſions mov’d ’em, which you drew;

And from your Self you copy ev’ry Grace,

For you have all that can adorn each Face:

So like your Pieces to live Objects are,

That if together we ſhould them compare,

Nature her ſelf amaz’d wou’d doubting ſtand,

To know her own from the Skill’d Painter’s hand;

For ſhe the like with leſs succeſs attempts,

When her own Work in Twins ſhe repreſents.

Well then may Birds, for real Grapes, miſtake

Thoſe pendent Cluſters which thy Pencil make.

Perhaps 292 Mm7v 174

Perhaps thy living (a) Trees of the Ladies own ſetting in her Garden. Plants too they’ll neglect,

And fly to theſe thy Pencil doth project;

For though diſrob’d is Nature Being at the Fall of th’ Leaf. of her Pride,

Freſh as the Spring thy Painting doth abide:

Thus your Victorious Painting, and your Eyes,

Make Birds, Beaſts, Fiſhes, alſo Men your prize.

A Young Man to an Old Woman, Courting him. In Imitation of a Modern Author.

Peace, doating Wretch, for ever ceaſe thy ſuit,

Tempt me no more henceforth with muſty fruit,

For rotten Meddlers pleaſe not, whilſt there be

Orchards and Gardens in Virginity.

Thy crabbed Stock is too much out of date,

For young and tender Plants t’ inoculate.

Can Wedlock e’er endure ſo great a Curſe,

As putting Huſbands out to th’ Wife to Nurſe?

How 293 Mm8r 175

How pleaſantly Poor Robin then wou’d crack,

T’inſert our Names within his Almanack;

And think that time had wheel’d about this Year,

So ſoon December meeting Janiveer.

So the Ægyptian Serpent figures Time;

And being ſtrip’t, returns unto its prime.

If my affection thou deſign’ſt to win,

Then caſt off firſt thy Hieroglyphick Skin.

My tender years will not endure (alack)

The fulſome breathings which attend thy ſmack,

Proceeding from ſome former loathſome Clap.

Could you a Virgins Beauty but regain,

And change your ſtate from Age to Youth again:

Your o’er-blown Face more charming might appear,

And with delight we might embrace each Year.

Perhaps no ſtrife or diſcord then might be,

Betwixt my pretty Skeleton and Me:

But Metamorphoſes are ſeldom known

In this our Age, ſince Miracles are gone.

Ceaſe then your Suit, and for the future try,

To heal your Tenant’s Leg, or his ſore Eye.

So may you purchaſe credit, fame and thank,

Beyond the foppiſh Name of Mountebank;

Or 294 Mm8v 176

Or chew thy Cud on ſome forlorn delight,

Which thou reviveſt in thy Eighty-eight;

Or be but Bed-rid once, and ſurely then

Thou’lt dream once more thy youthfull Sins again.

But if that ſtill you needs will be my Spouſe,

Firſt hearken, and attend upon my Vows.

When th’ Needle his dear North ſhall quite forſake,

And Stones a journey to the Sky ſhall make.

When Ætna’s fires ſhall mildly undergo,

The wond’rous penance of the Alps in Snow.

When Sol ſhall by a ſingle blaſt of’s Horn,

From Crab be poſted unto Capricorn.

When th’ Heav’ns confus’dly ſhuffle all in one,

And joyn the Torrid with the Frozen Zone.

Be ſure, when all theſe Contradictions meet,

Then (Sibyl) thou and I will kindly greet.

For all theſe Similies are underſtood,

’Twixt youthfull Heat, and thy dull frigid Blood.

So, Madam, Time continue ever Bald,

For I will not thy Perriwig be call’d:

Nor be a Crutch to prop thy tot’ring frame,

Leſt th’ Fabrick fall’n, from th’ Ruins ſpring my ſhame.

To 295 Nn1r 177

To Clarinda. A Song.


Tempt me not with your Face that’s fair,

Nor Lips and Cheeks, though red;

I neither prize them, nor your Hair,

Which in its Curls is laid.

Nor value I your Pencils fame,

For Nature it exceeds;

And Lillies do your Beauties ſtain,

Roſes your Lips and Cheeks.


Nor prize I your Seraphick Voice,

That like an Angel ſings;

Though if I were to take my choice,

I would have all theſe things.

But if that you wou’d have me love,

You muſt be true as Steel;

Or elſe in vain my Heart you move,

Your Charms I cannot feel.

Nn But 296 Nn1v 178


But ſince, fair Nymph, you’re fickle grown,

I’ll change too with the Wind;

Sometimes in Storms of Love I’ll frown,

Sometimes be calm and kind.

My Proteus Love ſhall frown and play,

As ſubtle Foxes doe;

Till they have ſeiz’d th’ unwary Prey,

But then ſhall kill like you.


A Courtier’s Tongue for Flattery,

A Poet’s Brain for Wit;

A Womans Breaſt for Treachery,

For my deſigns I’ll get.

Then through the ſilly Female flock,

I cunningly will rove;

Thus, thus for once I’ll try my luck,

To get their Hate or Love.

On 297 Nn2r 179

On His Secret Passion For Cosmelia.

By no Diſcov’ry have I e’er reveal’d

My ſecret Love, ſo cloſely yet conceal’d;

But rather, oft with Hypocritick Art,

In a diſsembled look bely’d my Heart.

Yet cou’d Diſcov’ry gratifie my Wiſh,

Concealment ſhou’d not long defer the bliſs.

For ſtraight my Paſſion then I wou’d reveal,

And whiſper in her Ear the Am’rous Tale.

But no Relation can my wants relieve,

Or Limits to my boundleſs Wiſhes give.

Shou’d my Belov’d, whoſe Art hath giv’n new breath

To dying Heroes, at the point of Death:

She who no Cure ſcarce ever undertook,

But the diſeaſe her Patient ſoon forſook:

Nn2 She 298 Nn2v 180

She who each Simple’s Sov’reign Virtue knows,

And to their proper uſe can them diſpoſe:

Shou’d She her utmoſt Skill in Phyſick try,

All, All wou’d fail to eaſe my miſery:

All her Preſcriptions, without Love, are vain;

Love only ſuits the Nature of my pain.

Thrice hath the Sun his Annual progreſs made,

Since firſt my Heart was by my Eyes betray’d;

With various Scenes of ſuitable delight,

Coſmelia’s Beauty entertain’d my ſight.

Th’ Idea of which doth ſtill salute my Eye,

Nor can her Abſence this delight deny.

Whilſt Wit and Learning alſo charm’d each ſence,

Her Poetry had no leſs influence;

For flights of fancy in her lines abound,

As Wine in Conduits, when a King is Crown’d.

Thus Art, Wit, Beauty, Learning, all conſpire

T’ inſnare my Heart, and ſet my Soul on fire:

Her Words, her Looks my waking thoughts employ;

And when I ſleep, I ſee her with more joy.

But ah! too ſoon the ſilent Shades of Night,

Do leave their Empire to the riſing Light.

When, 299 Nn3r 181

When, lo, I find my Pleaſures but a Dream,

Thus chiefeſt Joys glide with the ſwifteſt ſtream.

A ſleep or wake, ſtill Love creeps through my Veins,

And in my Mind the fierce infection reigns.

Sometimes with Books I wou’d divert my Mind,

But that increaſes but the pain, I find:

Sometimes I court enjoyment from my Muſe,

Till by diſtraction I my fancy loſe.

So wretched Men, that ſundry Med’cines try,

As oft increaſe, as cure the Malady.

In vain I ſtrive theſe fantoms to remove,

Or ſhun thoſe Aerial Images of Love:

Her bright Idea makes Affections yield,

Like Ears of Corn, when Wind ſalutes the Field.

Each riſing Sun views her more bright and fair,

Her Vertues more conſpicuous appear.

Gentle’s her Nature, Modeſt is her Meen;

Her Converſation’s Mild, Her Looks Sereen.

No Tyrant Paſſion rages in her Breaſt,

But the meek Dove builds there her Halcyon Neſt

More Native Wealth doth that fair Breaſt contain,

Than all the Treaſures of the boundleſs Main.

Nn3 Not 300 Nn3v 182

Not ſo delightfull was the Sacred Tree,

Nor God-like knowledge cou’d more tempting be.

For the fair Tree cou’d not ſuch Fruit impart,

As this fair Virgin, wou’d ſhe yield her Heart.

Happy, falſe Strephon then, whoſe pow’rfull Charms

Alone might win this Lady to his Arms:

His gracefull Meen, reſiſtleſs Charms impart,

And glide (unfelt) into her tender Heart;

Whilſt on his Lips ſuch ſmooth diſcourſe is hung,

His Person’s leſs attractive than his Tongue.

No Storms in Love need Strephon then maintain,

Without a Siege he may the Conqueſt gain:

For where the Fort by Love’s betray’d within,

It needs muſt yield to let the Hero in.

But for th’ Squire, and the young hopefull Cit,

With the Gay Spark, that wou’d be thought a Wit;

Their hopes are blaſted, and each ſtrives in vain,

By Nuptial Tyes the lovely prize to gain.

The Squire ſhe ſlights, leſt he unkind ſhou’d prove,

And to his Horſe or Dogs prefer her Love.

Covetous and unbred ſhe ſtyles the Citt,

Debauch’d the vain pretender to lewd Wit.

Thus 301 Nn4r 183

Thus bravely ſhe doth theſe kind Heroes ſlight,

Thinking they all intrude on Strephon’s right;

Whilſt unconcern’d Triumphant Strephon ſtood,

Like ſome dull Image carv’d of Stone or Wood;

Inſenſible of all Love’s pow’rfull Charms,

Nor mov’d by Wit’s or Beauty’s loud Alarms.

But oh, my Soul! unlike Effects I find,

Her Virgin charms produceth in thy mind.

As nought that’s dead and barren can excite

Vital affections, or the ſence delight;

So nought inanimate cou’d e’er improve

My Gen’rous thoughts to any fruits of Love:

Or as Clarinda’s painted Shadows fed

Only my fancy with their White and Red.

So bright Coſmelia’s Pen it do’s impart,

Vigour and Motion to my Love-ſick Heart:

Her ſacred Preſence all my Parts do render

Vocal, except my Tongue, that ſtupid Member.

Her Wit my Soul inſpires with thoughts too great

For words to comprehend, ſhou’d ſilence break.

If in kind glances, by a ſwift ſurprize,

I do behold the Aſpect of her Eyes;

Nn4 Alter- 302 Nn4v 184

Alternate Paroxyſms of Cold and Heat,

My Vital Spirits ſtrangely do defeat.

Thus various Paſſions in my Breaſt do rove,

Yet all do meet and terminate in Love.

Oh wou’d kind Heav’n but be ſo much my friend,

To make my Fate upon my choice depend:

All my Ambition here I wou’d confine,

And only this fair Virgin ſhou’d be mine;

Lock’d in her Arms in Love and Peace I’d lye,

And whilſt I breathe, my Flames ſhou’d never dye:

For ſhou’d that Beauty which ſhe do’s poſseſs,

Fade into Autumn, I cou’d love no leſs.

To 303 Nn5r 185

To Clarinda, on His Deſerting her, and loving Coſmelia.

