a1r a1v a2r

Miscellany,

Being A
Collection
of
Poems
By several Hands.


Together with
Reflections
On
Morality,


or
Seneca Unmasqued.

London: Printed for J. Hindmarsh, at
the Golden Ball over against the Royal Ex
change
in Cornhil, 16851685.

a2v a3r On a5r

To
Sir William Clifton.

Sir,

I am very sensible how the ill-natur’d World
has been pleased to Judge of almost all Dedications,
and when not addrest to themselves
will not let ’em pass without the imputation
of Flattery; for there is scarce any Man so
Just to allow those Praises to another in which
he does not immediatly share in some degree
himself, nor can the Fantastic Humors of the
Age agree in point of Merit, but every Mans
Vertue is measured according to the sence another
has of it, and not by its own intrinsic value, so
that if another does not see with my Eyes and
Judge with my Sence, I must be Branded with
the Crime of Fools and Cowards; nor will they
be undeceived in an Error that so agreeably flatters
them, either by a better knowledge of the
Person commended, or by a right understanding
from any other Judgment; they hate to be convincedA2a5 ced a5v
of what will make no part of their satisfaction
when they are so, for as ’tis natural to despise
all those that have no vertue at all, so ’tis
as natural to Envy those we find have more
than our selves instead of imitating ’em: and I
have heard a Man rail at a Dedication for being
all over Flattery, and Damn it in gross,
who when it has been laid before him, and he has
been asked to answer according to his Conscience,
and upon Honour to every particular, could not
contradict one single Vertue that has been justly
given there, yet angry at being convinced has
cry’d, with a peevish, uneasie tone.—“Yet I
don’t know how, nor I don’t know what
—but ’tis all together methinks a piece of
Flattery—”
When indeed the business was, he
did not know how
to afford him so good a
Character, nor he did not know what other
reason he had to find fault with it, and was
only now afflicted to find twas all true; whereas
before he charged it all on the effects of some
little sinister end or advantage of the Author.

’Tis therefore, Sir, that I have taken the Liberty
here of addressing my self to one, whose
Generosity and Goodness has prevented any such Scandal, a6r
Scandal, and secured me from the imputation
of Flattery by rendring this, but a small part
of that Duty only, which I have so long owed
you; ’tis only, Sir, my debt of gratitude I pay,
or rather an humble acknowledgment of what I
ought to pay you; for favours of that nature
are not easily returned, and one must be a great
while discharging it out of the Barren Stock of
Poetry; but where my own failed, I borrowed of
my Friends, who were all ready to give me Credit
for so good and just an occasion, and we
all soon agreed where first we should begin the
work of gratitude. For, Sir, your worth is every
where known, and valued; it bears the Royal
stamp and passes for currant to every ready hand;
Loyalty being that standard Vertue of the Soul
which finds its price all over the World; nor is
it in these our glorious days, who bears that Rate
now, but who has always done so through Fate
and Fortune; dyed in the true Grain, not to be
varied with every glittering Sun-shine, nor lost
in every falling Shower, but stanch to its first
beautiful colour, indures all weathers.

Nor is it enough that where you are known,
you are beloved and blest, but you, whose Quality A3a6 and a6v
and Fortune elivate you above the common Crowd,
ought to have your Loyal Names fixed every
where, as great and leading Examples to the rest,
as the Genius of your Country and the Star that
influences, where your Lustre shines. You, who
in spight of all the Follies we import from France
so much in fashion here, still retain, and still
maintain the good old English Customs of Noble
Hospitality, and treat the under-world about you,
even into good nature and Loyalty; and have kept
your Country honest, while else-where for want of
such great Patrons and Presidents, Faction and
Sedition have over-run those Villages where Igrance
abounded, and got footing almost every
where, whose Inhabitants are a sort of Bruits,
that ought no more to be left to themselves than
Fire, and are as Mischievous and as Destructive.
While every great Landlord is a kind of Monarch
that awes and civillizes ’em into Duty and Allegiance,
and whom because they know, they Worship
with a Reverence equal to what they would pay
their King, whose Representative they take him at
least to be if not that of God himself, since they
know no greater or more indulgent; and are sure
to be of this opinion, he’s their Oracle, their very Gospel a7r
Gospel, and whom they’ll sooner credit; never
was new Religion, Misunderstanding, and
Rebellion known in Countries till Gentlemen of
ancient Families reformed their way of living to
the new Mode, pulled down their great Halls,
retrenched their Servants, and confined themselves
to scanty lodgings in the City, starved the Poor
of their Parish, and rackt their Tenants to keep
the Taudry Jilt in Town a hundred times more expencive,
but you Sir, retain still the perfect measures
of true Honour, you understand the joys
and comforts of life and blest retreat; you value
Courts tho you do not always shine there, you
dare be brave, liberal, and honest tho you do not
always behold the Illustrious Pattern of all Glorious
Vertue in your King, and absent from the
lavish City. You are pleased and contented with
the favour of your Monarch, tho you have no
need of his Bounty, dare serve him with your
Life and Fortune, and can find your reward in
your own Vertue and Merit; this I dare avow to
all the World is your Character in short, for which
your lasting Name shall live, when the turbulent,
busie hot-brain’d disturbers of their own tranquillity
and the Kingdoms Peace, shall live in fear, die a7v
die in Shame and their memory rot in the forgotten
Grave, or stand to after Ages Branded and
Reproached, while we can never enough Celebrate
that Glorious one of yours; nor knew we where
to fix it to render it Durable to all Eternity so
well as to lasting Verse, that out-wears Time and
Marble. If any thing within can contribute to the
diversion of your Hours of least concern, ’twill
be sufficient recompence to all who beg your Patronage
here, especially

Sir,
Your obliged
and most humble Servant,

A. Behn.

THE a8r
Friend-
B1r (1)

Musæus
of

Hero and Leander.

Come, Sing my Muse, that Lamp that once
did prove,

The constant Witness of a secret Love;

That Lamp, that o’re the Sea the Lover drew,

To dark embraces which the Sun ne’re knew.

Sing Sestos and Abidus; Sing the whole,

How Hero her enjoyments nightly stole:

I sing Leander, and that conscious light,

That was the Pimp of Venus ev’ry night,

And shew’d the way to Hero’s stoln delight.

That Lamp which in reward Celestial Jove,

Ought to have fix’d among the Lights above,

And call’d it the officious Star of Love.

B For B1v (2)

For till an envious blast did it betray

To Love’s soft joys, it nightly shew’d the way.

Sing on my Muse, how Fate did give that light

And young Leander one eternal night.

Two Towns there stood which Helle did divide,

The one was Europe’s, t’other Asia’s Pride.

This the great Sestos, that Abydos nam’d;

Cupid to both one Golden Arrow aim’d;

Here a brave Youth, there a young Maid he shot,

This lovely Hero, young Leander that.

Leander liv’d upon Abydo’s Shore,

Ne’re Sestos stood the Virgin Hero’s Tow’r;

Both shew’d a Star to their respective Town,

Both by each others Beauties to be known.

Reader, If’t be thy fortune or thy fate

To view these Castles, find where Hero sate.

On Venus Bow’r, a Lamp fixt in her hand,

Guiding Leander to his wish’d-for Strand:

Seek me Abydos out, where to this day

Rites to Leander all the Natives pay;

But B2r (3)

But since the Youth did beyond Helle live,

How cou’d the Nymph at such a distance give

So great a wound; so great a wound receive.

Hero descended from a noble Race,

Unskill’d in Love, knew not what Cupid was:

Far from her Fathers House, on Helle’s Shore,

Liv’d in a great, but solitary Tow’r;

Was Venus Priestess; such her Grace and meen,

You’d rather take her for that Beauties Queen:

Yet to obscure what all that saw admir’d,

She prudently from company retir’d;

Danc’d at no Balls, to shun the envious fair,

For all the Sex in Beauty envious are.

Her Bus’ness was, her Goddess to attone,

And sometimes to the Mother joyn’d the Son;

But all in vain, no Sacrifice was fit,

Or cou’d appease that little waspish Chit,

He shot at last, and as he shot he hit.

Now was the yearly Feast of Venus come,

When it was thought a sin to stay at home;

B2 This B2v (4)

This Sestos did to Venus Dedicate,

In memory of Adonis mournful fate.

They swarm’d from every Quarter many Miles;

From Thessally and all the neighb’ring Isles:

Some Youths from Cyprus come, but not a Maid

On Libanus, or in Cythera staid;

Hither the Phrygian Lads did all resort,

Abydos left not one to guard the Sport.

To Feasts, such Amorous Youths do still repair,

Not to attend on Sacrifice, or Prayer,

But to adore the Nimph that’s kind and fair.

Hero i’th’ Temple walks, and so displays

Among th’ admiring Crowd her charming Rays;

So Cynthia exalts her Beauty’s Pride,

When all the lesser Lights are round her side;

The Lillies of her cheeks with Roses joyn,

To give her Face a lustre all Divine;

View but those Limbs that bless the common Air,

You’ll find a Bed of Violets blushing there;

Her feet beneath her Alb, plays in and out,

And spread a thousand Roses round about.

That B3r (5)

That Poet never had good word of mine,

Who did the Graces but to three confine;

Let Hero smile, the doting Bard shall swear

Ten thousand Graces in her Eyes appear;

A lovely Priestess for the Queen of Love,

Her Sov’rein Charms did so Majestick prove,

That She without a Rival all did pass,

And Venus Maid another Venus was.

Now ev’ry Youth a welcome heat did fire,

Not one but her enjoyment did desire;

Still as she walk’d before the gazing Crowd,

All Eyes, and hearts, and wishes, her pursu’d;

Till a gay Youth, to give his Passion ease,

Broke silence in these words, or such as these.

“I’ve travell’d Greece, have been at Sparta fair,

Where the fam’d celebrated Beauties are;

Yet never have I seen a Face like thine,

The Graces sure attend at Venus Shrine.”

I’ve tir’d, but cannot satisfie my Eye;

Oh give me Hero’s Bed! then let me dye,

In Hero’s Arms I cou’d with Raptures lye.

B3 Had B3v (6)

“Had I but Hero mine, at my abode,

I should be lessen’d to be made a God;

But if thy Priestess Venus be deny’d,

Grant me, oh grant me! such another Bride.”

Thus spoke the Youth, and others much the
same,

Whose hearts were fir’d, tho they conceal’d the
flame.

The young Leander, he his Passion own’d,

He scorn’d to hide an honourable wound.

Shot with the Darts that from her Beauties flye,

He resolutely brave would Fortune try,

Wou’d Hero’s live, or else wou’d Hero’s dye;

Love lit his Torch, brave Youth, at Hero’s Eyes,

And did thy Soul with gen’rous fire surprize;

Swift are the darts that charming Beauties cast,

The feather’d Arrows fly not half so fast;

The Eye, ye wretched Lovers, is the way

By which the wound they to the heart convey.

A while Leander diff’rent Passions move,

A silent, then a bashful trembling Love;

But B4r (7)

But Cupid’s fresh assaults soon rous’d his Sense,

And gave him a convenient Impudence:

Now at less distance he confronts the Dame,

And flings a glance to tell his silent flame;

Hoping this secret way the Maid to win,

And lead her by that wanton path to sin.

Hero well pleas’d Leander was her Slave,

Now Veils that Beauty which the Victory gave:

But first (for she too felt Love’s pow’rful God)

She kindly sent him an assigning Nod;

And then afresh does all her Beams display,

Leander knew what those dumb signs did say:

And now a pleasing Joy through ev’ry vein

Told him she knew, and wou’d relieve his pain;

And while he long’d for a fit time and place,

The wearied Sun had run his daily race:

Hesperus shews a dusky kind of Light,

And welcome Clouds combine to hasten night.

Then with more boldness did the Youth draw
nigh,

And prest her fingers with a willing sigh;

B4 While B4v (8)

While she with Scorn drew her fair hand away,

Her Eyes alass, much kinder things betray,

Embolden’d then he took her by the Gown,

And forc’d her to the Vestry all alone;

She seem’d unwilling, and half chiding said,

“Unhand me cruel Man; Heavens! are you mad?

Is this the manner of your rude address?

D’ye know my Function? dare you treat me thus?

Ah leave me while y’are safe, if you are wise,

My Father’s Rage, your Folly will Chastise:

—But wou’d you Sir—indeed—debauch a Nun—

A harmless Maid is not so easily won.”

Thus Hero chides, if Virgins know to chide,

But this cou’d not her softer passion hide;

When Women use th’ Artillery of the Tongue,

No doubt they will surrender e’re be long:

Know then when such faint threats you Lovers
hear,

They yield apace, the assignation’s near.

Leander now secure the Fort to win

First steals a kiss, and then does thus begin:

My B5r (9)

“My sacred fair, next to the Queen of Love,

Thou to thy Lover shalt a Venus prove;

Next to the Daughter of Jove’s teeming brain

Thou a new Pallas o’re my soul shalt reign;

Thou hast no equal in the World beside,

None but those pow’rs that are to Jove allied;

Happy that Man if he were yet no more,

To whom thou ow’st that being I adore;

Thrice happy is the Womb from whence you
came,

But heal my wounds, and quench my burning
flame.

As Venus Nymph the Rites of Venus mind,

I will instruct those Rites, if you’l be kind:

A Virgin knows not Venus to attone,

Venus will ne’re indure thy Virgine Zone;

Her Institutes ’tis fit that you should read,

Kisses, and all the sweets o’th’ Nuptial Bed;

If to your Goddess you’d obliging prove,

You must submit to the soft Laws of Love.

Come B5v (10)

Come make me thine; Cupid has made me so,

Such is the pow’r of his Victorious Bow,

Who made Alcides quit his Lions skin,

With Omphale and her Maids to set and spin.