Tis true, Clarinda, once I did reſign

To your frail Beauty this kind Heart of mine:

Yet the Reſignment but in thought was ſign’d,

For words ne’er ſeal’d the impreſs of my Mind.

Too well my Heart was ſenſible you gain’d,

By treach’rous Wiles, the Conqueſt you obtain’d:

And that by Art y’ aſsum’d deluding Looks;

Looks unrecorded in kind Nature’s Books:

Therefore I’ve juſtly baniſh’d you my Breaſt,

No more your Beauty ſhall invade my reſt,

I’ve entertain’d a more deſerving Gueſt:

Not One whoſe Heart’s inconſtant as the Wind,

But One, whoſe Love to One can be confin’d:

One, whoſe true Love with Friendſhip ever flows,

And whom kind Fate has for my Lover choſe;

To 304 Nn5v 186

To her m’inamour’d Heart doth panting move,

By fervent Efforts of Ecſtatick Love:

With modeſt Bluſhes I inform her Eyes,

Her vertuous Love has made my Heart her prize.

And whilſt my Bluſhes doe confeſs I burn,

By Sighs and Looks ſhe makes as kind return.

Know then, kind Nymph, my Love to you’s expir’d,

And fled to her, who thus my Breaſt has fir’d.

Without her (a) The Lady having Skill in Phyſick. Art, your Beauty will decay,

A fit of Sickneſs makes it fade away:

Whilſt in her ſight no bold Diſeaſe durſt ſtand,

But, trembling, vaniſhes at her command.

What though your Pencil Nature oft ſupplies,

With Charms as piercing as your Azure Eyes:

Yet know, ’tis noble Verſe ſets off your Paint;

Her Poetry alone can dub a Saint.

To 305 Nn6r 187

To Cosmelia, on Her Departure into the Countrey.

Farewell, fair Miſtreſs of my chief deſires,

Whoſe charming Beauties kindleth pleaſing fires;

Whilſt I (ſad Fate!) muſt here forlorn remain,

Since you, fair Conqu’reſs, do my Heart retain.

To you, the Center of my Love, it flies,

And ne’er can reſt till it enjoys or dyes.

Farewell dear Eyes, it will be tedious Night

With me, as long as I do want your light.

Farewell thoſe ruby Lips which ſeem to me,

Of Nature’s Glory an Epitome.

The Nectar and Ambroſia I ſhall want,

That hang on them, and faſt an irkſome Lent.

Farewell beſt Tongue, now Thee I ſhall not hear,

I wou’d not care if all things ſilent were.

Farewell all fair, Beauty I ſhall not view,

Untill again I do behold’t in You.

Fare- 306 Nn6v 188

Farewell Phyſician of my love-sick Soul,

Your ſight alone can make your Patient whole.

On a Rose ſticking on a Ladies Breaſt.

Sweet fading Flower, that with the Sun’s upriſe

Unfold’ſt thy Bud, and in the Ev’ning dyes.

Swell now with beauteous pride, and let thy bright

And bluſhing Leaves joy and refreſh our ſight.

Incorporate thy ſweet and fragrant ſmell,

With thoſe refreſhing Odours there do dwell.

Bleſt, ah for ever bleſt be that fair Hand,

That did tranſplant thee to that Sacred Land,

Oh happy Roſe, that in that Garden reſts,

That Paradiſe betwixt that Ladies Breaſts:

There’s an Eternal Spring, where thou ſhalt lye,

Betwixt two Lilly Mounts, and never dye:

There thou ſhalt ſpring among the fertile Vallies,

By buds, like thee, that grow in midſt of Allies;

There 307 Nn7r 189

There none dare pluck thee from that ſacred place,

Nor yet attempt thy Beauty to deface.

If any but approach, ſtrait doth ariſe

A moſt ſurprizing light, which blaſts his Eyes;

There, ’ſtead of Rain, ſhall living Fountains flow,

For Wind her fragrant Breath for ever blow:

Nor now, as wont, ſhall one bright Sun thee cheer,

But two conjoyn’d, which from her Eyes appear.

Oh then, what Monarch wou’d not think’t a Grace,

To leave his Regal Throne to have thy place.

My ſelf to gain thy bleſsed ſeat, do Vow,

Wou’d be transform’d into a Roſe, as thou.

On 308 Nn7v 190

On the Moſt Charming Galecia’s Picture.

Happy the Hand, which to our longing ſight,

Preſents that Beauty, which the dazling light

Of your bright Charms, do’s hide from weaker Eyes

And all acceſs (ſave by this Art) denies.

’Tis only here our Sight hath ſtrength to view

Thoſe Beauties, which do terminate in you.

By this your great Perfections we conceive,

The Gracious Image ſeeming to give leave;

Which daily by your Votaries is ſeen,

And by the Muſes has ſaluted been.

Who, whilſt an Infant, placed in your Hand The Lady being Painted with a Bough of Bays in her Hand.

The Bays ſo many ſtrove for in this Land.

Wiſely fore-ſeeing your Poetick Pen,

Might claim the primacy of th’wittieſt Men.

In 309 Nn8v 191

In you th’ extreams of Pow’r and Beauty move,

Who are the Quinteſsence and Soul of Love.

As the bright Sun (whoſe diſtant Beams delight)

Of equal Glory to your Beauties light;

Is wiſely plac’d in ſo ſublime a ſeat,

T’extend his light, and moderate his heat.

So happy ’tis you move in ſuch a Sphere,

Which do’s not over-come our ſence, but chear:

And in our Breaſts do’s qualifie that fire,

Which kindled by thoſe Eyes, hrd flamed higher,

Than when the ſcorched World like hazard run,

By the approach of the ill-guided Sun.

Such Eyes as yours on Jove himſelf have thrown,

As bright and fierce a lightning as his own.

The 310 Nn8v 192

The Young Lover’s Advocate:

Being An Anſwer to a Copy of Verſes.

Written by Galæcia to her Young Lover on his Vow.

Too rigid, too cenſorious and ſevere,

Your unjuſt ſcruples plainly do appear.

Why ſhou’d you queſtion that moſt ſacred Vow,

Which in ſincerity I made but now?

Did I not Vow by all the Pow’rs above,

None but Galæcia ſhou’d but obtain my Love?

I did, and made a Cov’nant with my Eyes,

No other Beauties ſhou’d my Heart ſurprize.

And may thoſe Pow’rs their vengeance from above,

Show’r on my head, when e’er I perjur’d prove:

A thouſand Deaths I’d rather chuſe to dye,

Than once my Faith to break or falſifie.

Not 311 Oo1r 193

Not all your Sexes charms ſhall tempt me more,

No other Object ſhall my Soul adore.

Thy Sex, alas! is but a Lottery,

Where thouſand Blanks for one true Prize we ſee.

And ſince kind Fate has giv’n me ſuch a Lott,

Think you I’ll hazard what’s ſo hardly got?

No, rather think me conſtant as the Sun,

Who never ſets, till he his race hath run:

Firm as the Centre, as the Poles unmov’d,

Faithfull as honeſt Swains to their Belov’d.

But you alledge for Love I am too green,

Though two years turn’d, and upwards of Eighteen.

Alas, too long I think I’ve been debarr’d,

And five years ſince Love’s pleaſures ſhou’d have ſhar’d:

Lovers as young as me I can produce,

As Precedents to warrant my Excuſe.

The Famous Sappho ſumm’d up all her joy

In the Embrace of a Sicilian Boy.

The Queen of Greece lov’d Theſeus but a Lad,

And Cytharea her Adonis had:

Nay Love himſelf, that God, is but a Child;

Shall I for want of Years then be Exil’d?

Oo Yea, 312 Oo1v 194

Yea, I have heard fair Virgins ſay, in truth,

Of all that love, give me the ſmooth-chinn’d Youth:

My tender years my innocence may prove,

And non-acquaintance with the Wiles of Love.

To my Ingenious Friend, Mrs. Jane Barker, on My Publiſhing her Romance of Scipina.

Cou’d I the Cenſure of each Critick dread,

Before your Book my Lines ſhou’d not be read;

For ’twill be thought, ſhou’d I attempt your Praiſe,

Trophies of Int’reſt to my ſelf I’d raiſe.

Since the ſame Pen that wou’d applaud my Friend,

At once my Copy, and her Lines, commend:

Nor cou’d my Silence ’ſcape from Cenſure free,

Then other Hands, they’d ſay, I brib’d for thee.

Yet 313 Oo2r 195

Yet cou’d Applauſe your learned Piece ſet forth,

To make your Fame as endleſs as your Worth;

I wou’d invoke ſome gentle Muſe t’inſpire

My active Pen with a Poetick fire;

That it might blazon forth your Matchleſs Wit,

And your due Merits to the World tranſmit.

But ſince this Subject doth require the Skill,

Or of a Maro, or a Waller’s Quill,

I muſt deſiſt, and quit the brave deſign,

And the great task to better hands reſign.

Only as th’ empty Coach is wont t’attend,

To Mourn the Obſequies of ſome dear Friend:

So ſhall my Worthleſs line ev’n now appear,

For want of better, to bring up the Rear

Of thoſe that welcome th’ Iſsue of your Wit,

Which in ſo ſoft and ſmooth a Style you’ve writ.

You fair Scipina’s Name do here advance

Unto the Title of a fam’d Romance:

Then in ſmooth Lines you celebrate her Praiſe,

And crown her Temples with immortal Bays.

Her Heroes Fights you bravely here expreſt,

Till bleſt with Peace, he in her Arms finds reſt

Oo2 How 314 Oo2v 196

How wou’d it pleaſe the gallant Scipio’s Ghoſt,

(The braveſt Gen’ral th’ Elyzian Fields can boaſt,)

To ſee his Battles acted o’er again,

By thy victorious and triumphant Pen.

Thy Virgin Muſe ſoars upwards ſtill on high,

Out-ſtrips the Dedalean Scuddery,

With ſwifter flights of Fancy wings each line,

And harſheſt Thoughts to gentle Love refine,

Each Stoick’s Heart, and ſofter Females Breaſt,

With the ſame Paſſion that you write’s poſseſt

Let carping Criticks then complain of Fate,

And envy what they cannot imitate.

Since ’tis beyond their Art or Pow’r to blaſt

Your Virgin Lawrels, which do ſpread ſo faſt

A Batche- 315 Oo3r 197

A Batchelor’s Life, in purſuit of Mrs. Barker’s Verſes in Praiſe of a Single Life.

By the Author of the Ten preceding Copies.

Since, O ye Pow’rs, it is by your decree,

For Women I’ve ſo great indiff’rencie:

Suffer me not by Love to be miſ-led;

Let nought induce me to the Nuptial Bed.

Let no frail Beauties to my Eyes reſort,

Leſt thoſe falſe Centinels betray the Fort.

But if blind Cupid with a poys’nous Dart,

Shou’d chance to penetrate my Marble Heart;

Then let an Icy chillneſs freeze my blood,

And ſtop the active motion of its flood:

So may I in this happy ſtate abide,

And laugh at thoſe a Single Life deride;

Whilſt they (b’ing caught in wretched Wedlock’s Nooſe

Do both their freedom and their pleaſures looſe;

For curſed Avarice and Jealouſie,

Attends on him th’ unlucky Knot doth tye;

His Soul to Mirth can never be inclin’d,

For Cares and Fears ever diſtract his Mind.

Oo3 Wou’d 316 Oo3v 198

Wou’d he be merry, ſtraight his Conſorts Noiſe,

E’er he can think th’ Abortive thought, deſtroys.

And if his Spouſe proves Barren, then he prays

To Heav’n for Children, or to end her days:

But if o’er-ſtock’d, the Husband then repines

At the too fruitfull Iſsue of his Loins.

Then are his thoughts employ’d to get and ſpare,

And make proviſion for a wanton Heir.

How happy is he then, who’s free to chuſe;

And when he will, accept, when not, refuſe.

No Cares in Love can diſcompoſe his Breaſt,

Nor Anxious Fears e’er rob him of his Reſt:

But unconcern’d he is in things to come;

If London pleaſe not, Paris is his home.

Yet a Fond Wife, or Wanton pratling Boy,

Perhaps might all his gen’rous thoughts deſtroy.

The 317 Oo4r 199

The Exchange of Hearts. A Song. By the ſame.

Being an Anſwer to a Song in the 81 ſt Page of the Firſt Part.


Happy the Man, thrice happy he,

Who had the high Deſert;

To loſe to you his Libertie,

And change a Lover’s Heart.


If his do’s your Repoſe invade,

And rob you of your Reſt;

Believe as much Diſorder’s Made

By yours within his Breaſt.


Reaſon with him has no more pow’r

Than you, to ſtop the Courſe

Of an inrag’d and fierce Amour,

Drove by its own wild force.

Oo4 Upon 318 Oo4v 200

Upon a Flock of Gold-Finches Seen in the Morning.

Scarce had the prancing Courſers of the World,

With their freſh ſteeming breath the Morning curl’d;

When a gilt flock of Winged Stars did play,

And with ſtrange light increaſe the new-born day:

Sure they were ſent from ſome Celeſtial Neſt,

To teach Aurora how ſhe ſhould go dreſt

Gay Nature’s lively Pencil never drew

Its own Perfection in a brighter hew.

Now in light hoverings they their Bodies poiſe,

And hang in Æquilibriums without noiſe.

The Amorous Wind in gentle Whiſpers ſings,

And coyly kiſses their Enamell’d Wings.

In curling Waves it pleats their ſilken Plumes,

And from their ſpicy Breaſts doth ſuck Perfumes;

Then ſoftly ſwells, and heaves its riſing Weight,

The mounting Birds enjoy a noble height:

There 319 Oo5r 201

There in a ſpangled Creſcent they appear,

And with a flying Rain-bow gild the Air.

And now Sol’s Rays dart from their Eaſtern ſeat,

And with a golden Bluſh theſe Rivals meet;

And then recoil, more ſumptuous to behold,

Ten thouſand Colours mixing with their Gold.

Thus they which make the watry Fleeces proud,

Themſelves draw Luſtre from a living Cloud.

Oft through the Air their active Courſe they change,

And in quick windings their brisk Squadrons range.

The Impreſſive Atmoſphere, where they had flown,

With a long train of painted Lightning ſhone.

Downward at length they fell, ſure wanton Jove

In ſuch a ſplendid Storm enjoy’d his Love.

When doubtfull Swains behold with wond’ring ſight,

Keen Exhalations with their pointed Light,

Shoot through the yielding darkneſs of the Night.

They think it was ſome guilty Star that fell,

And trembling pray, that all in Heaven be well.

Oh, had they ſeen with what a radiant pride,

Theſe feather’d Meteors from above did glide;

They would have pity’d the deſerted Sky,

Thinking they did a Conſtellation ſpy:

Which, 320 Oo5v 202

Which, that it might indulge bleſt Mortals Ears,

Had brought with it the Muſick of the Spheres.

With ſuch ſoft Ayrs did all the Birds deſcend,

And their bright Courſe to the next Buſh they bend.

With purling Noiſe their flutt’ring Wings they clapt,

As if they had for Entertainment rapt.

The Thorns themſelves ſhrunk in to make them room,

And ſheath’d their prickles in their barky Womb.

New buds from their Potential beds did leap,

And peep’t to ſee who ’twas diſturb’d their ſleep.

Spying ſuch Gueſts, their fragrant Laps they ſpread;

Such Tap’ſtry none but fragrant Feet muſt tread.

Each awfull twig gave an obſequious nod;

And bowing, ſtoop’t unto its welcome load.

And now the glitt’ring Buſh on high diſplays

Its ſtreaming Branches, deck’t with chirping Rays.

Its Golden back’s clad with a breathing Fleece,

Richer than that bold Jaſon brought from Greece,

The wav’ring boughs under their weight did leap,

And with their blithfull chantings time did keep.

The Neighb’ring Brook ſtop’t its attentive ſtream,

And the huſh’t Winds hung lull’d into a dream.

Ne’er 321 Oo6r 203

Ne’er did the Perriwig’d Heſperian Grove,

On its bright Head ſo rich an Autumn move.

Hail, happy Shrub, wrap’t in a Golden ſhade,

Whom Nature hath her living Wardrobe made;

Hail, Queen of Plants, crown’d with a Diadem,

Where every Jewel is a Vocal Gem:

A warm ſoft Gem, whoſe ſplendor do’s excell

Th’ obdurate off-ſpring of the Indian ſhell.

May ſtill ſuch Phoenixes ſhine on thy Creſt,

But never burn their odoriferous Neſt;

But may each Morn thy glorious twigs recruit,

With a new brood of ſuch Melodious fruit.

The 322 Oo6v 204

The Poet’s Anſwer to One, Complaining of their Negligence, In not Writing the Dukeof Buckingham’s Elegy.

Nor needs he ſlender Verſe, his Mighty Fame,

Rais’d above us, do’s all our Praiſe diſclaim;

Poets have liv’d by him, he cannot live by them.

So great his Bounty, we as well might ſhow

The ſecret Head, whence fertile Nile do’s flow.

Like Nilus he, for with a willing Hand

He gave to all, his ſtream o’er-flow’d the Land.

But ſtill the Muſe was his peculiar Care;

Now could I ought in Verſe! A ſubject’s here

Might 323 Oo7r 205

Might——— But the Mind’s ill ſerv’d by Faculties,

And ſomething ſtill we know, we can’t expreſs.

The Trojan Shield, which Maro once did frame,

With an intent to raiſe Auguſtus Name,

Should not do more, if (as my Theme’s as great)

I could aſsume his Majeſty and State.

But nothing can rehearſe his wond’rous Praiſe,

Unleſs kind Heaven from his duſt ſhould raiſe

Another matchleſs mighty Buckingham,

Who, like himſelf, could gloſs the glorious Theme.

Two great effects we had from’s noble Mind,

The State and Theatre at once refin’d.

When e’er he pleas’d to laſh the nauſeous Times,

And with juſt Rules correct the Poet’s Crimes:

Nonſence, and Bays, and Bombaſt took their flight,

Like frighted Phantoms from the hated Light.

As by the order of this World we gueſs,

A God, not Chance, firſt mov’d the mighty Maſs:

So whilſt we ſaw, when we made War, Succeſs,

Advantage, when we pleas’d to grant a Peace:

We, by the Beauty, knew, Villers was there,

And God-like Charles was eas’d of half his care:

So 324 Oo7v 206

So in the Realms above ’tis Jove’s to will,

Whilſt leſser Powers his Commands fulfill.

Nor was his Body inferiour to his Mind;

For when he was created, Fate deſign’d

That he ſhould be the wonder of Mankind.

Goodneſs and Grace did always with him move;

From Men he Honour claim’d, from Women Love

Some ſlighted Swain, whom Celia’s ſcorn oppreſt,

May raiſe a Flame in ſome leſs guarded Breaſt:

But there the Curſe do’s not intirely fall,

He form’d the Race of Women to enthrall,

Reveng’d upon their Sex the quarrels of us all.

Ten thouſand ways ſoft thoughts he cou’d inſpire,

And kindled in all hearts a gen’rous fire,

His Bounty wealth, his Beauty gave deſire.

His Judgment gave us Laws, a Play his Wit;

By him we liv’d, we lov’d, we rul’d, we writ.

Theſe 325 Oo8r 207

Theſe Thirteen following Copies done by Mr. Hovenden Walker, ſometime of Trinity Colledge in Dublin.

Psalm the CXXXIX. Paraphras’d from Verſe the 7. to Verſe the 13.

Where ſhall I find a cloſe conceal’d Abode?

Or how avoid an Everlaſting God!

Whither, O whither, can a Sinner flee,

Almighty Lord, from thy Ubiquitie!

How from thy Omnipreſence can he hide,

Since ev’ry-where thy Spirit do’s reſide?

Would I aſcend to Heaven, ev’n there

Do’s thy Reſulgent Glory moſt appear;

Thy Light do’s there fill the unbounded ſpace,

And there doſt thou thy bright Pavilion place;

At thy right hand, thy dear, thy darling Son

Sits, and thy Spirit hovers o’er the Throne;

While 326 Oo8v 208

While Hallelujahs to their God, and King,

Myriads of Bleſsed Saints and Angels ſing.

Would I, to ſhun thee, dive to deepeſt Hell,

Ev’n there thy Horrours, and thy Judgments dwell;

Thy Terrours there the wretched Damn’d invade,

No Bed of Reſt or Refuge there is made;

For ever there thy Triumphs do remain,

(Which, Satan to forget, ſtill ſtrives in vain)

E’er ſince for Man thou didſt Redemption gain,

And by thy Death both Death and Hell were ſlain.

Cou’d I with wings fly to the utmoſt Sea,

Swift as the Light, which brings approaching day;

Swift as the Dawn, which do’s it ſelf diſperſe,

In half a Day, through half the Univerſe.

Ev’n this a vain and fond Deſign would prove,

Nor from thy juſt Protection could I move;

For the wide World’s moſt large circumference,

Is circumſcrib’d by thy vaſt Providence.

Thy Goodneſs me from dang’rous Ills would ſave,

And lead me ſafely o’er each angry Wave.

Thy right hand would conduct me through all harms,

Thou wouldſt protect me in thy mighty Arms.

Under 327 Pp1r 209

Under thy Wings I ſhould in quiet ſleep,

Though toſs’d and threaten’d by the dreadful Deep.

Would I propoſe to hide me from thy ſight,

In an Egyptian Darkneſs, and thick Night?

A glorious Splendour, and a Light divine,

From out of that thou wouldſt command to ſhine;

Thou wouldſt that blackeſt Cov’ring make as bright

As the gay Beams of the Sun’s dazling Light;

From thee the Night can no concealment be,

For Night and Day are ſtill the ſame to thee:

Therefore in vain fond Men attempt to run

From thee, and thy Eternal Preſence ſhun.

Thou unconfin’d thy ſelf, do’ſt all confine;

For all is full of thee, and all is thine.

Pp A Pa- 328 Pp1v 210

A Pastoral, In Imitation of Virgil’s Second Eclogue.