You’ve heard of Atalanta I suppose,,,

Who to Diana made acursed Vows;

She scorn’d the great Milanion’s offer’d bed,

But angry Venus bow’d her haughty Pride,

And made her yield to the avenging Boy;

Oh fear the Goddess rage and be not Coy.”

This Tale the list’ning Nymph more easie made,

And to Love’s wandring paths did soon perswade;

She blush’d, and bent her bashful Eyes to Earth,

Her new-born flames deni’d her words a Birth;

And to conceal the fire her Eyes might shew,

She clos’d her Veil, and took a turn or two.

But silence gave consent, ask but your Miss

When she will tast the sweets of Cupid’s bliss?

When she’l assign to give your Passion ease?

If she say nothing, that’s e’ne when you please.

Hero B6r (11)

Hero both felt and fan’d Loves eager fire,

Tasting the pleasing pain of new desire:

Leander as the Nymph bow’d down her head,

On her fair Neck his greedy Eyes he fed;

Fresh blushes still a sweet Confusion make,

At last she sigh’d, and trembling, thus she spake:

“Such pow’rful Charms, as these, the Rocks wou’d
move,

Who taught you all these cunning Arts of Love?

Alass”—and then she blush’d— “who brought you
here?

And yet your tale of Love—is lost—I fear—

You are unknown, a Stranger in the Land,

Strangers have Vows and Oaths at their command;

You cannot lead me to a lawful Bed,

My Parents w’ont consent that we shou’d wed;

If you shou’d Sojourn here and steal the Joys,

All over Sestos that would make a noise;

In things of ill report Mens tongues are bold,

What’s done in corners, is in Markets told.

Yet B6v (12)

Yet tell your Name, what Countryman you are,

You know my Town, my Name is Hero Sir.

Th’ unkindness of my Parents built this Tow’r,

This Hermitage upon the Sestian Shore,”

To be a Seat for one poor Maid and Me;

No Nymph or sprightly Youth our comforts be,

No Neighbour near us, but the Neighbouring
Sea;

“Where every night by Winds and Waves is plaid

A Melancholy dismal Serinade.”

This said she blush’d, and down her Eyes she
hung,

Checking the Licence she had giv’n her Tongue.

Now did Leander all his cunning prove,

Wisely to manage his Intrigue of Love.

When Cupid finds his homage strictly paid,

He kindly heals the wounds his Arrows made;

Where his Supremacy is duely own’d,

There he’s a Friend and not a Tyrant found:

Leander thus distrest finds Cupid’s aid,

And thus with nobler Courage Courts the Maid.

Alas, B7r (13)

“Alas, can Seas confine my vast desire?

To you, my fair, I’ll make through Seas of fire.

When I to Hero’s Bed wou’d force my way,

The Waves in Storms of Thunder shall obey;

I’ll swim the Hellespont and stem its Tide,

In spite of all its rage and swelling Pride.

At distance, (small for Lovers) against yours,

There stands the Town Abydos, which is ours;

From thence I’ll swim, when day shall end in
night,

Only upon your Turret hang a Light:

That shall Love’s Vessel guide; no more in vain

Will I direct my Course by Charles his Wain:

What good can dull Bootes me afford?

Or fierce Orion with his flaming Sword?

That Light shall be my Star my joys to find,

But as thou lov’st me, guard me from the wind;

My Life no longer than that light will last,

And both will end with one malicious blast.

Till then, since, fairest, you my name would have,

I’m your Leander proud to be your Slave.”

Thus B7v (14)

Thus both consent to a clandestine Match,

She to hang up her Lamp by night to watch;

He to swim o’re the Sea; th’ agreement this,

That their stoln pleasures might augment their
bliss:

When thus they’d spent the Night as Lovers do,

They took their Leaves, and sighing, cri’d adieu;

She to her Tow’r, he to a strict survey,

How in the darkest night to find the way.

Now had he put from Shore, and prosperous
Gales

More than he wisht, to Abydos fill’d his Sails:

Both strove with day, and long’d for kinder night,

For night! to give, and hide their stoln delight:

Night came at last, and brought her fresh supplys

Of sleep to all, but Lovers watchful Eyes.

Leander he to the Sea-side repair’d,

To see if his bright Nuptial Star appear’d;

That pledge of Faith that the fond Lover led,

To taste the sweets of Hero’s Virgin Bed.

No sooner had kind Clouds o’respread the skies,

But to her Turret the swift Hero flies;

Hangs B8r (15)

Hangs out her Lamp, and as she that does fire,

Love fires Leander with more hot desire;

At first when he the raging Sea did hear,

He felt a little kind of seeming fear;

But soon he to th’ inviting Lamp did look,

And then his Manly Courage thus be spoke:

“Loves furious rage is great, no less your Seas,

Such violent Storms no Victim can appease;

The Sea but water is, but Love’s a flame,

That all the Floods of Helle ne’re can tame;

To Love compar’d the Sea’s a feeble thing,

Know’st not what Deity from thence did spring?

Venus, the pow’rful Venus tim’rous fool?

What rules us Lovers does the Sea too rule.”

This said, the Am’rous Youth, with both Arms
swept

Guided by Love, into the Waves he leapt;

A steady Course by his new Star he sought,

Himself the Pilate, Passenger, and Boat.

By the Lamps side poor Hero trembling stood,

And guarded it by all the art she cou’d;

Sometimes B8v (16)

Sometimes she cover’d it, and pray’d the wind

To that and to Leander to be kind:

Till as she wisht Leander came ashore,

Oh then how nimbly she unlock’d the doors,

Kiss’d and embrac’d, and led him to her Tow’r.

Over his quiv’ring Limbs she flung her Gown,

And dry’d his Locks that still ran trickling down;

Then to her own apartment led the way,

Whose choice perfumes did the Waves salts allay;

And as he lay still panting on her Bed,

She thus imbrac’d him, and thus softly said.

“Come, my dear Bridegroom, thou thy love hast
tri’d,

As never any Bridegroom did beside;

That all the Waves o’th’ Hellespont can tell,

And that this scent of thine, this brackish smell;

Come let me clasp thee in my longing Arms,

There I’ll secure thee from all threatning harms.”

Ravish’d with pleasure he unti’d her Zone,

And so the Rites of Venus were begun;

Nuptials C1r (17)

Nuptials there were, but yet no Nuptials Dance,

No Musick or Love-Song their Joys inhance;

Not one of Phœbus Prophets tun’d his Lyre,

Not one o’th’ Graces, or the Muses Choyr:

Alas! no Hymen Hymeneus cry’d,

No Torches burning; nay the bed beside

Soft silence made, black Night undress’d the
Bride.

Black night alone was conscious of their Bliss,

The day ne’re saw the Bride and Bridegroom kiss;

Before Aurora well cou’d dress the Morn,

Leander still had made his quick return,

Nothing discover’d yet, Hero they say

A Wife by night, a Virgin was by day.

To speed the Sun both do their Vows ingage,

Each minute that divides ’em is an Age:

Thus the stoln pleasures of the Bed they tast

Happy; if this their happiness wou’d last.

Too short a thred the Destinies had spun,

Too soon alas, their little Race was run;

C When C1v (18)

When Frost had wither’d all the Verdant plains,

And Winter sent abroad both Storms and Rains;

When the rude Winds no longer were confin’d,

But ravag’d up and down as they’d a mind;

When Seas obey’d their Tyrannous Commands,

Ships burst asunder on the yielding Sands;

When Seamen trembled tho on Shore they stood,

Then young Leander, you your Courage shew’d;

Not raging Seas, nor terrors of the Night

Cou’d stop your Course, when once you saw that
light;

That fickle treacherous Light, that made thee
brave

Thy threatning Fate, and scorn each gaping
Wave.

Believe me Hero, now thy Love’s thy Crime,

You shou’d have lain alone this Stormy time;

Not sent thy Lamp abroad, which now did prove

The Phosphorus of Fate, and not of Love,

But so the Gods wou’d ha’t that rul’d above.

Dark was the night, the raging Winds did roar,

Who with joyn’d Forces now attack the Shore;

When C2r (19)

When young Leander to enjoy his Bride

With matchless Courage did a Wave bestride;

A Wave, that with a wild Auxiliary aid

Durst storm the Skies, and make th’ Hav’ns afraid;

A Civil War did all the Winds ingage,

Great was the fury of intestin Rage;

Eurus with all the Forces of the East,

Charg’d Zephyrus the General of the West;

The North and South joyn’d Battel on the place,

And Notus Hector’d Boreas to his face;

Their hideous noise like that of Thunder spread.

Oh whither should Leander flie for aid!

Sometimes he did for help on Venus call,

Sometimes upon his knees to Neptune fall;

Nor did he leave the blustring Boreas out,

Tho he his Atthis now had quite forgot:

But Fate prevail’d, not one would lend an Ear,

Not one of all the Gods would hear his Prayer;

Now did he yield himself to every Wave,

His Legs and Arms were tir’d, and cou’d not save;

C2 He C2v (20)

He gasp’d his last, and Floods ran down his
Throat,

And now, just now, the fatal Lamp went out;

Curst be that blast that was so rudely thrown,

That Lamp of Love is with the Lover gone;

Hero outwatch’d the Lamp, cou’d find no ease,

Tost by her fears as he was by the Seas.

By break of Day she every Wave survey’d,

Thinking, the Lamp being out he might be
stray’d;

But wen she cast her Eyes beneath her Tow’r,

And saw Leander dead upon the Shore,

She from the top herself did headlong throw,

And thus enjoy’d him in the Shades below.

THE C3r (21)

The
Runaway Cupid:
Out of
MOSCHUS.

When Cupid from his Mother ran away,

Thus Venus Cry’d her little wanton
Stray.

Oh Yes! if any one o’th’ Neighb’ring Swains,

Has seen my Cupid stragling on the Plains;

Let me but know where my young Fugitive is,

Venus will well reward thee with a kiss.

But if thou bring’st him home when he is Cry’d,

A kiss is thine, and something else beside.

He’s a notorious Boy, his Marks I’ll shew,

’Mong twenty Lads you may my youngster know:

C3 His C3v (22)

His skin’s not white like other Boys, but red,

His Eyes like fire do sparkle in his head;

Smooth is his Tongue, but his heart full of
guile,

His words as soft as they were steep’d in Oyl;

When angry, he is fierce, and will engage

All the mischievous Arts of treacherous Rage;

He is a Lying, Couz’ning Boy, and still

His very Sports do one or other kill;

A lovely head of hair his Temples grace

But then he has a bold and daring face;

Small are his hands, and yet they’l fling a dart

To th’ Shades below, and wound e’n Pluto’s
heart;

Naked are all his Limbs, his Plots not so,

Wing’d like a Bird that hops from Bush to
Bough.

From this young Swain, to that fair Maid he flies,

And over both their hearts does tyrannize;

Small is his Bow, but it is always fixt,

His little Arrows sometime Heav’n have vext.

A C4r (23)

A Golden Quiver, bitter Shafts does hide,

With which the Rogue will wound his Mothers
side;

All cruel are, his Torch a little one,

But with new flames it often fires the Sun.

Pray bind him fast, if you my Vagrant take,

Let him cry if he will, till his heart ake;

But if he smiles, and offer you a kiss,

Drag him along, his Lips all Poison is;

He’ll cry—here take my Torch, my Shafts, my
Bow,

But touch ’em not, they are all Poison too.

C4 THE C4v (24)

The
Honey Stealer,
the 20th. Idylium
of
Theocrites.

When Cupid once the little Thief would
play,

And search’d a Hive to steal the Combs away;

A watchful Bee that in her waxen Cell,

To guard her Nectar then stood Centinel,

Wounded his Fingers as they still drew near,

And to the head bury’d her poyson’d Spear;

He cry’d, and stamp’d, and frisk’d, and blow’d
his hand,

And to his Mother of the Bee complain’d;

He C5r (25)

He sobb’d, and wonder’d how there could be
found

A Fly so small to make so great a wound;

But Venus laugh’d to see how Cupid cry’d,

And thus at length she smilingly reply’d:

Thou’rt like this Bee, my Child, a little Brat,

But great the wound you make, I’m sure of
that.

Damon C5v (26)

Damon and Thyrsis:
A
Pastoral
On The

Right Honourable,
The
Earl of Pembroke’s
Wedding.

Thyr.

What Damon sleeping, and all
over day?

Are these the Early Offerings we pay?

The Pipe undrest, the Garland wither’d lies,

Rouse Shepherd and unclose these drowsie eyes.

Shepherd awake!

Thyr.

Alas I am undone!

Yet shall my Zeal prevent the rising Sun.

Da. C6r (27)

Da.

Shepherd the Morning blushes at thy
Sloth,

God Pan will sore chastise thy breach of Oath;

You Vow’d with Holy Fire to light the Day,

Before Aurora well could see her way.

Late as it is no fire to th’ Altar’s laid,

Your Vows I see are as soon broke as made.

Thyr.

This Sloth you chide pure inspiration
was,

Last night (sit while I dress) I took a glass

A cherful glass at MetabJius Feast,

Where Damon, you have been a welcome Guest.

But when I took my leave, and kiss’d his hand,

God Bacchus strok’d me with his charming wand;

And I no sooner reel’d into my Cell,

But in a pleasing Extasie I fell;

I walk’d with Venus in the Myrtle Grove,

And learnt the newest tunes of Noble Love;

I learnt—

Dan.

I wish thou’dst learnt thy Duty, Swain,

Daphnis the Pride of all Arcadia’s Plain,

Last C6v (28)

Last night his Beauteous Bride fair Ægle led,

To the wish’d Joys of a chaste Nuptial Bed;

Daphnis and all the Gods too I’ll believe

But to the Altars, let not dreams deceive.

Thyr.

Thither I’m going Damon with your
leave.

Not Dreams but Visions stole my Soul away,

And kept it tardy till the break of day;

Venus and all the Cupids me confin’d,

For Venus oft you know with Bacchus joyn’d;

They led me Captive in their welcome chains,

Taught me the Notes of Love, those Am’rous
strains:

Those very Raptures that great Daphnis Sung,

When trilling Cupids play’d upon his tongue;

I have those very Airs won Ægle’s heart,

Damon, I’ll sing ’em, if you’ll bear a part.

Da.

This time for Song? thy Sacrifice prepare

Heav’n will reject thy late and drowsie Prayer.

Thyr.

No Penitent too late, to Heav’n come,

A dying sigh may prove an Hecatomb.

Da. C7r (29)

Da.

What Victim now shall add to Daphnis
bliss?

Thyr.

May Heav’n and all the Gods be ever
his.

Da.

Thy breath that cost thee nothing thou
wilt give,

And with that empty breath thy Flocks reprieve.

Thyr.

Daphnis commands my Flocks and me
his Swain,

For him the first of all my Flocks are Slain.

Da.

For Daphnis I my whitest Kid will bring,

And while the Priest shall Pray I’ll sit and Sing.

Thyr.

In Daphnis’s tender years I had the care,

To tune his Voice and his first Pipe prepare;

That Honour Damon I shall proudly wear.

Da.

At Flora’s Feast I did with Daphnis Sing,

And had the second Garland from our King;

That Honour’s mine, Thyrsis, of all the Ring.

Thyr.

Oh! what Notes does Daphnis now aspire to;

I hide my Pipe if he but touch his Lyre.

Da.

Daphnis I now the Victory resign,

My Laurels wither at the sight of thine.

Thyr. C7v (30)

Thyr.

Henceforth no Rival Daphnis’s art will
prove,

He only knows the Harmony above,

And tunes his Lute to a Diviner Love.

Da.

Sublimer Notes now entertain his Care,

He teaches Dedalus what Machins are,

And Archimedes how to use his Sphere.

Thyr.

When too much care leads our Divines
astray,

And nice distinctions lose what they would say,

He shews to Heav’n a more compendious way.

Da.

While some in many Books would Science
find,

And what they vainly seek still leave behind,

He reads the Numerous Volumns of his mind.

Thyr.

The Sacred Oracle he does revere,

And all the Sybills Leaves by them compare:

But Daphnis is a Theme too high

For silly Swains, as thou and I:

Come what for Ægle will my Damon pay?

That ev’ry Sun new pleasure may convey,

And ev’ry night more pleasure than the day.

Da. C8r (31)

Da.

Dull Swain, and shall we then presume
to sing

The Nymph that Daphnis did in Fetters bring?

Will Ægle ever stoop to lend an ear

To Thyrsis Notes, or rustick Damon hear?

Ægle with Daphnis soars above the Sky,

In Damon’s Roll Ægle’s a Deity.

Thyr.

Then jointly let’s erect a Shrine,

For Damon’s Goddess shall be mine.

Da.

I’ll bring a Turtle Dove that sits and
moans,

And tells her Love in soft and murmuring tones.

Ther.

And I my Philomel, who still does sing

The rude Embraces of the Thracian King.

Da.

I’ll to the Turtles chast Alcione give,

Who for her Ceyx will in numbers grieve.

Ther.

And I’ll set Progne by her Sisters side,

They once did Itys, now their Notes divide.

Da.

I’ll deck fair Ægle’s Fountain with a Rose,

A Rose that blushing in her Beauty grows.

Ther. C8v (32)

Thyr.

I would the Lillies of the Valleys seek,

But that those Lillies grow in yonder cheek.

Da.

Ægle, vouchsafe on me one gracious look,

I’ll Offer up my Pipe and Shepherds Crook.

Thyr.

Ægle, let one kind Ray on Thyrsis shine,

I’ll hang my Lute and Laurels on your Shrine.

Da.

Last night when Daphnis the Nymph Ægle
led,

Dame Juno bore the Torch, and Hymen made the
Bed.

Thyr.

As Daphnis lead, the Graces danc’d along,

Apollo plai’d on’s Harp, and all the Muses sung.

Da.

Cupid unstrung his Bow, his work was
done,

And Venus help’d t’untie the Virgin Zone.

Thyr.

All did assist, but above all the rest,

The Chaste Diana Daphnis Bride undress’d.

Daphnis! oh how that name does me inspire

With soemthing more than a Poetick fire!

As t’other night I by a Fountain play’d,

Damon, I saw Muasylus in the Shade,

And heard him sing the Song Silenus made,

After D1r (33)

After a learned Origin of things,

The Rights divine of Prelates and of Kings.

To Daphnis Race he did his Song confine,

The numerous Heroes of that Noble Line;

He shew’d the very Point that does divide

Great Wit and Madness; too too near ally’d,

Where Honour stagger’d, and where firmly stood

What Fire Attoms did ferment their blood.

Da.

Hold Thyrsis! is not Daphnis blood
the same?

Thyr.

True, but Phylosophy that heat does
tame,

After a List of Heroes whose great name

Beyond Time’s Regesters shall challenge Fame.

He sung how Janus steer’d with politick
care,

The old
Lord.
Firm to his Prince, yet to the Faction fair.

The first
Brother.
How Bromius did Love, and Court the Vine,

To drink and drown in flowing Bowls of
Wine;

The last
Brother.
And how Leantius, in his Nature mild,

By converse with wild Beasts himself grew
wild;

D Whose D1v (34)

Whose House was metamorphos’d to a Den

Of Bears and Tygers, or more Savage Men.

This present
Lord.
But when the Satyr sounded Daphnis
name,

His Voice was like the Silver Trump of
Fame;

He made the Mountains and the Woods repeat

Daphnis the Brave! Daphnis the good and Great

How all the Nymphs for Daphnis Love did Pine

Of Sein, of Tajo, Tyber, and the Rhine.

Here Psyche too, who by a turn of Fate

Was Janus Relict, while yet Janus Mate:

Fill’d all the Grove with a sweet trembling Air,

Psyche the Chaste, the Pious, and the Fair.

When e’re her heart for Janus Love did bleed,

With sighs and kisses she’d young Daphnis feed.

No wonder Heav’n thus Crowns his riper years,

Who was the Son of Psyche’s Prayers and Tears.

Early to th’ Muses care she sent her Son,

Whose thirst of Wit soon drein’d the Hellicon;

Thence Daphnis went to Athens, and from thence

A Student of the World he did Commence.

D2r (35)

Ye Gods what Vows she made for his return!

But here the Satyr did not sing, but mourn.

Da.

When he to th’ Banks of Loir, or Arno
came,

Daphnis was thought a Native of the same;

He read the Men and Manners of each Town,

Not to improve but to impart his own.

Thyr.

Where e’re he came the Nymphs for
Daphnis strove,

While none but Ægle cou’d deserve his Love;

Still may she have the sole Dominion there,

And Daphnis think none but his Ægle fair;

Confirm ye Gods to each the other’s heart,

And none but Heav’n can greater Joys impart;

Both.

Still may they live, still may they love,

To increase the number of the blest above.

D2 He D2v (36)


He advises his friend to Marry.
Shews the Happiness of that,
and the Miseries of a looser
Life: By Mr. H.C. of K. C. C.

Let Debauchees call Matrimony dull,

Laugh at the soft uxorious wedded Fool;

Damn’d to the loath’d Embraces of a Wife;

Eternal Slave to nonsense, noise, and strife;

While they still new and nobler pleasures find,

Are always free and always unconfin’d;

From place to place, from Wench to Wench they
rove,

And change as often as their Cloaths, their Love

Ev’ry new Face the cringing Coxcombs Court,

And ev’ry old becomes their scorn and sport.

They Spend, Drink, Duel, till at lasst they come

With empty Pockets, Clap’d and Bleeding home

This D3r (37)

This is the blessed Liberty they boast,

Their Health, their Credit, and their Money’s
lost:

But this is needless Sir, to you are known

The Follies and the Lewdness of the Town.

Which while I griev’d, oh may I ever be

A Slave, said I, if this be to be free.

But you my friend, my life’s peculiar care,

Warn’d by the Ills you daily see, beware,

Let no Lewd Fop, nor wild example prove

Your Generous Youth to base promiscuous love;

Suppress the rising passion if you can,

If not, at least confine your flame to one;

Love her and only her, the charming she,

Whose happy humour does with yours agree;

Of equal Birth and Fortune, kindly made

By Heav’n, to be the partner of your Bed,

To whose Excess there is no need of Force,

And when enjoy’d there follows no remorse;

D3 With D3v (38)

With harmless Innocence, sincere delight,

Without th’allay of horror or a fright

She’l sweeten all the cares of the past day at
night;

With thousand Kisses she’ll invite to Rest,

Recline you gently on her downy Breast,

Then undisturb’d you’ll peaceful slumbers take;

And no foul guilt distract you when you wake;

Blest shall you be at least with such a Son,

As the glad Father will be proud to own.

From D4r (39)

From Homer’s Iliads
By Mr. T.B.
Priam’s Speech
to
Achilles.

Feeble like me, with such grey Locks as these,

Peleus presents himself upon his knees;

And begs my Peace: Think on the good old man

Then Peleus Son be cruel if you can.

Suppose him Sir, just now to be oppress’d,

And none to drive the torture from his Breast,

But he can smile to hear how you are bless’d;

Proud with his hopes he longs for you to come,

And shew my Fate in milder Wars at home.

D4 Ah! D4v (40)

Ah! once unhappy Priam two could boast

Himself the Father of a Warlike Host.

When fifty Sons secur’d him in his Throne;

Ah! once he lov’d! now Priam’s left alone.

The chance of War has snatch’d ’em most from
hence,

And him that was my City’s chief defence,

Preserv’d my Sons and Me, (Hector in vain

Fought in his Country’s Cause) thy Sword hath
slain;

For his dear sake I come amongst my Foes,

And venture all that hatred can oppose:

These gifts must purchase Hector,—still malicious
Fate!

Inestimable Hector bought at such a rate!

But God-like Sir, revere the Pow’rs on high;

And shew what we must do, when you ascend
the sky:

Think on your aged Sire, and pity me,

Thrust on all evils by my misery:

None sure was so unfortunate before,

I kiss the hand stain’d in my Hectors gore.

A D5r (41)

A Letter from one in the University
to his Friend in the
Country.

I Often have admir’d dear Friend, why we

Of all Mankind should so unhappy be,

We’ve all that Liberal Nature ever sent,

Or Art, to perfect Nature cou’d invent;

We have—what have we not? yet all our Joys

Are paul’d, and something still our bliss destroys;

For Woman, that first damn’d us still retains

That faculty, and still augments our pains;

We’re here o’rewhelm’d with a resistless Tide

Of Patches, Paint, Hypocrisie, and Pride.

Yet sure one might have thought (if ought cou’d
be,

This sacred ground might from such Weeds be
free.

But oh! the richest soil too often breeds

The foulest Venom, and the rankest Weeds;

Here D5v (42)

Here each proud tawdry thing lays claim to wit,

And dare to sensure what the Wits have writ;

But among all this numerous train, there dwells

Not one whom haughty Rosaline excells

For Wit or Breeding, Gayety or Sense,

Or ought that you can call impertinence:

She can Lucretias deepest secrets scan,

And knows each Attome which compose a Man;

Verst in all Tongues, to every thing pretend,

Yet scarce can read the Poem she commends;

By Heav’n, there’s not a Plague on Earth so great

As Womans tongue, back’d with her own conceit;

She loves Alcæus, and his Sense admires,

But loaths the dulness of Mechanick Fires;

Buys off her Husbands Love, that so she might

With greater gusto meet her Sparks delight:

At Table she descants on every Word,

Her talk is all Sir Harry, and my Lord;

Her Pride’s her greatest Vertue, and so vain,

That Nature seem’d to form her for disdain:

Others D6r (43)

Others we have, whose names I’ll wave, for
she

Of all that’s vain, is the Epitome.

Thus Sir, you see through what a Hurrican

The bold young Pilot Sails, to be a Man.

Song
By the Earl of Rochester.

My dear Mistris has a heart,

Soft as those kind looks she gave me,

When with Love’s resistless Art,

And her eyes she did inslave me;

But her Constancy’s so weak,

She’s so wild and apt to wander,

That my Jealous heart wou’d break,

Should we live one day asunder.

Melting D6v (44)

Melting Joys about her moves

Killing Pleasures, wounding Blisses,

She can dress her Eyes in Love,

And her Lips can Arm with Kisses;

Angels listen when she speaks,

She’s my delight, all Mankinds wonder;

But my Jealous heart would break,

Should we live one day asunder.

Poems D7r (45)

Poems on several Occasions, by
several hands:


On the Death of the late Earl of Rochester,
By Mrs. A.B.

Mourn, Mourn, ye Muses, all your loss
deplore,

The Young, the Noble Strephon is no more.

Yes, yes, he fled quick as departing Light,

And ne’re shall rise from Deaths eternal Night,

So rich a Prize the Stygian Gods ne’re bore,

Such Wit, such Beauty, never grac’d their Shore.

He was but lent this duller World t’improve

In all the charms of Poetry, and Love;

Both were his gift, which freely he bestow’d,

And like a God, dealt to the wond’ring Crowd.

Scorning the little Vanity of Fame,

Spight of himself attain’d a Glorious name.

But D7v (46)

But oh! in vain was all his peevish Pride,

The Sun as soon might his vast Lustre hide,

As piercing, pointed, and more lasting bright,

As suffering no vicissitudes of Night.

Mourn, Mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore,

The Young, the Noble Strephon is no more.

Now uninspir’d upon your Banks we lye,

Unless when we wou’d mourn his Elegie;

His name’s a Genius that wou’d Wit dispense,

And give the Theme a Soul, the Words a Sense.