A Lowly Swain lov’d a proud Nymph in vain,

Who did the Country and the Fields diſdain,

Becauſe the faireſt of the City Train.

The haughty She deſpis’d his humble Flame,

And, ſoaring, flew at a more noble Game.

Unheard, unſeen, he daily came to mourn

Near loneſome ſtreams, and ſhades, her cruel ſcorn:

And, while alone, he moan’d his luckleſs Love,

His griefs ev’n ſenceleſs Trees and Rocks did move.

The neighb’ring Hills with horrour ſeem’d to ſhake,

While to himſelf theſe raving words he ſpake:

Shall I, as others, to my Flocks complain,

That I a cruel Beauty love in vain?

Shall 329 Pp2r 211

Shall I, with fruitleſs cries, diſturb my Lambs,

Or, with my quer’lous groans, affright their Dams?

Their Dams, that ſtrangers are to Lover’s cares,

And can enjoy their Loves without their Fears!

No, let me here in ſecret pine away,

And in ſad objects read my Doom each day.

Lo, through theſe Clifts a trav’lling Current glides,

And little Rocks the purling ſtreams divides.

Ah! how well this reſembles my ſad Fate!

My fruitleſs tears, and her unſoft’ning hate:

For as theſe Rocks hard and unmov’d remain,

And the clear ſtream but waſhes ’em in vain;

So fall my Tears as unſucceſsfully,

Nor her hard ſtony Heart can mollifie:

For ſtill they run, unheeded as this Brook,

Nor will ſhe ſtop ’em by one pleaſing look.

Oh, cruel Nymph! why do’ſt thou thus delight

To torture me? why thus my ſuff’rings ſlight?

My mournfull Songs neglected are by thee,

Thou art regardleſs of my Verſe, and me.

Thou canſt behold, with an unpittying Eye,

My ſorrows, and art pleas’d to ſee me dye.

Pp2 Lo, 330 Pp2v 212

Lo, now each Creature either reſts, or feeds,

And ſpotted Lyzards dance in ſhady weeds;

All are imploy’d, and bonny Mall takes care,

Dinners for weary Reapers to prepare:

But I, by ſad complaints, at noon am found,

Making, with Graſhoppers, the Shrubs reſound.

And while I trace thy wand’ring ſteps all day,

Oppreſs’d with heat of Love, my ſpirits decay,

And by the Sun ſcorch’t up I faint away.

Had I not better far, contented, born

Brown Amaryllis little peeviſh ſcorn,

Whoſe lofty Soul, high Parents, and Deſcent,

Againſt my Love had been no Argument?

Or I had better far have lov’d black Beſs,

What though her Wealth and Beauty had been leſs;

What though her Skin was of a tawny hew,

And though as fair as whiteſt Lillies you.

With her ſo long in vain I had not ſtrove,

But ſhe would have rewarded Love with Love.

Oh, beauteous Nymph, do not ſo much delight,

Nor pride thy ſelf that thou art fair and white;

For whiteſt Bloſsoms moſt neglected fall,

While the ripe Blackberry is pluck’t by all:

But 331 Pp3r 213

But I am ſo deſpis’d, ſo ſcorn’d by thee,

Thou doſt not ev’n ſo much as ask of me,

What ſtock I do of larger Cattel keep,

How ſtor’d with Milk, or how inrich’t with Sheep.

My thouſand Lambs wander on yonder Hills,

’Tis my large Flock th’ adjacent Valley fills;

Summer nor Winter my Kine ne’er are dry,

But with new Milk my little Houſe ſupply.

If or my Verſe or Muſick could but prove,

Of force enough to make my fair one love;

I would oblige her with ſuch Songs, ſuch lays,

As thoſe with which Amphion in priſtine days,

Himſelf of old the Theban Walls did raiſe.

Nor am I ſo deform’d to be deſpis’d,

For I but lately with the Sea advis’d.

When the ſtill Winds did undiſturbed ſleep,

Nor with their Rage wrinkled the ſmooth-fac’d Deep.

And if that Image did not flatter me,

I need not fear, though to be judg’d by thee,

That I leſs handſome to your ſight ſhould prove,

Then happy Citizens whom you ſo love.

Oh that it neceſsary were for thee,

To live in humble Cottages with me;

Pp3 To 332 Pp3v 214

To hunt ſwift Deer, and with a verdant twig,

To drive my Ewes, which with their young are big.

And while my pretty Lambs in Paſtures feed,

To imitate our Pan upon a Reed:

Nor let it grieve you that you wear away

Your tender Lips upon my Pipes to play.

This, if he were but half ſo bleſt to know,

What would not the oblig’d Amyntas do?

I have that Pipe which was beſtow’d on me,

By Swain Dametas; when he dy’d, ſaid he,

Accept this Pipe as the beſt Legacie.

Dametas ſaid it, but Amyntas griev’d,

That I ſo great a preſent had receiv’d.

But in an unſafe Vale I found beſides

Two tender Kids with pretty ſpeckled Hides;

They twice a day dreign a full Udder’d Sheep,

And theſe for you with ſo much care I keep.

Mall would long ſince have beg’d ’em both from me,

And ſhe ſhall have ’em, ſince contemn’d by thee.

Come here, bright Maid, come hither charming fair,

See what for thy reception Nymphs prepare;

See 333 Pp4r 215

See how they do adorn the ſhady Bow’rs;

See how they gather all the ſweeteſt Flow’rs.

To make thee pleaſant Garlands, ſee how they

Prepare to crown thee, the bright Queen of May.

Lo I my ſelf have ſearch’t the Orchard round,

To ſee where the beſt Apples may be found:

Cheſnuts and yellow Plums I’ve gather’d, ſuch

As once my Amaryllis lov’d ſo much.

But here’s an Apple that can all out-doe,

Which I particularly pluck’t for you.

Some twigs of Lawrel from yon Tree I’ll take,

And Myrtle mix, the better ſcents to make;

Which artfully into a Garland wove,

With Flowers ſweet ſhall crown my ſweeter Love.

But all thy clowniſh Gifts unheeded are,

Nor do’s the Nymph for ſuch a Bumpkin care.

What Gifts of thine canſt thou believe will take,

Since City-Youths can ſo much richer make?

Thy humble Preſents fading are, and poor,

Not laſting as their bright and ſhining Ore.

Pp4 Alas, 334 Pp4v 216

Alas, what ſhall I do? where find out Reſt?

Where eaſe the Burthens of my lab’ring Breaſt?

I leave expos’d (diſtracted in my mind)

My choiceſt Gardens to the Southern Wind.

My cleareſt Fountains I preſerve no more,

From the unruly, and the naſty Boar.

My tender Flocks by me neglected are,

And are no more as once my only care.

While I to Paſſion am, unguarded they

To the devouring Wolf become a prey.

Each day the Sun riſes upon my Love;

And ſtill as that aſcends, this do’s improve.

But when to Thetis Lap he goes to reſt,

I feel no quiet in my Tortur’d Breaſt

Unhappy Nymph, whom wouldſt thou coyly ſhun?

Ah, whither from a wretched Lover run?

The greateſt Heroes did of old, nay Gods

Have choſe to dwell in Sylvan Shades and Woods.

Dardanian Paris lov’d the Verdant Plains,

And liv’d moſt happy, while amongſt the Swains.

Pallas her ſelf did Fields and Forreſts love,

And was delighted with the pleaſant Grove:

And 335 Pp5r 217

And there, for her abode, built ſhady Bow’rs,

And ſtately Palaces, and lofty Tow’rs.

And therefore I ſo much prefer above

The ſmoaky City, the delightfull Grove;

And in theſe Shades how happy could I be,

Diſdainfull Nymph, wer’t not for Love of thee:

’Tis that, ’tis that which thus my Reſt deſtroys,

’Tis that that ruins all my rural Joys;

To thee I am ſo prone, ſo bent to thee,

I cannot taſt the leaſt felicitie.

Not flying Wolves by the fierce Lyoneſs,

Are hotlier purſu’d; nor are Kids leſs

Follow’d by chaſing Wolves, nor can Kids be

More fond of Cytiſus than I of thee.

All follow that in which they moſt delight,

But you alone can my Deſires invite.

Ah, fooliſh Swain, what frenzy haunts thy mind?

Canſt thou no eaſe, no moderation find?

Will not thy Love one minutes reſt allow?

Behold the lab’ring Ox has left the Plow.

And now the Sun haſts to his Ev’ning bed,

By low degrees ſtill doubling ev’ry ſhade.

All 336 Pp5v 218

All Creatures now, with the expiring Light,

Ceaſe from their Toil, to ſleep away the Night.

Do’s Love alone a cruel Maſter prove?

Is there no end of the hard Taſks of Love?

See how yon Vine untrim’d neglected lyes;

What wilt thou ne’er repent? wilt ne’er be wiſe?

Apply thy ſelf to ſome more uſefull thing,

Which may a much more certain profit bring.

Shake off for ſhame at laſt this fruitleſs Love,

And waſting Time to better ends improve:

Or if you needs muſt love, hereafter chuſe

Some gentler Nymph, who’ll not your Love refuſe.

The 337 Pp6r 219

The Fourth Elegy of Cornelius Gallus, of the Miſeries of Old Age. Made Engliſh

The Poet gives an account of his loving a Young Maid very privately in his Youth, but at laſt how in his ſleep he diſcover’d what ſo carefully he hid waking; and concludes the Elegy with the conſideration of the inconveniences he lyes under by being Old.

Yet let me one more Youthfull Tale reherſe,

And pleaſe my ſelf with my own empty Verſe;

For idle Stories very well agree

With antick Dotage, and ſtupiditie.

And as in changing years, Mankind is found

With various Chances always turning round:

Ev’n ſo thoſe times which moſt inverted be,

Seem moſt obliging to the Memorie.

A Virgin 338 Pp6v 220

A Virgin once there was, whom Heav’n deſign’d,

Both by the Graces of her Face and Mind,

To be adapted, ſo, that ſhe became

By Nature Candid, as ſhe was by Name.

Her pure white Hair around her ſhoulders ſpread,

Fell decently in Ringlets from her Head:

But ev’ry Part of her was bright, and fair,

And full as charming as her Flaxen Hair.

The tunefull Lyre ſhe touch’t with ſuch a grace,

That it confirm’d the Conqueſts of her Face;

While from the trembling ſtrings ſoft Tunes did flow,

With Love and Joy my Heart did tremble too.

But when ſhe joyn’d thereto ſome witty Song,

How many Cupids ſate upon her Tongue!

Each moving word, each accent ſent a Dart,

And ev’ry Note did wound my melting Heart.

But then ſhe Danc’d with ſuch a charming Air,

As made each Part appear more killing fair.

No ſtratagems of Love by her e’er miſt,

Nor had I pow’r my Ruin to reſiſt:

But did with ſecret Pleaſure entertain

The ſilent and the ſmooth delightfull pain.

Thus 339 Pp7r 221

Thus one bright Maid, but yet aſſiſted well

With ſuch Auxiliaries, as nought could quell,

In various ways ſtorm’d my defenceleſs Mind;

Nor did one Charm the leaſt reſiſtance find.