But all fine thought that Ravisht when it spoke,

With the soft Youth eternal leave has took;

Uncommon Wit that did the soul o’recome,

Is buried all in Strephon’s Worship’d Tomb;

Satyr has lost its Art, its Sting is gone,

The Fop and Cully now may be undone;

That dear instructing Rage is now allay’d,

And no sharp Pen dares tell ’em how they’ve
stray’d;

Bold D8r (47)

Bold as a God was ev’ry lash he took,

But kind and gentle the chastising stroke.

Mourn, Mourn, ye Youths, whom Fortune has
betray’d,

The last Reproacher of your Vice is dead.

Mourn, all ye Beauties, put your Cyprus on,

The truest Swain that e’re Ador’d you’s gone;

Think how he lov’d, and writ, and sigh’d, and
spoke,

Recall his Meen, his Fashion, and his Look.

By what dear Arts the Soul he did surprize,

Soft as his Voice, and charming as his Eyes.

Bring Garlands all of never-dying Flow’rs,

Bedew’d with everlasting falling Show’rs;

Fix your fair eyes upon your victim’d Slave,

Sent Gay and Young to his untimely Grave.

See where the Noble Swain Extended lies,

Too sad a Triumph of your Victories;

Adorn’d D8v (48)

Adorn’d with all the Graces Heav’n e’re lent,

All that was Great, Soft, Lovely, Excellent

You’ve laid into his early Monument.

Mourn, Mourn, ye Beauties, your sad loss deplore,

The Young, the Charming Strephon is no more.

Mourn, all ye little Gods of Love, whose Darts

Have lost their wonted power of piercing hearts

Lay by the gilded Quiver and the Bow,

The useless Toys can do no Mischief now,

Those Eyes that all your Arrows points inspir’d,

Those Lights that gave ye fire are now retir’d,

Cold as his Tomb, pale as your Mothers Dove

Bewail him then oh all ye little Loves,

For you the humblest Votary have lost

That ever your Divinities could boast;

Upon your hands your weeping Heads decline,

And let your wings encompass round his Shrine

In stead of Flow’rs your broken Arrows strow,

And at his feet lay the neglected Bow.

Mourn, all ye little Gods, your loss deplore,

The soft, the Charming Strephon is no more.

Large E1r (49)

Large was his Fame, but short his Glorious
Race,

Like young Lucretius liv’d and dy’d apace.

So early Roses fade, so over all

They cast their fragrant scents, then softly fall,

While all the scatter’d perfum’d leaves declare,

How lovely ’twas when whole, how sweet, how
fair.

Had he been to the Roman Empire known,

When great Augustus fill’d the peaceful Throne;

Had he the noble wond’rous Poet seen,

And known his Genius, and survey’d his Meen,

(When Wits, and Heroes grac’d Divine abodes,)

He had increas’d the number of their Gods;

The Royal Judge had Temples rear’d to’s name,

And made him as Immortal as his Fame;

In Love and Verse his Ovid he’ad out-done,

And all his Laurels, and his Julia won.

Mourn, Mourn, unhappy World, his loss deplore,

The great, the charming Strephon is no more.

E The E1v (50)

The Fifth Metre in the first Book
of Boetius, done in 16801680. on
occasion of the present confusion.
By Mr. E.A.

Great Ruler of the Glorious World above

Who seated high in thy Eternal Throne

Dost Heav’n around in rapid Courses move,

And mak’st the Stars thy vast Dominion own.

Thou send’st the Moon array’d in borrow’d Light

To banish Terror from the dismal Night;

And when its lessen’d Orb is in its Wane,

Fill’st with fresh Beams the empty space again;

Yet lets her not usurp her Brothers sway,

But in its course restor’st the welcome day.

The welcome Day, which cheers our longing
sight,

And shames the baffl’d Glory of the Night.

To E2r (51)

To thee the year its various seasons owes,

Thou their successions wisely dost dispose;

In Winters Cold thou dost contract the Light,

And from short toils to long repose invite.

But dost in Summers heat reprise the day,

And kindly all its borrow’d time repay.

Now gentle Zephyrs to the trees restore

What the rude Boreus robb’d ’em of before,

And Seeds which once Arcturus did behold

Buried in the ridges of the furrow’d Mould,

Now finds a joyful Resurrection thence,

Quick’ned by Sirius ripening Influence;

Thy work leaves nothing to mistake its way,

But by their Antient rule dost all things sway.

Yet while for meaner things thy care is shown,

That blessing is deny’d to Man alone;

Why should inconstant Fortune else create,

Such various alterations in his State?

Why should the torments, for the guilty meant,

Be made the portion of the Innocent?

E2 While E2v (52)

While they whose Crimes and guilt deserve Disgrace

Triumph o’re Vertue, and usurp its place.

The forsworn wretch thrives by his Perjurys,

And Fraud succeeds varnish’d with splendid lyes,

And when ’tis pleas’d to exercise its Powers,

It ruins Princes whom the World adores.

Oh thou whose Power to every thing gives
birth,

Regard at last the miserable Earth,

Man, no mean part of thy great work, is tost

In a rough Sea of Fate, and almost lost,

Oh lay the rising Waves, and noisy wind,

And in thy Care let Man a Harbour find;

Let Earth with Heaven participate thy Love,

And rule below propitious as above,

The E3r (53)

The Seventh Metre in the first
Book of Boetius
. By Mr. E.A.

The Stars whose splendor gilds the Skys,

No Beauty can disclose,

When e’re between them and our Eyes

Clouds rudely interpose.

When the rough wind without controul,

O’re the swoln Ocean raves,

Whose Blasts the mounting Billows rowl,

And toss the foaming Waves.

The Christal Flood which was before

(Clear, as serenest days,

Troubl’d and Muddy now, no more

That Excellence displays.

E3 The E3v (54)

The River which from lofty Hills,

With easie motion flows,

Oft meets with Stones born down its Rills,

Which its due Course oppose.

If with a clear and faithful Light,

Thou Truth desir’st to see,

And of all ways wouldst choose the right,

From baneful Error Free;

Drive all false pleasures from thy Breast,

Banish all idle fear,

And be not with vain hope possest,

Nor yield to sad despair.

For where those Tyrant Passions Reign,

They so inslave the mind,

No Prisoner wears a heavier Chain,

No Captive more confin’d.

The E4r (55)

The Complaint.
A Song
To a new Scotch Tune of Mr. Farmers,
By Mr. T.O.

I Love, I dote, I rave with pain,

No quiet’s in my mind,

Tho ne’re cou’d be a happy Swain,

Were Sylvia less unkind.

For when, as long her Chains I’ve worn,

I ask relief from smart,

She only gives me looks of Scorn;

Alas ’twill break my heart.

My Rival’s rich in Wordly Store,

May offer heaps of Gold,

But surely I a Heav’n adore,

Too precious to be sold;

E4 Can E4v (56)

Can Sylvia such a Coxcomb prize,

For Wealth and not Desert,

And my poor sighs and tears despise;

Alas, ’twill break my heart.

When like some panting hov’ring Dove,

I for my Bliss contend,

And plead the Cause of eager Love,

She coldly calls me Friend;

Ah Sylvia! thus in vain you strive,

To act a Healers part,

’Twill keep but lingring pain alive;

Alas! and break my heart.

When on my lonely pensive Bed,

I lay me down to rest,

In hope to calm my raging head,

And cool my burning Breast;

Her Cruelty all ease denies,

With some sad Dream I start,

All drown’d in tears I find my Eyes,

And breaking feel my heart.

Then E5r (57)

Then rising, through the Path I rove,

That leads me where she dwells,

Where to the sensless Waves my Love,

Its Mournful story tells;

With sighs I dew and kiss the Door,

Till Morning bids depart,

Then vent ten thousand sighs and more;

Alas ’twill break my heart.

But Sylvia, when this Conquest’s won,

And I am dead and cold,

Renounce the cruel deed you’ve done,

Nor glory when ’tis told;

For ev’ry lovely generous Maid,

Will take my injur’d part,

And curse thee Sylvia I’m afraid,

For breaking my poor heart.

Against E5v (58)

Against Duelling.
By Mr. H.C. of Kings Colledge

Forgive him, no, no Damn me if I do,

I’ll be reveng’d, and that the World shal
know;

May I be Damn’d to all Eternity

If e’er I put it up; what, take the Lye?

Fool, Coward too, and do I wear a Sword?

His Life shall dearly pay for that proud word:

My self, my friend abus’d, my Mistris too;

And lives the Man that dares provoke me so?

His Blood for satisfaction I will have,

To my revenge I’ll Sacrifice the Slave.

But if the Fates unjust, my Fall decree,

And I thus injur’d, unreveng’d must die,

’Twill please my angry Ghost, to have it sed,

He bravely fell: he fell in Honour’s Bed.

Alas E6r (59)

Alas, vain Man, he thinks not there’s a Hell

For him who on that Bed of Honour fell.

False notions did his erring sense deceive,

He knew not that tis nobler to forgive,

Than poorly to revenge; for only Man

Sould bear Affronts, a Worm will turn again;

This Devilish Custom first from France was
brought,

France that instructs in ev’ry thing that’s naught,

From thence we lov’d and drest, from thence we
taught:

Oh that we wou’d at last become more wise,

That we would scorn this mean unmanly Vice,

That no more generous blood might here be spilt,

The Nation’s Scandal, and the Victor’s Guilt.

If we’d be brave, let’s make our Vallour known

Against our Countrys Foes, and not our own.

’Twas by this nobler Art that heretofore,

Our ancient Britains rose to so much pow’r;

That they did to that envi’d greatness come,

So fear’d abroad, and so belov’d at home;

Had E6v (60)

Had Blood for ev’ry slight affront been shed,

There scarce had now been left a Man to bleed.

The Parting: By Mr. T.B.

As Damon that unhappy Swain,

Was forc’d away from the Arcadian Plain

Clasping his dear Amyntas in his Arms,

And lost among the throng of Charms,

With much adoe

He cry’d—Adieu.

And sigh’d and wept, and so went sadly on:

Oh!—will you think of Damon when he’s gone.

Think how he sate by yonder Hill,

Think how he pip’d, and be you merry still;

Then wou’d we languish on each others Face,

Then wou’d we smile and then imbrace;

Our Lambs have gaz’d,

And stood amaz’d,

To see this pitch of Love; for living thus

Our very Flocks learnt Innocence of us.

Oh! E7r (61)

Oh! my Amyntas must we part,

How shall I do to live without my heart!

But bus’ness—cruel bus’ness—what can hold?

That Wolf will break into our Fold,

And mar our blessed State

In humane Fate

Whom do thy thread, to such ill fortune bind,

The Body flies and leaves the Soul behind.

Out of Ovid’s Amours: Book 3.
Elegy 3
.
On his Perjur’d Mistris. By Mr. H.C. of K.C.

Not I, I’ll never, never entertain

Belief of an Almighty Pow’r again;

Never perswade me to’t: Corina swore

And perjur’d is, yet lovely as before;

Still each resistless Charm, still ev’ry Grace

Smiles with commanding sweetness in her face,

She’s fair, as when all Innocent she was.

No E7v (62)

No former Beauty from her Cheeks are fled,

Such whiteness still they wear, so dy’d with red;

Her radiant Eyes of Stars out-shone the light,

Her radient Eyes are still than Stars more bright.

Sure ’tis from all Eternity decreed,

The Beauteous ne’re for Perjuries shou’d bleed.

By her own Eyes, deceitful as her heart,

By mine she swore, alas mine felt the smart;

Why oh ye Gods, is she from Vengeance free?

Why’s the dire Curse unjustly fall’n on me?

Is’t not enough she must secure remain,

And triumph over baffl’d Gods and Men?

But that I must, I who no fault have known,

Your Victim fall, and for her crime attone;

Sure there’s no Gods, but in the Vulgars fear,

Who cringe to something, not known what, or
where,

Or if there be, they too the fair adore,

And to the Beauteous Sex resign their Pow’r.

’Tis against Man that they their Armes prepare,

Unhappy Man must all their Anger bear;

While E8r (63)

While sinful Beauty’s in it self secure,

They all affronts can from the fair indure;

High Tow’rs and Groves Jove with his Thunder
tears,

But Woman! lovely Perjur’d Woman spares.

Who then will Incence on your Altars burn?

Sure braver Man will the base Office scorn.

But why reproach I thus the blest above?

The Gods have eyes and hearts, the Gods may
love;

Were I my self a God, deceiv’d I’d be,

And wink, or smile on Womans Perjury.

I by my self wou’d Swear, (a Sacred Oath)

What ever Woman Swore, was sacred truth;

I’d still be kind, and scorn it shou’d be said

Of me,—he was a rude ill-natur’d God.

Thus Madam you may Reign, yet gently Reign,

And as you cause, so cure the Wretched’s Pain.

On E8v (64)

On Flowers in a Ladies Bosom,
By T.B.

Behold the promis’d Land where Pleasure
flows,

See how the Milk-white Hills do gently rise,

And beat the silken Skies;

Behold the Valley spread with flowr’s below,

Other discoveries Fate let me not share,

As I find out may I Inhabit there.

The happy Flow’rs, how they allure my sense,

The fairer soil gives ’em the noble hew;

Her Breath Perfumes ’em too;

Rooted i’th’ heart they seem to spring from
thence;

Tell, tell me why thou fruitful Virgin Breast,

Why shou’d so good a soil lye unpossest?

Surely F1r (65)

Surely some Champion in the Cause of Love

Has languish’d here—more weary with the fight,

Then vanquish’d quite;

While the soft God took pity from above,

And thinking to reward his Service well,

Bid him grow there where he so nobly fell.

So when the longing Cytherea found

The Murder’d Boy, who long deceiv’d her
eyes

Under a Flow’rs disguise,

And pluck’d the curious Posie from the ground;

Fair Cytherea’s Bosom look’d like this,

So blush’d Adonis in the seat of Bliss.

F SONG F1v (66)

Song
Made by an Old Man, to Lady F.