And when by down-right force ſhe was poſseſt,

She ne’er forſook my entertaining Breaſt.

Once ſeen, her beauteous form ſtill ſtay’d with me,

And day and night dwelt in my Memorie.

How oft has my Imagination brought

Her abſent Image preſent to my Thought.

Fix’t, and intent, how oft (though far remov’d)

Have I ſuppos’d I talk’d with her I lov’d.

How oft with Pleaſure would my Fancy bring

Thoſe Songs to mind which ſhe was wont to ſing;

And how I ſtrove my Voice, like hers, to frame,

And bin delighted as it were the ſame.

Thus I my ſelf, againſt my ſelf took part,

And, like a cheat, play’d booty with my Heart.

How oft, alas, have my own Friends believ’d,

That I of Senſe and Reaſon was depriv’d,

Nor can I think that they were much deceiv’d.

For 340 Pp7v 222

For neither was I perfectly compos’d,

Nor altogether with my Frenzy doz’d.

But ’tis a mighty trying hardſhip ſure,

A ſtifled ſecret Paſſion to endure;

The furious Rage no mortal Breaſt can bear,

But in the Countenance it will appear,

Though never ſo reſerv’d, though never ſo ſevere.

By the alternate change of White and Red,

A true Diſcovery is quickly made.

Th’ affected Face do’s the hid thoughts desire;

Bluſhing beſpeaks a ſhame, and Paleneſs fear:

But ev’n my Dreams betray’d my Privacie,

My Treach’rous Dreams did faithleſs prove to me:

They did my ſad Anxieties reveal,

Nor cou’d ev’n Death like ſleep, my Cares conceal:

For when my Senſes all inclin’d to Reſt,

And by oblivious ſlumbers were poſseſt,

Ev’n then my conſcious Tongue my Guilt confeſt

As on the Graſs, ſleeping I once was lay’d,

Cloſe by the Father of my lovely Maid;

And 341 Pp8r 223

And while He thoughtleſs ſlumber’d by my ſide,

Thus, in my Dreams diſturb’d, aloud I cry’d,

Haſt, haſt, my Candida, make no delay,

Our ſecret Love is ruin’d if you ſtay:

For ſee, already peeps the prying Sun,

If w’are diſcovered we are both undone,

The envious Light will our ſtol’n Loves betray,

Haſt, haſt, my Candida, make haſt away.

Awak’d at this, and in a ſtrange ſurprize,

He ſtarted up, and ſcarce believ’d his Eyes:

And for his Daughter, ſearch’t the place around,

But only I was ſleeping on the ground;

Gaſping and panting there he ſaw me lye,

Tranſported from my ſelf with Ecſtaſie.

With what vain Dreams, ſaid he, art thou poſseſt?

Or has a real Love uſurp’d thy Breaſt?

And ſo thy ſleep diſcovers a true jeſt

Some walking Objects, I indeed conclude,

Upon thy gentler ſlumbers may intrude,

And fleeting Forms thy Wiſhes do delude.

Aſtoniſh’t! he my broken Murmurs watch’t,

And each imperfect dropping Sentence catch’t:

Gently 342 Pp8v 224

Gently his right hand on my Heart he lay’d,

And, in ſoft Whiſpers, more inquiries made:

For ſo apply’d, the ſly Inquirers Hand

From ſleeping Breaſts can any thing command;

And the loos’d Tongue do’s by that Charm impart

The very choiceſt ſecrets of the Heart.

Thus I, who did ſo long my ſelf behave

So well, and ſeem’d to all ſo good, ſo grave;

And had a ſober Reputation kept,

My ſelf, at laſt, diſcover’d, as I ſlept.

And now has my whole wretched Life been free

From impious actions, and impuritie.

Nor can I ſay I did theſe Crimes prevent,

So much by Vertue, as by Accident.

But now I’m Old, and want the ſtrength to ſin,

It pleaſes me my Youth hath guiltleſs been.

Yet what juſt Praiſe deſerv’dly due can be

To Aged Men, that they from Vice are free,

Since ’tis not choice, but meer neceſſitie?

Strength only ſleeps, but Inclinations wake,

And not they Vice, but Vice do’s them forſake:

Pleaſure 343 Qq1r 225

Pleaſure deſerts their unperforming Years,

And leaves them fill’d with painful toils, and cares:

They are but glad they do no evil fact,

Only becauſe they want the Pow’r to act

’Tis worth our while, if we conſider too,

What penalties in Age we undergo;

How that, with it, a ſlow repentance brings,

For all our youthfull faults, and riotings;

How many ſighs, and groans it pays, and tears,

For dear-bought Luxury of younger years.

But though Mankind will ſometimes ſtrive in vain,

Youth’s boyling Heats to curb, and to reſtrain;

Yet oft-times knowingly, and with much skill,

We cunningly perſiſt in doing Ill.

W’are oft induſtrious, ſtudious, wiſe, and nice,

In the performance of ſome witty Vice:

But Vice ſometimes bears us by force away,

Yet oft its call more eas’ly we obey.

Oft, though we cannot compaſs what we will,

We are Well-wiſhers to ſome pleaſing Ill.

Qq To 344 Qq1v 226

To my Mistriss. Tranſlated out of Tibullus.

Nulla tuum nobis ſubducet faemina lectum, Hoc primum, &c;

My Love to thee no Beauty ſhall betray,

For it is firmly fix’t, and cannot ſtray.

None, none ſeems fair methinks in all the Town,

But thee; thou pleaſeſt, and delight’ſt alone.

I wiſh indeed that none thy Charms could ſee,

And they were undiſcern’d by all, but me;

So might I love with ſome ſecuritie.

I wiſh not to be envy’d, nor deſire

That any ſhould my bleſsed ſtate admire.

The Wiſe-man loves a ſecret Happineſs;

For to be publick, makes it but the leſs.

With thee for ever I in Woods would reſt,

Where never humane Foot the ground has preſt

Thou who forbid’ſt Diſquiets to intrude,

Who from Nights-ſhades the Darkneſs canſt exclude,

And from a Deſert baniſh Solitude.

Qq Shou’d 345 Qq2r 227

Shou’d Heav’n it ſelf conſpire to change my Love,

And ſend me down a Miſtriſs from above,

Adorn’d with all the Beauties of the Skies,

In vain ſhe would attempt to charm my Eyes,

Ev’n Venus ſelf I would for thee deſpiſe.

This I moſt ſolemnly by Juno ſwear,

Whom you to all the other Gods prefer.

Hold, Mad-man, hold! what do I do? what ſay?

But I have ſworn, confeſt, and muſt obey.

Fool that I was, my Fear has led me on

To this grand ſenceleſs indiſcretion.

Now thou haſt conquer’d, and may’ſt tyrannize,

With all the Pow’rs of thy reſiſtleſs Eyes;

While I but dote the more: Yes, brainleſs Sot,

This by thy fooliſh babling tongue th’aſt got.

But I ſubmit, command me what you will,

I am your moſt obedient Servant ſtill.

Thy hardeſt Mandates I will ne’er refuſe,

But the delightfull well-known Bondage chuſe.

Only to Venus Altars I’ll repair,

And there my Love, and there my Faith declare;

She puniſhes the falſe, the juſt do’s ſpare.

Qq2 The 346 Qq2v 228

The Agreement.


Cloſe by a Silver Rivulet,

Grac’d with rich Willows, mournfull Daphne ſate,

Leaning her melancholy Head

On the ſad Banks of an Enamell’d Mead,

O’er-charg’d with Griefs her Heart,

Her Eyes o’er-charg’d with Tears,

For an intolerable ſmart,

For daily pains, and nightly fears,

For moſt uncertain hopes, and ſure deſpairs,

’Gainſt Tyrant Love a long complaint ſhe made,

Whilſt each ſad Object did her ſorrows aid.


Then Three-heart rending ſighs ſhe drew,

Deeper than ever Poet’s Fiction knew;

And cruel, cruel Thyrſis ſaid,

Why thus unkind to an enamour’d Maid?

A Maid whoſe Breaſt abounds

With kindneſs, that can move

By dire, and miſerable ſounds,

Com- 347 Qq3r 229

Compliance from the very Grove,

Whilſt my Heart labours to conceal its Love:

But oh in curſt Deſpair firſt let me dye,

E’er he, by loving me, finds miſery.


Then three more diſmal Groans ſhe took,

Whoſe cruel noiſe, like a great Earthquake, ſhook

The neighbouring Plebean Wood,

Which to commiſerate her ſorrows ſtood,

I’ll tortur’d be no more,

No more I’ll grieve in vain;

Inrag’d with furious Heat, ſhe ſwore,

Theſe ſilent ſtreams ſhall eaſe my pain,

And I’ll no more ’gainſt him, and Love complain:

Witneſs theſe lonely Fields, how I have lov’d,

And for his ſake this fatal Med’cine prov’d.


Juſt with thick trouble in her face,

Deſcending from the miſerable place,

Thyrſis, to ſave the Nymph appears,

His Eyes half drown’d with over-flowing Tears.

Qq3 Thyrſis 348 Qq3v 230

Thyrſis (alas) had heard

The Maid repeat her Woe:

Thyrſis the conſequence too fear’d;

Ah, why do’ſt thou my Paſſion know?

(Sad Daphne ſaid) looſe me, and let me go,

Where at ſome reſt, for ever I may be,

And not deſpis’d by a Triumphing He.


Ah, Cruel Nymph (griev’d Thyrſis cries

With dolefull Face, and lamentable Eyes)

Cou’d you, O cou’d you thus undo

A Swain, who ſecretly has burnt for you?

With joy ſhe ſtops him here,

Brighter her Eyes became,

And her all-clouded Face grew clear,

Then (bluſhing ſaid) I am to blame,

Since you for Daphne had a private flame:

Pleas’d with this bleſt diſcovery, both agree

Their Mutual Love no more conceal’s ſhou’d be.

Song. 349 Qq4r 231



Damon to Sylvia, when alone,

Did thus expreſs his Love;

Fair Nymph, I muſt a Paſſion own,

Which, elſe would fatal prove.

Can you a faithfull Shepherd ſee,

Who languiſhes in pain,

And yet ſo cruel-hearted be,

To let him ſue in vain?


Then with his Eyes all full of fire,

And winning phraſes, he

Intreated her to eaſe Deſire,

And grant ſome Remedy.

Allur’d with Am’rous looks, the Maid,

Fearing he might prevail,

Begg’d that he wou’d no more perſwade

A Virgin that was frail.

Qq4 Fear 350 Qq4v 232


Fear not, dear Nymph, replyes the Swain,

There’s none can know our bliſs;

None can relate our Loves again,

While this place ſilent is.

Then Damon, with a lov’d ſurprize,

Leap’t cloſe into her Arms,

With Raviſhing delights he dyes,

And melts with thouſand charms.

The Innocent Diſcov’ry.

The Air was calm, the Sky ſerene and clear,

Kindly the Lamps of Heaven did appear.

Faintly their Light ſome weak Reflexes made

On the clos’d Caſements, which to Eyes betray’d,

Nought, but a dying Tapers glim’ring light,

Befitting well that ſeaſon of the night.