Ah! fly me not bright Creature, stay;

Destroy not what you do create;

Your Beauty’s Pow’r will change my Grey,

And make me young, and Fortunate,

Almighty Love that Error will destroy,

That Age is past the tast of pleasing Joy:

’Tis true, an outward Frost appears,

But Youthful Flames are in my Heart,

Love can recall the Lovers years,

And new create his every part,

Love equally inspires the Old and Young,

Preserves Gay Youth, and makes the Aged strong.

On F2r (67)

On the Duke of Grafton,
Upon the first Night of Bedding his
Lady.

Hark, hark, great Love does give the
Alarms;

Arise brave Youth, to Arms, to Arms,

See where Clarinda does appear!

For the bless’d combate then prepare;

Let Love, the Monarch of the Soul

All that is rough and fierce controul.

Prepare your self for Joys, where both shall be

Each other’s Victor by Love’s Extasie.

Let others in the Field prepare,

With Armour ’gainst the harms of War,

Who only empty Honours gain,

Reaping their Glories from the Slain.

With Blood and Wounds they Fame create,

And Savage Murders make ’em great.

F2 From F2v (68)

From Fear, not Vallor, do their Glories rise,

Who poorly boast of Fame when th’ Conquer’d
dies.

But Love’s soft Wars more Noble are,

A wounded heart’s the only scar,

Which with full Joys they still receive,

And bless those eyes the charming Mischiefs give.

Instead of Rage, young Love inspires

His Combatants with soft desires,

With which he oft, Rallies, renews the Fray,

And he’s the Conqueror that has lost the day.

Song,
By the Earl of Dorset.

Let the Ambitious favour find,

In Courts and empty noise,

Whilst greater Love does fill my mind

With silent real Joy.

Let F3r (69)

Let Fools and Knaves grow Rich and Great,

And the World think ’em Wise,

Whilst I lie dying at her feet,

And all that World despise.

Let Conquering Kings new Trophies raise,

And melt in Court delights,

Her Eyes can give me brighter days,

Her Arms much softer nights:

Song,
Made by Mrs. Taylor.

Ye Virgin Pow’rs defend my heart

From Amorous looks and smiles,

From sawcy Love, or nicer Art

Which most our Sex beguile;

F3 From F3v (70)

For Sighs, and Vows, from awful fears

That do to Pity move,

From speaking silence, and from Tears,

Those Springs that Water Love,

But if through Passion I grow blind,

Let Honour be my guide.

And where frail Nature seems inclin’d,

There fix a guard of Pride.

A heart whose Flames are seen tho pure,

Needs every Vertues aid,

And those who think themselves secure,

The soonest are betray’d.

To F4r (71)

To Mertill who desired her
to speak to Clorinda of
his Love. By Mrs. Taylor.

Mertill Though my heart should
break,

In granting thy desire,

To cold Clorinda I will speak,

And warm her, with my fire.

To save thee from approaching harm,

My Death I will obey.

To save thee, sinking in the Storm,

I’ll cast my self away.

May her Charms equal those of thine!

No words can e’re express,

And let her Love be great as mine,

Which thee wou’d only bless.

F4 May F4v (72)

May you still prove her faithful slave,

And she so kind and true,

She nothing may desire to have,

Or fear to Lose,—but you.

Song,
By Mrs. Taylor.

Strephon has Fashion, Wit and
Youth,

With all things else that please,

He nothing wants but Love and Truth,

To ruine me with ease.

But he is flint, and bears the Art,

To kindle strong desire,

His pow’r inflames anothers heart,

Yet he ne’re feels the fire.

Alas F5r (73)

Alas, it does my Soul perplex,

When I his charms recall,

To think he should despise the Sex,

Or what’s worse, love ’em all;

My wearied heart, like Noah’s Dove,

In vain may seek for rest,

Finding no hope to fix my Love,

Returns into my Breast.

A Letter to Mr. Creech at Oxford, Written
in the last great Frost.

Daphnis, because I am your debtor,

(And other causes which are better)

I send you here my debt of Letter.

You shou’d have had a scrap of Nonsense,

You may remember left at Tonsons.

(Tho by the way that’s scurvy Rhime Sir,

But yet ’twill serve to Tagg a Line Sir.)

A F5v (74)

A Billet Deux I had design’d then,

But you may think I was in Wine then;

Because it being cold, you know

We warm’d it with a Glass—or so,

I grant you that Shie Wine’s the Devil,

To make ones memory uncivil;

But when ’twixt every sparkling Cup,

I so much brisker Wit took up;

Wit, able to inspire a thinking;

And make one solemn even in Drinking;

Wit that would charm and stock a Poet,

Even instruct—who has no Wit;

Wit that was hearty, true, and Loyal,

Of Wit, like Bays Sir, that’s my Tryal;

I say ’twas most impossible,

That after that one should be dull.

Therefore because you may not blame me,

Take the whole Truth as—shall sa’me.

From White-Hall Sir, as I was coming,

His Sacred Majesty from Dunning;

Who F6r (75)

Who oft in Debt is, truth to tell,

For Tory Farce, or Doggerell,

When every Street as dangerous was,

As ever the Alpian Hills to pass.

When melted Snow and Ice confound one,

Whether to break ones neck or drown one,

And Billet Deux in Pocket lay,

To drop as Coach shou’d Jolt that way,

Near to that place of Fame call’d Temple,

(Which I shall note by sad Example)

Where Colledg Dunce is cur’d of Simple,

Against that Sign of Whore call’d Scarlet,

My Coachman fairly laid Pilgarlick.

Tho Scribling Fist was out of joynt,

And ev’ry Limb made great complaint;

Yet missing the dear Assignation,

Gave me most cause of Tribulation.

To Honest H――le I shou’d have shown ye,

A Wit that wou’d be proud t’have known ye;

A Wit uncommon, and Facetious,

A great admirer of Lucretius;

But F6v (76)

But transitory hopes do vary,

And high Designments oft miscarry,

Ambition never climb’d so lofty,

But may descend too fair and softly,

But would you’d seen how sneakingly

I look’d with this Catastrophe.

So sawcy Whigg, when Plot broke out,

Dejected hung his sniv’ling snout;

So Oxford Member look’d, when Rowley

Kickt out the Rebel Crew so foully;

So Perkin once that God of Wapping,

Whom slippery turn of State took napping,

From hopes of James the second fell

In to the native Scounderell.

So Lover look’d of Joy defeated,

When too much fire his Vigour cheated,

Even so look’d I, when Bliss depriving,

Was caus’d by over-hasty driving,

Who saw me cou’d not chuse but think,

I look’d like Brawn in sowsing drink.

Or F7r (77)

Or Lazarello who was show’d

For a strange Fish, to’th’ gaping Crowd.

Thus you by fate (to me, Sinister,

At Shop of Book my Billet mist Sir.

And home I went as discontent,

As a new routed Parliament,

Not seeing Daphnis ere he went.

And sure his grief beyond expressing,

Of Joy propos’d to want the Blessing;

Therefore to Pardon pray incline,

Since disappointment all was mine;

Of Hell we have no other notion,

Than all the Joys of Heav’ns privation;

So Sir with Recommendments fervent,

I rest your very humble Servant.

POSTSCRIPT. F7v (78)

POSTSCRIPT.

On Twelfth night Sir, by that good token

When lamentable Cake was broken,

You had a Friend, a Man of Wit,

A Man whom I shall ne’re forget;

For every word he did impart,

’Twas worth the keeping in a heart:

True Tory all! and when he spoke,

A God in Wit, tho Man in look.

—To this your Friend—Daphnis address

The humblest of my Services;

Tell him how much—yet do not too,

My vast esteem no words can shew;

Tell him—that he is worthy—you.

In F8r (79)

In praise of Folly.
By Mr. R.A.

Happy the Man whose friendly want of
Wit

Makes him for all things but contempt unfit.

Regardless of the burthen of the State,

He laughs at all who toil beneath its weight;

Whose Light, untroubled head does still impart

A simpathetick briskness to the heart;

No Politick designs disturb his rest,

For thoughts are strangers to his peaceful breast;

He acts whatever with his Will agrees,

And fears no Ill, because he none foresees;

In the worst times he needs no more defence,

Than his own native harmless Innocence;

He never under a suspicion lies,

The Fate of all who are reputed wise;

His F8v (80)

His feet and tongue from all restraint are free,

For there’s no danger in their Liberty;

Nature, at least, made him with this intent,

That he should do no Ill what e’re he meant;

But he means none, nor uses any Art,

But in his words and actions shews his heart;

Through which his most reserv’d designs appear,

As Stones throw Rivers that run low and clear.

So safe he is, that wise men to escape

Some threatned Mischiefs, have assum’d his shape

Admit some term him what he is, a fool,

And strive to turn him into redicule;

Yet he in this the wise man’s part does play,

And laughs at his own Follies more than they;

Nor can his want of wit disturb his mind.

Since ’tis a want that he can never find.

For as the Ape no other form desires,

So much her own she above all desires,

So he requires no wit, to make him wise,

His very Folly that defect supplys.

G1r (81)

And, as the Fish, that having hid her head

Sees not her self, does no espial dread,

So he who is to his own failings blind,

Ne’r apprehends the World should any find;

Bless’d Adam thus before His Fig-leaf Dress,

Saw nought to blush at in his Nakedness;

But when alas! he knowing grew, and wise,

He soon became a Nuisance to his eyes;

For Ignorance like Steel Mirrors represents

What pleases, but conceals what discontents;

While knowledg like the clear and flattering
Glass,

Shews all the Imperfections of the Face.

And as by Studying we only know,

How great a part o’th’ World we’re strangers
too;

So still the more in knowledge we advance,

We but the more perceive our Ignorance;

Hence ’tis that Fools have Fortune and Success,

While men of Wit and Parts find nothing less;

G For G1v (82)

For they consider what is fit to speak,

Before they dare their awful silence break,

While the brisk Fop, just as Phanaticks Pray,

Talks most and loudest, that has least to say,

And with the Vulgar, by a lucky hit,

This passes for a Zealot, that a Wit.

Hence then my Books obstructers of my rise,

Should I converse with you, I should grow wise

But I’ll not so long for preferment stay,

Since there’s a nearer, and a surer way;

I’ll be as empty as the shallow’st Pate,

And then perhaps shall be as Fortunate;

Then I may Houses build, and Castles rear,

While wiser Men have none but in the Air;

At least I shall not undergo their Fate,

For sawcy medling in Affairs of State,

Be fixt the Traitors scarecrow on the Gate.

Oh that at last these busie men would cease,

With Factious Politicks to disturb our Peace!

That G2r (83)

That they no more would boldly and aloud,

With needless fears possess the heedless Crowd;

No more cajole their Sovereign, nor pretend

To wish his life, while they contrive his end;

Nor rudely pry, into his Royal Brothers mind,

A secret too divine for them to find;

For Princes thoughts like Heavn’s reserv’d decrees,

Are too sublime for Vulgar scrutinies.

But if the wholsom Physick of advice,

Cannot prevent the Ills of being too wise,

And they’ll Plot on—may Heav’n and Charles
think fit,

To exalt their heads, for their pernicious Wit.

G2 Friendship G2v (84)

Friendship. By Mr. T.B.

Happy the brace of Souls that do
conspire

Against those Tyrants, Body, and Desire;

Chaste as unthinking Virgins, pure as Vestal Fire.

Of Noble Elemental Flames they’r made,

To nothing gross, to nothing mean betray’d:

They give out Men, but Angels are in Masquerade.

The Forms of Heavy Matter they despise,

In contemplation all their pleasure lies,

Themselves they seek, and their own Country of
the Skies.

Together yoakt, so wou’d two Turtles move,

And draw the Chariot of unblemisht Love.

So wou’d they Bill and Choo, until they roost
above.

But let our Frolick Prodigals o’th’ Gown,

Dive for the Tawdry Petticoat alone,

And wast Gods Image, to make others of their own.

Let G3r (85)

Let their foul Consciences be written Ill,

Blotted with Woman, and her Peevish Will,

Let Am’rous Charms be there in Devilish Characters
still.

The Noblest Nature gave us, she shall find

Free from the many frailties of Mankind;

My friend and I will sweetly guide each others
mind.

We’ll walk, and treat upon some calm delight,

We’l neither wrangle about wrong or right,

Quiet shall rule the Day, and Innocence the
Night.

And then poor Fortune, what will be thy
share?

Alas! how small an Empire must thou bear

When we divide each joy, and lessen every care.

Thus liv’d methinks those happy Youths of
yore,

Thus Pilades embrac’d his friend before,

And thus, thus warm’d Orestes melts and loves the
more.

G3 SONG, G3v (86)


A Song
By Sir G. Etheridg.

Ye happy Swains whose hearts are free,

From Loves Imperial Chain,

Take warning and be taught by me,

T’avoid th’inchanting Pain;

Fatal the Wolves to trembling Flocks,

Fierce winds to Blossoms prove,

To careless Sea-men hidden Rocks,

To human quiet Love.

Fly the fair Sex, if Bliss you prize,

The Snake’s beneath the Flow’r,

Who ever gaz’d on Beauteous Eyes,

That tasted quiet more?

How Faithless is the Lovers Joy!

How constant is their Care!

The Kind with Falshood do destroy,

The Cruel with Despair.

TO G4r (87)

To
Astrea
On Her
Poems.

For once kind Heav’n, permit me to lay
by

The Sacred Badges of Divinity;

And you blest Heroine for once admit

A Country Curate, to admire your Wit.

Tho it be very Antick I confess,

For one t’appear in a Poetick Dress;

Whose hard misfortune ’tis (alas!) to keep

Only with Clod-pate Souls who talk of Sheep.

G4 Yet G4v (88)

Yet e’en the Gods the Woods would sometimes
brook

Sometimes the Mighty Charles a Shelter took,

Like the old Druids in a Sacred Oak.

And the bless’d Swains of old with charming
Verse,

Cou’d reach all heights and wondrous things rehearse:

Nor doubt we but to see those days again,

When a brisk fire shall actuate ev’ry Swain,

And Rusticks be inspir’d like other Men.

The bright Astrea’s pow’rful influence,

Shall make fat Clowns Immortal Bards commence,

Charm’d by her mighty numbers into sense.

With fewer Charms of old a Thracian Lyre,

Did the rude World with peaceful thoughts inspire;

Whole Herds of Men, and Savage Beasts grew
tame,

And Proselytes to his vast Muse became.

But G5r (89)

But England has a nobler task for you,

Not to tame Beasts but the brute Whigs subdue,

A thing which yet the Pulpit cou’d not do.

Your Satyr must the Factious Age reclaim,

To see their Follies and confess their Shame;

But ah! by Fate they’re to a damned case,

The sensless Fops are past all Shame or Grace,

With frontless Impudence pretending Wit,

The Slaves dare think that noble Mark they hit,

When they like Baxter Prose, and Verse like
S―― write,

S―― the Master of the Holborn Choir,

One, whom no Muse but hunger does inspire;

The Starving Crambo Poet of the Town,

Whose wit ne’r reach’d above a dull Lampoon;

The Prince of those that write in Dogrell Rhimes,

S―― the Reverend Sternhold of the times.

Behold ye Whigs the Laurell only grows

And flourishes on Loyal Tory Brows.

Whilst G5v (90)

Whilst your Pretensions to be Wits are shamm’d,

And all your Poets to the Hell of Nonsence
damn’d.

When such dull Slaves such mighty Fabricks
show

As we see, bless’d Astrea rais’d by you,

I’ll e’n believe the World was made by Chance,

The Product of unthinking Atoms dance;

While they thro’ the unmeasur’d Vacuum came,

And boxt themselves into this Beauteous frame,

’Twas Divine Pow’r that made all those combine

To raise this Pile; and it was wit divine

Could form such mighty Verse, great Nymph
’twas only thine.

And now let the fond Catholicks adore,

And vainly their deaf tutelar Saints implore;

Let ’em raise Temples to preserve their name,

While we build Altars to Astrea’s Fame:

Triumphant Nymph! no other Saint shall know

The wing’d Passions of our Souls, but you,

While we are Bards, or Lovers Militant below.

Divine G6r (91)

Divine Astrea! Pardon this bold flight,

I’d fain a Lover be, and fain a Wit;

But Providence it seems design’d t’immure

M’aspiring soul in a poor Country Cure;

Where I on Men in vain may spend my toil,

Dull as their heart, but far more barren than
their soil;

Capritious Clowns, whose surly humours crost,

’Tis ten to one my Sunday’s Pudding’s lost.

Old G6v (92)

Old England:
or
New Advice
To A
Painter.
A Poem.

“—Quis iniqua Tam patiens Urbis tam ferreus ut teneat se?”

Come Painter, you and I, you know, dare do

What our Licentious fancy leads us to,

Talk is but talk, let Court and Country see,

None has such Arbitrary Pow’r as we.

Let’s G7r (93)

Let’s club then for a Piece to hit the times,

While your Poetic Paint sets off my Rhimes;

Old England for the Love of Vertue draw,

Hold, not our Brazen-fac’d Britannica;

Let Agin Court present a Warlike Scene,

Albeville Ford, or the fam’d Cressy’s Plain;

Let the Black Prince his English Flag advance,

Or let Fifth Harry March o’re Conquer’d France;

Shew me those Sons of Mars, for I’m affraid

Their Race is lost; their Vallor quite decay’d.

Give the just Lines, and the proportion fit,

None but a Hero for this Piece can sit.

Hold Painter, hold, thy forward hand does
run

Beyond advice, what is it thou hast done?

What Crowds of Pimps and Parasites are here!

Ha! what a Politick Fop drinks Coffee there!

See how th’ Apostate plys his Trait’rous Text,

The Gospel wrackt, and Church Historians vext;

Look, look, the Sovereign People here dispense

The Laws of Empire, to an absolute Prince;

Their G7v (6494)

Their Will is Law Divine, themselves being
own’d

To the Almighty in the Spiritual Fund;

Religious Rogues! new Light, new Worship
teach,

Some St. Teresia, some St. Beckman Preach;

Your very Prophets here hang between both,

’Twixt God and Baal, I and Astaroth;

Your Feather’d Buff is valiant but to fight,

Clodius within, or his soft Catamite:

But your promiscuous Rout, at Change o’th’
Moon

Are Tory, Trimmer, Whigg, Fool, Knave, Buffoon;

Unhappy Isle! who thus can view thy face,

And not lament thy base degenerate Race?

Those Lines of Majesty that Europe Aw’d,

Now shews a Cast-off Miss, late turn’d to Bawd;

’Twas not from hence those Worthies fill’d their
Veins,

That led at once two Potent Kings in Chains;

That G8r (95)

That crop’d the Flow’r-de luce with greater
Pride,

Than ever Tarquin Switch a Poppy’s head;

Made Lyon Rampant Couch, that long did
Reign,

The Pride o’th Wood, and Terror of the Plain;

Brought Cyprus King a willing Captive here,

While Britain did another World appear;

Gave Laws to all the Land and then with ease,

Led their Triumphant Flag o’re all the Seas:

Curse on that Man of Mode, who with his Wine

Debauch’d and so debas’d the British Line.

Turn thy Stile Painter, let one gracious Blot,

Hide all that’s stain’d with Zealot, Villain, Scot.

Try thy skill once again, England Alas!

Draw as it is, if’t can’t be as it was.

First let Confusion her dear self display,

To whom th’unthinking Croud Obedience pay;

Next Horror, who the flying Standard bears,

Deckt with this Motto, Jealousies and Fears;

Here let the Rabble in Allegiance meet,

With G8v (96)

With Lives and Fortunes at their Idols feet:

Arm every Brigadier with Sacred Sword,

Inscrib’d, Come Fight the Battel of the Lord:

Let Trumpets now proclaim immortal hate,

Against all Order in the Church and State.

Shew not the Victim, that did lately fall

By Fool or Rogues, the Sons of Belial.

But let a Curtain of black Murder hide,

Till Time, or kinder Fate shall draw’t aside.

Hast ye Infernal Pow’rs from your dark Cell,

Pour out the Viols that were fill’d in Hell;

The Plagues of the Black Box the World invade,

Fathers by their unnatural Sons betray’d.

When thus the Kingdom’s by Confusion rent

Let Youths of Gotham steer the Government

By kind Address, or wise Petition sent.

Here Painter let the Royal Eagle fly,

In State through her Dominions of the Skie;

Let all the Feather’d Legions of her Train,

March at a distance o’re th’ Etherial Plain;

Some H1r (97)

Some few through Zeal too near their Sovereign
press,

Offending by a plausible Address;

Others their grievances aloud declare,

Filling with Cries each Region of the Air,

The Tyrant does her Innocent Subjects tear.

Let still the Mighty Monarch Steer her way,

Regardless what or those, or these can say;

Her Divine prudence and abounded skill

Will make all happy, tho against their will.

Now let the Moral to this Fable say,

Let none presume to rule, who shou’d obey,

Yet if all Err let’s Err the safer way.

Indentures give no right to shake a Throne,

Nor must profane hands stay a tott’ring one;

In vain does sar vindicate the Seas,

That Men may Traffique to what Coast they
please;

If Universal Mart thus proudly brag,

That the Court-Sails must lower to City-Flag.

H If H1v (98)

If large concessions from Successive Kings,

Be such desirable such pow’rful things;

Pity that e’re to Cities they were made,

Whose Charter dares Prerogative invade.

Sure gratitude is but an empty name,

Or Pow’r wou’d guard that hand from whence it
came,

The Coffee-Drums beat Priviledge aloud,

While Duty is not heard among the Crowd.

The Law, whose Influence is kind to all,

Admits distinctions when a Saint shou’d fall,

Then Magna Charta is Apocryphal.

Poor Loyal Hearts they Plot no other thing,

Than first to save, then make a Glorious King.

Yet against Evil Counsellors, I hope,

Force may be us’d, and so against the Pope;

That was the word, when once, for public good

Three Kingdoms Innocently flow’d in Blood;

So Felons when pursu’d, stop Thief they cry,

And by that Strategem they safely fly.

Read H2r (99)

Read well these Men, you’ll find for many years,

Who sar’s favor wants, is sure of theirs.

Who flyes disgrac’d from Court, here popular
grows,

And still where sar frowns the City bows;

The blackest Traytors here a refuge find,

For City-Painters ne’re draw Justice blind.

Now cross thy self my Dear, for now is come

Sir Pacolet with his Advice from Rome;

Saddle a Broom-staff, tie it to his side,

For now ’tis nothing but get up and ride;

Yet if that Nagg don’t Pacolet befit,

Paint Pægasus, for Pacolet aims at Wit;

Through all the liquid plains o’th’ Air he flies,

And dances a Coranto ’bove the Skies;

His Racer does out-strip the Eastern Wind,

And leaves the Horses of the Sun behind;

Swifter than Thought, from Tyber he’s at Thames,

Good Lord! what Castles of the Air he names,

What vast discoveries, does he there discry,

Unseen by all but Salamanca’s Eye!

H2 What H2v (100)

What Lady’s there distress’d, what Knight’s in wall

Lockt up, yet Pacolet still frees ’em all;

Talk not of Rome’s Zamzummims; he no more

Will make of them, than Bellarmine before.

Windmills, and Castles in the Air must down,

Quicksot and Hudibrass here meet in one.

Is one Romantick Hero not enough?

Joyn Protestanti, Cardinalo-Puffe;

These lead in Chains that Pagan Priest, that first

Invented Surplice, ever since accurst;

For Pagan Priest of old, wore Vests of white:

Ergo the Surplice is a Pagan Rite.

By the same Logick they might thus infer;

Pagans built Temples, Offer’d Praise and Pray’r:

Ergo Prayer, Praise, and Temples, Pagan are.

Good God! that such unthinking things as these

Shou’d once pretend to write, and writing
please!

Some little use might of their Books be made,

If Smithfield Fires they duly had display’d;

H3r (101)

If they’d expos’d, by telling Miracles

Of Legendary Saints, in nasty Cells;

Had their impartial Writings rendred plain

Mariana’s Politicks, and Mary’s Reign:

Had they in point of Doctrine Errors shew’d,

Idolatry in point of Worship, good:

But against Rome while they proclaim their War,

The Church of England does their Fury bear;

She wears the Mark o’th’ Beast upon her Seal,

For Titus does as well as John Reveal.

Sir Pacolet now boast, that the Holy fire

In all our Candlesticks does e’n expire;

Hence thou Profane, those are above thy reach,

Why shou’d one Damn’d to th’ Cart presume
Preach?

Solicit on, for some ignoble Fee,

For I know Simon, Simon too knows me.

Come Painter, to th’ Crowd this thingum
shew,

And to Saint Packolet let London Bow.

H3 Yet H3v (102)

Yet let a Loyal Prætor sway the Sword,

That’s never rais’d but to exalt its Lord;

Happy to future Ages be his name,

And may it sound from all the Trumps of Fame;

No popular Breath can Steer his prosp’rous
Sails,

No Bribes of Zealous Gold do’s turn his Scales;

He sits like Justice in his Chair of State,

Weighing the Cities, and the Kingdoms fate,

So is the Realm of London swoln of late.

To th’ height of Glory justly he aspires,

Thrice happy is the Knight, not so his Squires;

They with a diff’rent Zeal from his do burn,

And to the Faction would the Ballance turn;

No Care to Duty or Allegiance had,

Yet One is more unfortunate than bad:

So meek his Meen, so circumspectly low,

That he has taught his very Horse to bow;

Yields to the Church, conforms to all her Laws,

Yet still embarques in the Dissenters Cause;

To H4r (103)

To Roman Idols he’ll ne’r say his Beads,

Yet if mistaken Zeal this Vot’ry leads,

He’ll split upon the very Rock he dreads:

His Tongue speaks naked Swords, his Passion
flames,

Not to be quench’d by all the Floods of Thames;

But yet that Tongue that once had felt the smart,

Holds no great correspondence with his heart:

He from himself does strangely disagree,

Lives not that thing he talkes himself to be;

His Goodly Fabrick has been long possest,

And wants the help of some kind Exorcist;

Clear is his Soul from all this Clamorous Din,

’Tis some Fanatick Demon raves within;

T’other by Bacchus well inspir’d, can see

The Mistic Charm of Lawless Prophecy;

When he is warm with Wine, and drunk with
Zeal,

He’ll with an Euoi to his Synagogue reel,

And the indwellings of the Spirit reveal.

H4 From H4v (104)

From Kings commands, by Drink and Charter
free,

He can distinguish our mixt Monarchy;

Ill Politicks that Empire can decide,

Between the Sov’reign and the Subjects side.

Nor Pope, nor People do this Scepter sway,

Whate’r the Leman Lake or Tiber say.

Now Painter draw two Factions both allied

In blood, and ruine, tho they now divide;

Those make for Rome, and brisk Winds fill their
Sails,

These for Anticyra with equal gales;

Both with Fanatick zeal, yet here’s the odds,

Those make, then Worship, and then eat their
Gods;

These Brutish Bigots most unwilling come

To th’ God of Heav’n, ’cause he’s God of Rome:

With that Devotion to their Chaos bow,

That those to Painted Deities do owe;

Both Parties boast a Star to lead their Train,

One but of late dropt out of Charles his Wane,

Unhappy H5r (105)

Unhappy Prince! (by Tapomursky led

To feed on husks, before thy Fathers Bread!

Fly to his Arms, he like th’ Almighty stands,

Inviting Penitents with both his hands.

Let the true Protestant Frogs croke for a King,

Be not that Block, that despicable thing;

Disdain the Sham of an Utopian Crown,

Put on those Laurels you so early won;

Let sar’s lawful Line the Scepter sway,

Thine is as great a Glory to obey.