Sleep having welcom’d ev’ry weary’d limb,

And gentle ſilence waiting upon him.

Under 351 Qq5r 233

Under Olinda’s bleſt Apartment, I

(To eaſe my never-ceaſing Malady)

Took up my well-ſtrung Lute, ſome Ayrs to play;

Ayrs ſoft as ſleep, and pleaſing as the day.

On ſilence I no ſooner made a Breach,

Than the joy’d Sound her ſacred Ears did reach;

Willing to know who had diſturb’d her Reſt,

Came to the Window like Aurora dreſt,

In ſplendour; only let this diff’rence be,

That fair Olinda brighter was than ſhe.

Leſt I ſhould ſee her (Ah, dear Innocence)

Puts out the Candle, but th’ Impertinence

Of the vain plot did make me wonder more,

For I beheld her plainer than before:

She only had remov’d the Moon away,

That hinder’d me of a more perfect day:

Th’ Eclipſe, when gone, diſcover’d to my ſight

A better proſpect of the Sun’s ſtrong light.

The 352 Qq5v 234

The Petition. A Song.


Oh uſe me gently, ſince I am your ſlave,

To Tyranize o’er Wretches is not brave;

In tort’ring me, what Glory can be found,

Who am defenceleſs, and ſecurely bound?


Tempt not your Conqueſts, & your Strength too far,

But uſe your Captive with a wiſer care;

Such influence will your kindneſs have on me,

That I ſhall never wiſh for libertie.


The wary Shipwright can’t by force reduce

The ſturdy Oak to his more pliant uſe;

But gently warms it by an eaſie fire,

And then it yields to what he will deſire.

For 353 Qq6r 235


For Love is more commanding far than Hate,

And Cruelty Rebellion will create,

That King ſits always ſafeſt on his Throne,

Who rules his Subjects by his Love alone.

Fate. A Song.


Thou know’ſt (my Fair) how much I love,

And that my flames do ſtill improve;

That they ſtill burn, and ſtill appear,

As bright as thy dear Eyes are clear:

Still they are pure as the firſt Cauſe,

Nor ſwerve they from the very Laws;

That Womens practices impoſe,

Which firſt their Humors, ſince their Pride has choſe.

No 354 Qq6v 236


No fault in all my Love is found,

And yet you will not heal my Wound;

In vain I tell you how I burn,

You will vouchſafe me no return.

In vain your pity I implore,

You ſmile to ſee my bleeding ſore;

No, though a Kiſs wou’d do the Cure,

Unkind Graciana lets me ſtill endure.


For this what reaſon can there be,

Why ſo averſe to Love and Me:

Alas, too late, I know too late

The ſtrong neceſſity of Fate.

No Woman yet was ever made

To Love aright, but be betray’d:

The Men, who dote on them, they ſhun,

And to the Arms of the indiff’rent run.

My 355 Qq7r 237

My Religion.


Me in the Church, ’tis true, you often ſee,

But there I come not with intent

To hear a thick-ſcull’d Parſon vent

His phlegmatick Divinitie:

No, my Graciana, ’tis to look on thee;

On thee I gaze, and in thy Eyes find ſence,

Beyond the Gown-man’s holy Eloquence;

For what has his dull tale of Doom,

And horrid things to come,

To doe with Love, and Thee, which I alone

For my Eſtabliſhed Religion own?


The Croud, nay the more Learn’d, and Wiſe for thi

Perhaps will me an Atheiſt call,

And ſay that I believe no God at all:

But oh they judge, they judge amiſs,

And 356 Qq7v 237

And wond’rouſly themſelves deceive;

For I a mighty Deity believe,

To whom ten thouſand Sighs, as many Tears,

With painfull Groans, and with inceſsant Pray’rs,

As a due Sacrifice each day I give,

Which, ſometimes, ſhe diſdains not to receive;

And one kind thing from her weighs more with me,

Than all their Bodies of Divinitie.


With much more ſence, indeed they may,

Accuſe me of Idolatrie;

That I to you that Worſhip pay,

Which only Heav’n ſhou’d have from me:

But let the wiſeſt of them all,

The moſt preciſe, and Phariſaical,

Tell me, if my Graciana wou’d be kind,

What holy indignation cou’d they find;

What pious zeal, what ſanctity of mind,

To guard them from a ſin ſo charming ſweet,

But wou’d fall down, and worſhip at thy feet;

Striving, like me, in laſting Verſe, to raiſe

Eternal Trophies to thy praiſe.

For, 357 Qq8r 239


For, if to me ſhe once her Love wou’d give,

Graciana’s Name ſhou’d then for ever live,

And in each proud, and ſwelling line,

Graciana’s Name ſhou’d like rich Jewels ſhine:

Nor wou’d it leſs avail, to make

My Verſe immortal, as her Fame:

For conſecrated with her Name,

All Men wou’d read them for Graciana’s ſake.

The Kiss.


Oh, take not this ſweet Kiſs ſo ſoon away,

But on theſe Lips let me for ever ſtay,

This Food, Love’s Appetite, can ne’er deſtroy,

’Tis too Ætherial to cloy:

The Manna, from Indulgent Heav’n,

Which to the murm’ring Jews was giv’n,

Did not ſo many Delicates afford,

As in one Kiſs of thine are ſtor’d:

But it reſembles ſomething more Divine,

Like that above, on which bright Angels Dine;

Where, 358 Qq8v 240

Where, an Eternal Meal by them’s enjoy’d,

And yet, with glutted fullneſs, never cloy’d.


Me therefore do not you deprive

Of my Lifes chief preſervative;

Though I confeſs that it affords to me

More than a bare ſubſiſtencie:

For thy dear Kiſs, a kind of taſt do’s give,

How all the bleſt above do live;

And I methinks, when e’er I joyn

My happy Lips to ſacred thine;

Am with the joy tranſported ſo,

That perfectly I do not know,

Whether my raviſh’d Soul be fled, or no:

But this I certainly can ſay, I feel

Pleaſures that are unſpeakable.

Tell me, Graciana, prithee doe,

For only you the truth can know.

If on thy Lips dwell ſuch prevailing Charms,

And in thy Kiſses ſuch delights abound;

What Ecſtaſies, what Raptures will be found,

Within the Magick Circle of thy Arms.

The 359 R1r 241

The Wrack. Set by Mr. G. Hart.


In vain I ſtrive, with Buis’neſs, to remove

The pleaſing Torments of incroaching Love;

Dreſt in ſuch beauteous Forms, ſtill He appears,

With ſweet Deluſions, charming all my Fears;

So ſtrongly he allures, and do’s invite

To follow diſtant Pleaſures, ſcarce in ſight;

That his dear Witchcraft I want ſtrength to ſhun,

But yield, with vaſt delight, to be undone.


Such ſtrange Inchantments the ſly Boy do’s uſe,

His Chains, before my Liberty, I chuſe.

And though my Ruin, I before me ſpy,

I’d periſh, rather than turn back to ſly:

So wretched Sailers, in an open Sea,

By Treach’rous Syrens, led an unknown way,

See the enſuing Storms, their Songs create,

Yet want the Pow’r t’avoid their certain Fate.

R To 360 Rr1v 242

To Mr P. Berault Upon His French Grammar.

What equal Thanks? what Gratitude is due,

Induſtrious Friend, from all this Iſle to you?

For all your Labour, all your Toil, and Care,

In bringing us, from France, their Language here:

Their Language, which is ſure their richeſt ſtore,

And each Wiſe man do’s prize, and value more,

Than all the Goods that came from thence before.

Their Language, which do’s more the Wit refine,

Than all their Modes, than all their ſparkling Wine.

And this thou do’ſt in ſuch a Method teach,

As ev’n the leaſt Capacity may reach.

By 361 Rr2r 243

By ſuch plain rules, and axioms thou doſt ſhow

The Pronunciation, none could better know,

Did they to France for their Inſtruction go.

To us, thou mak’ſt, by this, their Learning known,

And in th’ Original ’tis all our own:

Tranſlators oft unfaithfull, and unjuſt,

At ſecond-hand we need no longer truſt;

But in their prim’tive Beauty we may ſee

The famous Boileau, and Sieur Scudery;

Now thoſe two mighty Wits we may careſs

In their own Elegant, and Native Dreſs,

And learn from them, bright Ladies how to praiſe,

In ſofteſt Language, and in ſmootheſt Phraſe:

For French alone ſo eaſie is, and free;

So ſweetly gentle, that it ſeems to be

At firſt deſign’d for, and contriv’d by Love,

As th’ only Charm, a ſcornfull Nymph to move.

Now ſure our rambling Youth will ſtay at home,

Nor wantonly ſo oft to Paris roam,

Under pretext to learn the Language there,

Since you inſtruct them ſo much better here.

They 362 Rr2v 244

They need no more tempt the unfaithfull Seas,

For what your Grammar teaches (if they pleaſe)

With much leſs charge at home, & much more eaſe.

This, therefore, from thy care we hope to gain,

That thy Endeavours may thoſe Sparks detain,

Whoſe roving Minds lead them to France from hence,

Meerly (forſooth, under the ſlight pretence

Of Courtly Breeding, Carriage, Wit, and Sence,)

To learn the Affectation of the Proud,

The noiſe, and nonſence of the Vain, and Loud;

Foiſting upon ſome eaſie Coxcombs here,

Thoſe caſt of Vices which they pickt up there.

Song. 363 Rr3r 245



Evadne, I muſt tell you ſo,

You are too cruel grown;

No ſmiles nor pity you beſtow,

But Death in ev’ry frown.

My Love, though chaſt and conſtant too,

Yet no relief can find;

Curſt be the ſlave that’s falſe to you,

Though you are ſtill unkind.


Were you as mercifull as fair,

My wiſhes wou’d obtain;

But love I muſt, though I deſpair,

And periſh in the pain.

If in an Age I can prevail,

I happy then ſhall be;

And cou’d I live, I wou’d not fail

To wait Eternally.

The 364 Rr3v 246

The ſame Song Inverted. By Mr. Walker.

Evadne, I muſt let you know,

Your Cruelty is vain;

For if you will no ſmiles beſtow,

I ſcorn your proud diſdain.

And ſince my Love, though pure and true,

No juſt relief can find;

Curſt be that Fool ſhall dote on you,

When you are ſtill unkind.


Were you as gentle as you’re fair,

I’d ſtrive your Love to gain;

But I can never court Deſpair,

Nor cheriſh needleſs pain.

If in a Week I cou’d prevail,

Then I might happy be;

But Love and Patience, both will fail,

To wait Eternally.

The 365 Rr4r 247

The Five following Copies done by Mr. C. G. of Æton-Colledge.

A Paraphraſe on the 23d Idyll. of Theocritus, from the beginning, to Ὡς δ’εἰπὼν λίθον εὶλεν, &c.


An Amorous little Swain

Was ſet to keep

His Father’s goodly Flock of Sheep,

(Fed in a Common that belong’d to Pan,

About the middle of th’ Arcadian Plain.)

By chance a noble Youth came by,

Whom when his ſparkling Eyes did ſpy

His watchfull Eyes,

That there ſtood Centinel,

And did perform their office well;

Stoutly prepar’d for every quick ſurprize.

Marking the Beauty of his Angel’s Face,

Mix’t with ſweet carriage, and a heavenly grace,

Well ſatisfy’d, they let him paſs;

Rr4 Who 366 Rr4v 248

Who having got admittance, did impart

The fatal ſecret to his wounded heart.

Charm’d with the Youth he was that Fate had thither brought,

Whoſe Beauty did ſurpaſs deſire or thought:

In making whom,

Nature for once did thus preſume,

To go beyond her Laſt, to place

On a Man’s ſhoulders a fair Womans face;

Or rather to adorn,

With more than heav’nly beauty a Terreſtrial Form.


But ah! his Mind,

Not like his Angel Face, proud, ſcornfull, & unkind,

Deſpiſing thoſe whom Paſſion,

Whom unreſiſted Paſſion mov’d

To higheſt admiration;

Thoſe who diſdain’d him moſt, he greatly lov’d:

He knew not, nor did he deſire to know

What Cupid meant, his Arrows, or his Bow,

How oft, how uſually he throws

A Golden Dart,

To wound the Heart

Of thoſe

Who 367 Rr5r 249

Who moſt unconquerable ſeem,

Jear at his Godſhip, and his Power contemn.

Cruel in deed and word,

Who never the leaſt comfort would diſcover,

Or one cool drop of eaſe afford

To a deſpairing, burning, dying Lover.

Choler and anger in his Entrails boils,

No pleaſant ſmiles,

No roſie Lips, nor bluſhing Cheeks,

Nor languiſh’t Eyes that might betray

An inward fondneſs, and might ſeem to ſay,

I will thy mutual love repay.

No comfortable words he ſpeaks;

Nor ſuffers me to raviſh one kind kiſs,

That entrance to a future, and more perfect bliſs:

But as a Chaſed Boar

With Vengeance looks upon his Hunter’s Spear;

Sets up his Briſtles on his back,

And roaring makes

The Forreſt all around, and every Creature quake;

So he beholds the Swain

With deſp’rate fury and diſdain,

Adding more fuel to his never-dying flame.

Diſdain 368 Rr5v 250


Diſdain did make his Countenance turn pale,

And all his other Charms began to fail;

Anger did baniſh every Grace

From the dominions of his lovely Face,

Whilſt cruel Eyes, and harder Heart took place.

Yet ſtill the Shepherd finds no Arms

Fit to reſiſt theſe languiſhing, theſe fainting Charms,

His Angel ſweetneſs he muſt ſtill adore,

Troubled that he could manifeſt his Love no more.

Alas! how vain and uſeleſs all things prove,

When enter’d in Damn’d Cupid’s School,

We learn his Precepts, and his Rules,

When ſhackled in the chains of Love,

Turn faſhionable fools;

We scarce can call our ſelves our own,

And our affections pay obeiſance to anothers Crown.


No longer able to contain,

Though all was needleſs, all in vain;

Tears, like a mighty Flood,

Did over-flow their Banks, and drown’d

Th’ adjacent Barren, fruitleſs, famiſh’d Ground.

Trem- 369 Rr6r 251

Trembling with fear,

At laſt he ventur’d to draw near,

Where all in Glory ſtood,

The object of his Love, the cauſe of his Deſpair.

Firſt he preſumes to kiſs

The ſacred ground whereon he trod,

In hopes of future happineſs,

But all wou’d do no good.

Then ſtrove to ſpeak,

But ah! Diſdain and Fear his forwardneſs did check,

And made his half-out liſping words draw back.

Forcing himſelf at laſt, ſtutters ſuch words as theſe:


O cruel, inexorable, ſtony Saint,

Blind to my Tears, and Deaf to my Complaint;

Sure of ſome Lyoneſs, or Tyger born,

Unworthy of my Love, as I unworthy of your ſcorn.

A gratefull Gift to you I bring,

The welcomeſt the only thing

that now at preſent do’s remain,

To eaſe me of my pain;

To eaſe me of my Love, and you of your Diſdain.

And 370 Rr6v 252

And lo,

How willingly I go;

How willingly I go, where you

By your unkindneſs, deſtin me unto;

I go where every Love-ſick Mind

Is us’d, an univerſal Remedy to find;

The place is call’d Oblivion’s Land,

A Lake call’d Lethe in th’ midſt do’s ſtand:

Which were it poſſible that I could dry,

In flames unquenchable I ſtill ſhould fry;

Nor cou’d I yet forget thy Name,

So oft have I repeated o’er the ſame,

But find, alas! no liquor that can quench my flame.


Adieu! lov’d Youth, eternally adieu!

But ſcornfull fair firſt know what doom,

Undoubtedly ſhall on your Beauty come,

And from my dying mouth believe it true.

The pleaſant Day, alas! is quickly gon,

Flowers in th’ Morning freſh cut down by Noon;

The bluſhing Roſe do’s fade, and wither ſoon,

White 371 Rr7r 253

White Snow do’s melt before the ſcorching Sun;

So youthfull Beauty’s full of charms, but all are quickly gon,

The time will come when you your ſelf will prove

How great a Deity is Love.

Charm’d by ſome beauteous ſhe,

You’ll offer up your ſacrifice of Tears,

And weary her with your continual Prayers;

By Night you’ll ſigh, and pine, by Day you’ll woo,

But all’s in vain that you can doe,

No greater pity will you find, than I from you.

Then will your Conſcience bring Me into mind,

Not to delight, but ſerve you in your kind;

My reſtleſs Ghoſt ſhall come,

Not to cry Ah! but Io! at your doom.


However grant me this, ev’n this at leaſt;

I’ll ask no more, but grant me this requeſt:

That when thou paſseſt by,

Thou woul’ſt not let me unregarded lye,

Seeing the fatal Dagger in my Breaſt.

But come, and grieve, and weep a while,

I ask not (what I once ſo much deſir’d) one smile;

But 372 Rr7v 254

But pull the Dagger from the Wound,

And cloſe, and cloſe embrace me round;

Thy Mantle o’er my liveleſs Body ſpread,

Give me one kiſs, one kiſs, when I am dead:

I ask no more, O grant me this,

That thou may’ſt joyn

Thy Lips to mine,

And ſeal them with a meeting, parting kiſs.

When forc’d by thy unkindneſs I am fled,

Thou need’ſt not fear that I can then revive,

Though ſuch a kiſs cou’d almoſt raiſe to life.

Hew me a ſtately Tomb to be my Bed,

Where Love and I may lay our head.

Then leave me, after thou haſt three times ſaid,

My Friend, my deareſt Friend on Earth is dead;

O cruel Death, that canſt us two divide;

My friend, my friend, would God that I for thee had dy’d.

Write this Inſcription (ſince they are in faſhion)

To ſhow how baſe your ſcorn, how excellent my paſ- ſion.

Here lyes a Lover, kill’d by Deep Deſpair;

Stay, Reader, ſtay,

And only be ſo kind to ſay,

Alas, He lov’d; Alas, He lov’d a Cruel Fair.

Chorus. 373 Rr8r 255

Chorus I. Of Seneca’s Agamemnon.

Fortune, thou ſetter up of Kings,

Upon whoſe ſmiles or frowns

Depends the ſtanding, or the fall of Crowns.

What various Chances Fortune brings?

Mounting on deceitfull Wings,

She lifteth Kings on high,

On Wings of Dignity.

Then leaves them all alone,

Tells them ſhe muſt be gone;

So let them ſtand, or fall, or riſe,

With Wings ſpread out, away ſhe flies.

Fortune, how canſt thou cheat us ſo

With naughty Goods, yet make a ſhow

Of honeſt Ware; thou do’ſt deſire

Thy Goods ſhou’d rich, and gay appear,

Though they be truly little worth, and truly very dear.


’Tis not the Scepter, or the bearing ſway,

Can cares and troubles drive away:

One 374 Rr8v 256

One trouble on anothers neck do’s come;

The firſt retreats, another takes his room.

The raging Sea contends

For paſsage through the Sands;

The skipping Waves do beat and roar,

Falling from a lofty ſhoar;

So Fortune head-long throws,

Chances of Kings, and thoſe

That are exalted unto dignitie.

Kings wou’d be feared, yet we ſee,

They fear, leſt they that fear them ſhou’d uſe treacherie.


’Tis not the Night can give them reſt,

Whoſe Hearts with ſlaviſh fear are preſt;

Nor can ſweet ſleep expell the care

Of them, whoſe Minds unquiet are.

What Pallace is not quickly brought,

By Prince’s Wickedneſs, to nought?

What Tower do’s not impious Arms

Weary, with continual harms?

All Law and Modeſty is fled the Court,

No ties of ſacred Wedlock there reſort.

But 375 Sſr 257


But deſperate Bellona ſtands

With quavering Spear, and bloody hands:

There ſtands Erinnys too, beſide,

The Puniſher of Courtly Pride;

Who always waiteth at the door

Of ſuch as ſwell in Wealth and Pow’r,

To lay them level every hour:

And yet ſuppoſe there ſhou’d be peace,

And th’ ills pre-mention’d all ſhou’d ceaſe.


Still things that are ſo high, and great,

Are over-turn’d by their own weight.

If Sails be blown by proſp’rous Wind,

We fear thoſe Gales ſhou’d prove unkind:

And Auſter ſmites the Tower that ſhrouds

His lofty top among the Clouds.

The little Shrubs, in ſhades that ſpread,

Do ſee the tall and ancient Oak,

Which blaſting Boreas oft has ſhook,

Lie fall’n on th’ Ground, wither’d and dead.

Sſ Flaſhes 376 Sſv 258

Flaſhes of Lightning ſmite the Mountains high,

Great Bodies open to diſeaſes lie.

Among the Herd’s, Kine that are fat, and beſt,

Are choſe for ſlaughter out from all the reſt;

What ever tott’ring Fortune do’s exalt,

Has only Crutches lent to learn to halt.

Low, mean, and mod’rate things bear longeſt date,

That Man is truly, and is only Great,

Who lives contented with a mean Eſtate.

Thrice happy is the Man, whoſe Means do lye

Above, or elſe below curſt Fortune’s eye;

Too low for Envy, for Contempt too high.


The 377 Sſ2r 259

The Penitent.


By Heav’n! ’tis ſcarce ten days ago,

Since to my ſelf I made a Vow,

That I wou’d never have to do

With Duſeraſtes more;

Till Wine, and Love, and Eaſe complying,

Bore down before ’em all denying,

For having his Perfections, told me,

Made me break the Oath I ſwore;

Threw me head-long to his Arms,

Where taſting of his uſual charms,

No Reſolution can with-hold me.

Now, who but Duſeraſtes in my eye;

’Tis by his ſmiles I live, and by his frowns I dye.


Your Sunny Face, through Cloudy Frowns, in vain

Wou’d make my Gazing Eyes abſtain,

For I as ſoon can ceaſe to be,

As ceaſe to Love, and gaze on thee;

Here cou’d I take up mine Eternitie.

Sſ2 As 378 Sſ2v 260

As well one may

Touch flaming Coals, or with a Serpent play,

And yet receive no harm;

As look on you unmoved by your Charms.