If, by that other Star Rome’s Pilot steer

O’re Sands and Rocks, that soon will disappear,

And leave ’em to be swallow’d in despair.

The Jesuits Politicks ne’re found a Seat

In that brave Soul, that is Divinely great;

May he still next to sar sit at Helm,

Assisting to confirm this floating Realm;

Delos at last on a firm Basis stood,

Checking the rage of an impetuous Flood;

T H5v (106)

So the fair Sons of Leda still dispense

A happy Fate, by their joynt influence;

Who knows the weight of an Imperial Crown,

Would not for ever bear it all alone;

When the Celestial Globe from Age to Age,

Atlas his Shoulders singly did engage;

None ever envy’d him a little ease,

To sit and rest, and admire Hercules;

Both Poles, and all the Gods he stoutly bore,

Ev’n those that squeez’d to make his burden
more;

The Church on both hands threatning danger
sees,

Like Jason’s Ship ’twixt the Symplegades;

Nor doth this Panick fear less seize the State,

Content to perish in one common Fate.

Mean-while lock sars Temples fast asleep,

So slept the Almighty Pilot on the Deep;

When Winds and Waves the Sacred Vessel tost,

When Faith was sinking, the Ship almost lost.

Sleep H6r (107)

Sleep gently glide, and calm those raging Storms,

That daily wrack his Soul with fresh Alarms;

Serene be all his Dreams, happy his rest,

No Politick fright disturb his thoughtful Breast:

This to secure, let the Cyllenian God

Stroke both his Temples with his charming Rod;

Let Morpheus at an Awful distance stand,

Observant of his Mighty Lords Command.

Now Painter, if thou’rt learn’d, with keen Effort

Give a bold Dash of Pluto’s dismal Court;

Arm that Black Guard t’attempt great sar’s
Life

With Consecrated Gun, Devoted Knife.

Lert all the Factious Spirits i’th’ Furies Train

Shake all their Snakes, and all their Rods in vain;

While a Wing’d Boy with a Triumphant smile,

The mighty Genius of this Brittish Isle,

Defend all Danger, this loose sleeping while.

Let all the Titans, those bold Sons of Earth,

That challenge Heaven by their right of Birth;

With H6v (108)

With Fire and Thunder their own Force annoy,

Ægean’s hundred hands himself destroy;

Let ’em all dye by one anothers Sword,

So fall the Enemies of my dreadful Lord;

Then let the Angel o’re the Throne appear,

And with soft accents strike his Sacred Ear;

Here if to Paint a Sound be a hard thing

Give me this Labell Painter—

—To the King.

“Awake great Sir, thy Guardian prays thee
wake,

Who to secure thy rest, no rest can take;

See the Globe reels, the Scepter’s tumbling
down,”

One such another Nod may lose a Crown.

Awake great care of Heav’n, rise, pay thy
Vows

To him, that neither sleep nor slumber knows

Yet H7r (109)

Yet if thy wearied head more rest must have,

Secure the Crosier, so the Crown you save.

The Crouds of thy Court-Parasites are gone,

With early zeal to meet the rising Sun;

That Prince that shear’d thy Banishment, must
now,

To yield to Popular Rage, an Exile go.

Till kinder Providence Commission me,

To bring him safe to’s Country and to thee;

Then will appear the greatness of his mind,

Like Gold that in the fire is thrice refin’d.

Some Friends are left, whose importunity

Will give no rest either to Heav’n or thee;

See a poor few alas at silent Prayers,

No Rhetorick sure, like that of sighs and tears;

Those soft Addresses they will ne’re forsake

Nor I my just Alarms, sar awake!

Awake great Care of Heav’n, rise, pay thy Vows

To him who neither Sleep nor Slumber knows.

Now Painter force thy Art, thy utmost try,

Let day arise from sar’s waking Eye;

And H7v (110)

And while he grasps the Scepter, put in’s hand

The long-lost Reigns of Sovereign command;

Thus let the Beams of Majesty out-run

The Morn, and be more glorious than the Sun.

Once Painter, when the blustring Winds grew
rough,

And o’r the Seas did Domineer and Huff;

Great Neptune then thinking himself betray’d,

Since his Prerogative they durst invade,

Sprung from the Deep, and with an awful Nod,

Confin’d the Slaves of the Æolian God;

Strait the proud Billows from their tumults cease,

And all his watry Subjects flow in peace.

Let sar thus arise, and thus the World,

That was to Ruin, and Confusion hurl’d,

Retire to Order, and Alegiance pay

In the most Loyal, and Submissive way,

Now let the Piece with thy best Colours shine,

While every Man sits under his own Vine;

Ye Sisters run this Thread t’an endless Date,

Now ev’ry one carves to himself his Fate;

None H8r (111)

None are unhappy but who force their woe,

Make themselves wretched least chance make
’em so,

As Fannius kill’d himself t’escape the Foe.

Now Justice flows to all in equal Streams,

Whilst Liberty and Property, those Themes

Canted by politick Bigots, quit the Schools,

Blushing their Patrons are such bawling Fools.

Let the two Factions in one Interest joyn,

And that faln Star in his first Glory shine.

Restore those Lights to their own Sphere again,

That falling Lucifer drew in his Train;

Let Court and Country now be understood

One Heart, one Hand, one Purse, one common
Good.

Let ev’ry faithful Shepherd tune his lays,

To Fold his Sheep, and to recall his Strays.

Let him search ev’ry Down, climb ev’ry Rock,

And lead his straglers to the Cath’lic Flock;

Let Towzer range the Plains (so some of late

Have termed Il Pastor Fido’s constant Mate;)

Stanch H8v (112)

Stanch to his Scent, no Tonsor can disguise

The Fox; the Wolf tho clad in Sheeps-skin dies

None of more Service, or of better use,

When Tityrus thinks fit to let him loose.

Let the Plains laugh and sing, the Hills rejoyce,

While ev’ry Sheep hears her own Shepherd’s
voice:

Religion wears her proper Dress again:

Oh happy Fate, that thus has chang’d the Scene!

Such is the Force of Kings, when there’s no Cloud

To hide their Pow’r from the Tumultuous
Crowd.

So Julius, when his Legions once Rebell’d,

With but a word, a look, the Mutiny quell’d.

Awake my Lute, of sar is my Song,

Ah! Painter why did’st let him sleep so long:

sar gives life to Nature, fills each Soul

With Peace and Joy, while Plenty Crowns each
Bowl:

Let great Apollo strike his Delphic Lyre,

With all the well-tun’d Virgins of the Quire;

Infuse I1r (113)

Infuse ye Goddesses a Loyal Vein,

On all th’ Attendants of the Hippocrene;

Let not th’ Infection of uneasie Times,

Pollute the Fountain with Seditious Rhimes;

Restrain Licentious Prophets, and let none

Come with unhallow’d Lays to Helicon;

May still fresh Laurels round his Temples Spring,

That to the Royal Harp does sit and sing:

On wretched Oates Doeg his Lips shall wear,

And Murder his ill tunes that fright the Ear,

Beneath Apollo or the Muses care.

When thus the Poet shall his Notes divide,

And never play but to the Juster side;

The Painter shall his trembling Pensil bring,

To serve the most August and God-like King;

Yet all his Colours can’t set off this Scene,

Art in a piece of Nature, is a stain.

Now the great Month proceeds, this is that
Spring

The Sibyll and the Mantuan Bard did sing;

I Let I1v (114)

Let Saturn envy sar’s greater Bliss,

His Golden Age was but a Type of this;

Now all the Spheres in Peaceful Measures move,

The very Sectaries do order Love;

Old England I no more shall long to see,

We’re just as happy as we please to be;

No prostituted Oaths our fears create,

No Pilgrims March alarms the Church or State.

Asaph record these times, no more refuse

The powr’ful impulse of thy charming Muse;

Those Royal Heroes that attend the King,

None but an Asaph may presume to sing.

When Hybla to the Bee shall Dew deny,

When Suppliants in vain to sar fly.

Then shall this Age be lost i’th’ Rolls of Time,

Then Asaph’s Song shall be like Doeg’s Rhime.

In I2r (115)

In Æternam Rei Memoriam
Notissimi scilicet Viri & Doctoris (Si diis placet)
Titi Oates,
Ad rectius intelligendum sensum Veteris de Ejus
Nomine Anagrammatis,
Testis Ovat.
By Mr. E.A. M.A.
Tabulam hanc & Carmina explicatoria Posuit
Philalethes.

1. Testis Ovat falsæ fruitur dum Crimine
Linguæ,

Et referens sceleris præmia Testis Ovat;

Testis Ovat, plorent liceat tria Regna; doloris

Autor, quam sicco lumine Testis Ovat!

Testis Ovat quod Ierna perit; ruit Anglia; vires

Quod minuit proprias Scotia, Testis Ovat.

I2 Testis I2v (116)

Testis Ovat lætus Magnos disjungere fratres,

Et pulso è Patria Castore, Testis Ovat.

Testis Ovat, no cui dum pœna plectitur insons,

Ebrius innocuo Sanguine Testis Ovat.

Testis Ovat: falsæ sed qualis Oratio linguæ,

Qui quod iniquus, Ovat, quam malè Testis
Ovat.

Titus I3r (117)

Titus Oates.
I, O tu, Sat est.
By Mr. R.A. M.A.

I, O tu, satis est Vocis turbata procellis

Anglia, sat notos horret & illa sonos.

I, O tu, satis est Prurigine facta Rebellis,

Scotia, pestiferis plus satis apta malis!

I, O tu, satis est Linguæ Mendacis Ierna

Vulnera passa, tuam sat timet illa sidem.

I, fuge, & Angligenis, O tandem parcito Campis!

Pestis es in patriam perniciosa satis.

I,—Sed quo Mendax, sed quo Perjuris abibis,

Ut lateant Linguæ perfida dicta tuæ?

Sanctorum contra te portas Insula claudet,

Terra venenosis non patet illa feris;

I3 Neve I3v (118)

Neve Caledonios præstabit visere fines,

Ni vis perfidiam predere Crura tuam.

Nulla remota satis Gens est, tam barbara nulla,

Nomine quæ nondum sit tremebunda tuo;

Et cum Nulla tui Sceleris non conscia tellus,

Crede mihi in turpem præstat ab ire crucem.

On I4r (119)

On a Token sent me by a Lady.
By Mr. T.B.

I Kiss’d the Present thrice, and thrice I said,

As Witches do for Lovers that are fled,

Like this kind Medal may the Mistris be,

And then again I kiss’d in Effigie.

Rich is the Mettel now! and now Divine!

Unmark’d it scorns to mix with vulgar Coyn.

To the dull Lump, a Soul Corina gave,

A Soul unseen, and not to taste the Grave;

When Am’rous Jove put on the Lovers Shape,

That woo’d his Dana to a silent Rape;

The glittering Show’r had not a drop like this,

Gingle and Show got him the tawdry Miss;

The Man is Damn’d to Death, and to Disgrace,

Who ever dares the Royal Stamp deface:

I4 But I4v (120)

But as the humble Laws have thought it fit,

They are above reward who have Ennobled it.

Methinks I see her with a generous way,

Put life and motion in the shining Clay;

I hear how unaffected, and how free

She told my friend—let that be drunk for me.

Thus Simele perhaps (for Poets lye)

The only Charming Favourite of the Sky,

From the great Thunderer big with Bacchus came,

Thus lightned round, and shot a pleasing Flame.

’Twas once disputed which the strongest were,

The Raisie Liquors, or the sparkling Fair;

All now agree it is the Womans due:

But Madam, they must pay their thanks to you;

Each Jovial Glass, your fair Idea gave,

Brighter than Venus from a Stormy Wave.

The I5r (121)

The Female Wits.


A Song,
By a Lady of Quality.

Men with much Toil, and Time, and Pain,

At length at Fame arrive,

While we a nearer way obtain

The Palms for which they strive.

We scorn to climb by Reasons Rules

To the loud name of Wit,

And count them silly modest Fools,

Who to that Test submit.

Our sparkling way a Method knows,

More Airy and refin’d,

And shou’d dull Reason interpose,

Our lofty flight ’twould bind.

Then I5v (122)

Then let us on—and still believe;

A good bold Faith will do,

If we our selves can well deceive,

The World will follow too.

What matter tho the Witty few,

Our emptiness do find,

They for their Int’rest will be true,

’Cause we are brisk and kind.

From I6r (123)

From Ovid’s third Book Amor.
Ele. 3.
By Mr. T.B.

False, False, are the obliging things she swore,

Yet she’s as charming as she was before;

Oh Gods! how shall I trust you any more?

Young Cupid knows not what abuses are,

But still he plays and wantons in her hair:

The usual white and red adorn her smile,

The Rose and Lilly, she deserv’d ere while,

Flourish as well in the pernicious Soil.

Her Feet were pretty, and they are so yet,

No Judgments overtake her pretty Feet:

Those Star-like Eyes their Lustre still retain,

By which she swore, and I believ’d in vain:

To Woman-kind the Gods are wondrous free,

And Beauty’s boundless as a Deity;

It I6v (124)

It is: For I remember what she said,

By her own Eyes and mine, the Oath was
made;

Her Star-like Eyes their Lustre still retain,

Mine, mine, Alas, must suffer all the Pain!

Say Gods, since you will pardon her Offence,

Say what injustice tortures Innocence:

Of that sad kind let one Example do;

And e’en for that we curse the Stars and you:

When fair Andromida to th’ Rock was ty’d,

An humble Maid damn’d for her Mother’s
Pride.

Is’t not enough for the Pernicious Fair,

To scape you Injur’d Pow’rs who heard her
Swear;

But must my Sorrows the Affront repair?

Must I my self deceiv’d, the Attonement dye

Suffer, and suffer for her Perjury?