For my part, I am forc’d to lay down Arms;

Although I’m fain

To be content with nothing but diſdain.

And ſince thoſe things are cheap, we eaſily obtain,

I am content a while to live upon deſpair,

Juſt as Chamelions do on Air.


I play and dally on Hells brink,

Till I perceive my ſelf begin to ſink,

Or ſcorch my ſelf too near ſo great a fire,

And ſo am forced to retire.

Anon forgetfull of my former burn,

I muſt again, I muſt again return:

So do’s the little Gnat, by Night,

Fly round, and round, the Candles light,

Untill its buſie daring Wing

Too near ſuch heat begins to ſinge;

Yet ſtill unmindfull of the ſmart,

She muſt, ſhe will repeat her former ſport.

Hence, 379 Sſ3r 261


Hence, hence, Heroick Muſe, adieu,

For I muſt take my leave of you;

Love, that uſurps the Rule of my Poetick Vein,

Forbids Calliope’s Heroick ſtrain;

Charges me nothing to endite,

Concerning this or t’other fight.

Nor of the Scythian, or the Parthian War to write,

Unleſs to beautifie my Poetry,

Thoſe ſtories to my Love I fitly wou’d apply.

And now methinks I feign

My ſelf an honeſt faithfull Scythian,

And he a perfidious flying Parthian,

Whoſe turned Dart

Strikes his Purſuer ſwiftly to the Heart:

So the more eager Phœbus follow’d on,

The ſwifter Daphne did his Preſence ſhun;

So much the more encreas’d his Paſſion higher,

As the chaſt little Virgin, ſhe grew ſhier.

I ask not mutual Love in equal weight,

But only give me leave to love thee free from hate.

Sſ3 To 380 Sſ3v 262

To Duserastes.

O Cruel, Proud, and Fair,

Cauſe of my Love, and cauſe of my Deſpair.

When firſt a little ſprouting Beard,

Thoſe lovely Lips, and Cheeks ſhall guard,

Not ſoft as Down, but rugged, long, and hard.

When lovely Locks, that on your ſhoulders play,

Shall turn to the cold hoary Grey,

Or, waſting Time ſhall eat ’em quite away;

As when too much of working ſpoils

The very heart of fruitfull Soils,

And makes ’em, without moiſture, hard and dry,

All Plants and Herbs do wither, fall, and dye.

And when that lovely Red and White,

That in your charming Cheeks do meet,

That make the Lilly, and the Roſe,

Their ſweetneſs, and their colour loſe,

Shall turn to Wrinkles, wan, and pale,

And all your other Charms ſhall fail.

Then 381 Sſ4r 263

Then as you go to gaze

Upon you former Angel’s face,

In your too much frequented Looking-glaſs;

Then your own Preſence will you ſtrive to ſhun,

And thus complain in a forſaken Lover’s tone.

Why was I ever Young?

Why was not Beauty long?

Why had I ever Charms, or why are they ſo quickly gone?

The Vow. To the ſame.


Why do you vex me with continual fears,

And force out needleſs Tears?

Why do you tell me I ſhall ſurely dye,

Since Courteous Heav’n, and I,

Both in one reſoultion do comply?

That whenſoever you are fled, unkind;

I will not ſtay, I cannot ſtay behind.

Sſ4 If 382 Sſ4v 264

If envious Fate muſt ſtrike the Heart,

My better part,

Why ſhou’d this liveleſs lump of Clay


To mount the Skies to follow thee away?

Propitious Fate has ſpun

Both threds of Life in one;

I’ve made a Vow, yea I have ſworn,

Nor will I fail (by Heav’n) to perform;

We’ll travel both together to our long, long home.


In ſpite of Hell, to Heav’n we will glide,

And all the heavy World below deride,

Attended by Jove’s Meſsengers on either ſide:

Not Charon’s ſhabby Barge,

Shall have ſo great, ſo glorious a charge:

Apollo’s Chariot ſhall us both tranſport,

With Mercury our Guide,

Above Moon, Stars, and Sun, we’ll glide,

Till we arrive to Jove’s Eternal Court,

There in Immortal State

Shall I on yours, and you on Jove’s left hand be ſet.

Nay 383 Sſ5 265

Nay, further ſtill our Glories ſhall extend,

You ſhall be worſhipp’d as the God of Beauty,

To you ſhall Mortals pay all ſacred Duty,

My Name ſhall ſignifie a Faithfull Friend;

Here ſhall our love no quarrels know, our joys no end.

The Six following Copies done by Mr. T.B. of Cambridge.

An Elegy on King Charles The Second, who dyed of an Apoplexy.

No more, he’s gone, with Angel’s Wings he fled,

What Mortal Art cou’d keep him from the Dead?

The Miracles of Art were ſhewn in vain,

Such as cou’d give a meaner Life again;

But Miracles were common in his Reign.

A Diet in diſtreſs no comfort brings,

Thus are we ſure to loſe the beſt of Kings.

Great 384 Sſ5v 266

Great Charles, or lov’d or fear’d too much by Death!

Our Bribes cou’d get us but a parting breath.

Unuſual Fate deſtroy’d our chief deſign,

And ev’ry Siſter cut the Royal Twine;

Direfull Solemnities they us’d below,

And thrice they gave the irrevocable Blow.

Thrice on the Monarch (for each Nation) ſeize,

And to his Empire ſuited the Diſeaſe.

So did Geryon take his long farewell,

And ſaw two Heads expire before he fell;

So put Alcydes Vict’ry to a ſtand,

And piece-meal fell by an All-conqu’ring hand.

Say, envious Stars, did he deſerve your ſpight;

Say, all ye grand Caballers of the Night,

Did you remember with regret the Day,

When his new Star drove all your Beams away,

When the glad Sky did wond’rous ſmiles diſpence,

Fear’d you to loſe your ancient Influence?

The ſame good Omen gave our Charles his Birth,

As uſher’d in Salvation to the Earth.

Under 385 Sſ6r 267

Under one Planet griſly Death was ſlain,

But the ſame bad him live, and ſlay again.

O ye, juſt Pow’rs! That Death (by Faith o’er-come)

Shou’d lead the Faith’s Defender to his Tomb.

Britains lament, inſpir’d by ſorrow, ſing,

Embalm with Tears and Verſe your Gracious King;

Where-ever Death can come, let it be ſaid,

In mournfull Elegies, our Gracious King is Dead.

A Soul ſo large, ſo generous a Mind,

As Heav’n all knowing, and as Heav’n all kind.

Let the ſad News be born through ev’ry Sea,

And the Winds groan whilſt they the News convey.

Our Peacefull Ships will need no Cannon roar,

And with the Tidings terrifie the Shoar.

What Grief in Neighb’ring States ſhall not be known,

Now the ſoft link of Amity is gone?

Love has the Nat’ral World to Peace confin’d,

But the Political by Charles was joyn’d.

What Grief ſhall not the Foreign Regions ſhew?

For they have loſt their Joy, and Wonder too.

Libyans ſhall ſlaſh their Breaſts, and ſo declare

Their outward Grief to Charles’s Picture there.

One 386 Sſ6v 268

One, o’er her Gold, corroding Drops ſhall ſhed,

The other Ind. weep Gems for James’s head;

No Quarter but ſhall Sighs and Bleſſings ſend,

And to a thouſand Gods our King ſhall recommend.

Pardon, Great Ghoſt, your ſinfull People ſpare,

And be our Genius with your Princely care.

Smiling, the Story of your Troubles tell,

And pity the mean Souls who cou’d Rebell.

With joy recount the Changes you have known,

And all the ſhapes attend the Britiſh Crown.

How faithleſs, as incircling Waves, were We;

How you became the Proteus of our Sea:

How on the Wing you’d now decieve the Foe,

Then vaniſh’t into Air unſeen you’d go:

How like a ſtately Oak you’d ſometimes Reign,

And with long Scepters awe the ſhrubby Plain.

Such were the forms, Alive, you us’d to have,

Immutable and ſtiff now in the Grave;

Variouſly preſt, and molded up and down,

You were reſerv’d for an Eternal Crown.

A Dithy- 387 Sſ7r 269

A Dithyrambique,

Made juſt before the King and Queen Went to Their Coronation.


Keep now, my Muſe, the great Pindarique road,

And fly as if to meet a God,

For James and Mary are the ſame;

Aſcend my Muſe, mount in your Flame,

For oh my Soul’s in haſt to be abroad;

Our Souls of old were ſtol’n from on high,

And ſince, as if they fear’d Diſcov’ry,

Sneak here below with dull Mortality,

Let mine be open, and confeſs her Mother-Sky;

Viſit the Plains above, and ſing

Some worthy Tranſports of a God-like King:

What 388 Sſ7v 270

What Muſe cannot our James inſpire;

What cannot Royal Mary doe,

They give us Theams and Genius too,

Fewel at once, and Fire.

Leander ſtretcht along, & buffeted the ſawcy Waves,

That, when he thought of Life, and Joy,

Dared the kind Thoughts annoy,

And threaten him with Graves:

The Taper did not only ſhew his Pathleſs Way,

But made him bold, and ſtrong,

Leander ſtretcht along;

Not only on his Eye it play’d,

But follow’d Love through all the Pores he there had made,

It glitter’d in his Mind as well as in the Sea.


Heroes, by Nature, ſtill diſpence

Vigour and Sence,

To the moſt Thoughtleſs ſubject-Clay,

Upon the Machins ſtill they ſhine:

The Machins feel a warmth Divine,

And briskly move, and ſweelty play.

Their 389 Sſ8r 271

Their Royal ſparkling Virtues are

The only Stars that have an Influence,

And ductile as the Gold they wear.

This happy England knows;

England is happy in her Sons at laſt,

The Days of Prodigality are paſt;

For Arms and Arts her Sons grow fit,

They gather Courage, and they gather Wit;

In vain their Temper, and their Clime oppoſe,

And once-inſulting Neighbours fear,

Thoſe Lyons furl their Mains no more,

No longer tear the ground, and roar,

They ſee our James his England’s ſhape reſtore,

And break the Charms that made her Beaſt before;

Thoſe Lyons tremble, and reveer,

For England once again a Royal Matron do’s appear.


How much indebted muſt the Coronation be,

Heroick James, to very Thee,

Thy Perſon wou’d, unrob’d, add to th’ Solemnity,

Luſter 390 Sſ8v 272

Luſter to Thee thy Diadem will owe,

And Flaming Jewels round thy Head,

Like a good Omen ſpread,

Thou do’ſt on all a noble Stamp beſtow,

Thy ſubtile Beams thorough thy People go,

And make each Vulgar look to ſhow,

Indulgent Planets to their Friends, and Comets to the Foe:

Thou, with Illuſtrious Graces, round Thee hurl’d

From Thy own ſelf, do’ſt Animate the Britiſh World;

Poetick Plato, when he made his Deitie,

But fancy’d what in James wee ſee,

The Infinite was plac’d alone,

Amidſt his wond’rous Creation;

The Indiviſible the Center did poſseſs,

And with Extended Spirit, bleſs

The living Circles that his Breath had form’d about his Throne,

His Spirit penetrated every-where,<