Gods! empty Names! that have their eflawed-reproductionapproximately 2 letters
where

From a whole World of Folly, and of Fear;

I7r (125)

Or shou’d they they have a Being of their
own,

’Tis for the sake of the soft Sex alone.

Almighty Worshipers! there great command

Is meanly subject to a Female hand.

Mars threatens Man and Murdering Pallace two,

Jove hurls his Bolt, and Phœbus draws his Bow;

Yet all these Sparks will kindle at a Maid;

And where they fright not are themselves afraid.

Is Man the Coward? Man design’d to frown?

Dares none for Safety pull their Altars down?

Whate’er is Holy Jove can never spare,

But Treacherous Women are his special care:

His Lightning glided o’re the guilty Dames,

’Tis fit kind Simily should feel the Flames.

Had she deceitful been and jilted Jove,

A well-grown God had bless’d her crafty Love.

Why do I spread Reproaches through the
Skies?

And take from Heav’n the Priviledge of Lyes?

Bosoms I7v (126)

Bosoms for Love, the kinder Gods assume,

And Arm themselves meerly teo be o’er-come.

Were I a God I’d keep my Deity,

For the false Creatures to protest for me:

To ev’ry thing they spoke I’d always swear,

And hate the Churlish Gods that were severe.

Madam your Pow’r is great, but theflawed-reproductionapproximately 3 letters
brave,

You stoop too low to vex your humble
Slave.

SONG I8r (127)

Song,
By Mrs. A.B.

Cease, cease, Aminta to complain

Thy Languishment give o’re,

Why shoud’st thou sigh because the Swain

Another does Adore.

Those Charms fond Maid that vanquish’d thee,

Have many a Conquest won,

And sure he could not cruel be,

And leave ’em all undon.

The Youth a Noble temper bears,

Soft and compassionate,

And thou canst only blame thy Stars,

That made thee love too late;

Yet I8v (128)

Yet had their Influence all been kind,

They had not cross’d my Fate,

The tend’rest hours must have an end,

And Passion has its date.

The softest love grows cold and shy,

The face so late ador’d,

Now unregarded passes by,

Or grows at last abhor’d;

All things in Nature fickle prove,

See how they glide away;

Think so in time thy hopeless love

Will die, as Flowers decay.

Tityrus K1r (129)

Tityrus and Melibeus.
From
Virgil.

The Argument.

When Augustus had totally routed Brutus and Cassius,
who headed a Party against him, after they
with several others, had Murdered Julius Cæsar
in the Senate house; he divided Cremona and its
Dependances among his Veterans, because they
had aided the Assassins, the district of Cremona
was not thought sufficient; and therefore part of
Mantua was, where Virgil’s Estate fell to Arrius
the Centurion; Virgil being outed of his Estate
flyes to Rome, and Petitions Augustus, who gave
him his Lands again.

M.

Ah Tityrus, You can sit beneath a tree,

And Pipe and Sing to make the
Notes agree;

We quit our homes, and do to Exile go,

No more our Law, no more our Country know;

K But K1v (130)

But you at peace, and leisure piping sit,

While Amaryllis all the Woods repeat.

T.

Ah! Melibeus ’tis a Power Divine,

That caus’d this leisure and this peace of mine:

He is to me a God and I his Swaine,

With blood of Lambs, oft will his Altar
stain.

Now that my stragling kine securely graze,

To him I owe, to him my wanton lays.

M.

This don’t my Envy but my wonder
raise,

When such a rout’s among the Shepherds made

You sit at ease and quiet in the Shade.

I’m sick and faint, and drive a sickly Flock;

This t’other day left on a naked Rock,

The hopes of all my Stock a lovely pair

Of lusty Kids, the Dam is all my care

To get her on, I do almost despair.

But had I not infatuated been,

Fool as I am, this Mischief I’d foreseen;

Jove K2r (131)

Jove’s inauspicious thunder told me so,

From the scorch’d Oak, so did the ominous Crow;

But who is that God, Tityrus, tell me, do;

T.

That City, Melibeus, we call Rome

I wisely thought was like our Town at home,

Where Shepherds with their Lambs to Market
come.

Thus Whelps to th’ Dam, Kids I to th’ Goat compar’d,

Thus small with great, a like proportion shar’d;

But Towring Rome all Cities far exceeds,

As above Shrubs proud Cedars raise their heads.

M.

Prethee what business carry’d thee to Rome,

T.

Freedom, sweet Freedom which did slowly
come:

When Winters Snow Age o’er my Beard had
strew’d,

Then Freedom all her Charming Beauty shew’d:

As Amarillis did my Court approve,

I quitted Gallatea’s Rustick Love;

Believ’t, while Gallatea me inslav’d,

I car’d not how I liv’d, nor what I sav’d;

K2 Still K2v (132)

Still from my Flock their Altar I supply’d,

With Cheese I pamper’d their ungrateful Pride;

I fill’d their Gods, and their ungodly Gut.

But never fill’d my Purse, I’m sure of that.

M.

I wonder’d Gallatea hung her head,

And to the Gods so passionately pray’d,

For whom she sav’d her fruit; her lovely Boy

Tityrus was gon, Tityrus was all her Joy.

Still as the Nymph—Come my dear Tityrus, cry’d,

The Springs and Pines dear Tityrus reply’d.

T.

What should I do? I cou’d no freedom find

In any other place, nor Heav’n so kind.

Here did I see that God of whom I spoke,

To him once ev’ry Month my Altars smoak:

Here did I Offer up my first Address,

Great my Petition and his Grace no less.

Go to your Farm said he, securely go,

There freely graze, there freely Plough and Sow.

M.

Blest be thy latter days, oh happy Swain

Why then thy Downs and Flocks to thee remain?

What K3r (133)

What tho thy lawnes do Stones and Thistles bear,

Great thy Demeans, large thy Possessions are;

No noxious Grass thy Flocks shall ever wrong,

Or make thy Ews cast their untimely young;

When they have newly yean’d, are weak and
faint,

No rot nor scabby Sheep thy Flocks shall taint;

Oh happy Swain! thou by some sacred Spring,

Or well-known shady Brook shalt sit and sing;

Till from the River side and cooling Breeze,,,

And from the Willow-blossoms murmuring Bees;

Invite thy drousie head to gentle sleep.

Soft as thy Musick, as the Fountain’s deep;

Nor yet is Myco wanting; t’other way,

He prunes, and sings, and so he spends the day;

While there the Stock-Dove, here the Turtle
moans;

And tells his Love in no unpleasing Groans;

The Stags shall therefore feed on Plains i’th’ Air,

The Fish shall be no longer Neptune’s care;

Arar K3v (134)

Arar in Parthia the Charts shall lay,

And to the German Coast Tigris convey,

Before I can forget this God of mine,

His Grace so great, his face so all Divine;

Poor we alas to scorching Lybia go,

Some to the Scythian Hills of frozen Snow,

Some are for Creet, some Hey for Britain cry’d,

Britain divided from the World beside.

Shall ever I come here again alas!

And see my Hutt, which once my Kingdom was?

Oh that i’th’ Rolls of Time there was one turn,

To bring me here to find a little Corn!

Shall these my Fallows, now so neatly laid,

Be the reward of a damn’d Veteran made?

Shall such Rogues reap, what I have sown, oh
fate!

Whither have Civil Wars reduc’d the State?

Now Melibæus to thy Nursery go,

Go dress thy Vines, graft Pears and Apples, do.

Go, go, my Goats, go straggle o’re the Plain,

You once were happy in a careful Swain:

I never K4r (135)

I never more shall see ye climb the Rock,

From Mossie grotto’s, my unhappy Flock;

No more on Thyme, or Sallow shall ye brouze,

Not mine at least, that Fate no more allows;

No more shall I in tunes my Passion tell,

Farewell my Pipe, my Flocks, my Friends farewell.

T.

Yet mayst thou rest thy self this night with
me,

Fresh grass and new-faln leaves thy Bed shall be,

I have some Apples, and some Chesnuts too,

But store of Cheese-curds, friend, and all for you:

Besides a Smoak for yonder Town does goe,

Shadows of Hills grow long, and the Sun low.

K4 On K4v (136)

On The
Death
Of The
Earl
Of
Rochester
.

By an unknown Hand.

What words, what sense, what Night
piece can express

The Worlds Obscurity and Emptiness?

Since Rochester withdrew his Vital Beams

From the great Chaos; fam’d for high Extreams

The Hero’s Talent, or in Good or Ill,

Dull Mediocrity misjudging still.

Seraphic K5r (137)

Seraphic Lord! whom Heav’n for wonders meant,

The earliest Wit, and the most sudden Saint.

What tho the Vulgar may traduce thy ways,

And strive to rob thee of thy Moral Praise?

If, with thy Rival Solomon’s intent,

Thou fin’dst a little for Experiment;

Or to maintain a Paradox, which none

Had Wit to answer but thy self alone;

Thy Soul flew higher; that strict sacred tye

With thy Creator, time was to discry.

Thus pregnant Prophets us’d uncommon ways,

Play’d their wild pranks and made the Vulgar
gaze.

Till their great Message came to be declar’d:

They sin in Types, that sin so unprepar’d.

An unexpected change attracts all Eyes,

They needs must conquer that can well surprise.

Now Lechers whom the Pox cou’d ne’r convert,

kKnow where to fix a restless rambling heart.

Drunkards K5v (138)

Drunkards whose Souls, not their sick Maws
love Drink,

Confound their Glasses, and begin to think.

The Atheist now has nothing left to say,

His Arguments were lent for sport not prey.

Like Guns to Clowns, or weapons to rash Boys,

Resum’d again for Mischief, or for noise.

The Spark cries out now e’re he is aware,

(Making a Oath a Prologue to a Prayer)

Rochester said ’twas true! it must be so!

He had no Dispensation from Below.

Thy dying words, (than thousands of Harangues,

Urg’d with grimaces, fortifi’d with Bangs

On dreadful Pulpit) have made more recant,

Than Plague, or War, or Penitential want;

A Declaration so well tim’d, has gain’d

More Proselytes than e’re thy wildness feign’d;

Mad Debochees, whom thou didst but allure

With pleasant Baits, and tempt ’em to their cure.

Satan K6r (139)

Satan rejoyc’d to see thee take his part,

His Malice not so prosperous as thy Art.

He took thee for his Pilot to convey

Those easie souls he spirited away.

But to his great Confusion saw thee shift

Thy swelling Sails, to take another drift,

With an Illustrious Train, imputed his,

To the bright Region of eternal Bliss.

So have I seen a prudent General Act,

Whom Fate had forc’d with Rebels to contract

A hated League, Fight, Vote, Adhere, Obey,

Own the vile Cause as zealously as they;

Suppress the Loyal side, and pull all down,

With unresisted Force, that propt the Crown.

But when he found out the propitious hour,

To quit his Masque, and own his Prince’s Power;

Boldly asserted his great Sovereign’s Cause,

And brought three Kingdoms to his Master’s Laws.

SONG K6v (140)

Song,
By Mr. J.W.

FAaAir Nymphs, remember all your Scorn,

Will be by time repaid,

Those Glories which that face Adorn,

And flourish like the rising Morn,

Must one day sett and fade;

Then all your cold disdain to me,

Will but increase Deformity;

When still the kind will lovely be,

Compassion is of lasting Praise,

For that’s the Beauty ne’r decays.

Are K7r (141)

Fair Nymph, avoid those Storms of Fate

Are to the cruel due,

The Powers above, tho ne’er so late,

Can be, when they revenge your hate,

As Pitiless as you.

Know, Charming Maid, those Powers Divine,

Did never such soft Eyes design,

To wrong a heart so true as mine.

The Gods who my dear flame infus’d,

Will never see it thus abus’d.

A K7v (142)

A
Poem.

Eve was the first Essay of unskilled Jove,

She Charm’d when Adam had none else to
Love,

And compass’d Mans Destruction; which in vain

Her Daughters since have labour’d to maintain.

That Jove is perfect in creating now,

By his Aminta, to our cost we know;

That easiness, diffus’d through every part,

Shews the great Art, that can conceal the Art;

That unaffected softness in her Eyes,

That Artless sweetness in her looks and voice;

Those tender words, and those bewitching smiles

That of his painful sting e’en Death beguiles.

Makes K8r (143)

Makes life steal gently off, while happy we,

Leave it before her in an Extasie;

We are in love with ruin in her Dress,

And court th’Enchantment as our happiness;

While the gay Feathers in her eyes appear,

Who can the killing end o’th’ Arrow fear?

We gaze at the bright place whence Lightning
breaks,

Till the Bolt come in gaudy fiery streaks.

Tho soft and sweet, often a Southern wind

Laden with Plagues and Pestilence we find.

Yet like a saving God-head I would be,

And take the Universal pain on me;

Deliver Mankind from a second Fall,

And be the Victim to attone for all.

TO K8v (144)

To a Vizard Masque
By the same hand.

1.

Kind thou art, Oh shining thing!

To allay the Mettal thus;

Thus to draw a Cloud between

Thy Balefull influence and us.

2.

But oh! I triumph’d much too soon,

The Lightning makes its way, and flies

On winged ruine, I’m undone

From the bright breakings of her Eyes.

3.

I know ’tis Lightning, for my heart,

Which always has resistance made,

Is broken all, tho not apart

O’th’ Scabbard touch’t, where it was laid.

4. The L1r (145)

4.

The nimble fire an entrance found,

And has so subtilly wrought my fate,

T’has left no kind confessing wound,

My wretched story to relate.

5.

That flood of Beauty who withstands,

Which pent up in so close a place,

O’reflowing all the Neighbouring Lands,

Finds passage through so small a space.

6.

So Burning Glasses do contract the Beams,

That did but gently warm before,

Kindles the Object into flames,

And feeds upon it till it is no more.

L SONG. L1v (146)

Song,
By Mr. J.W.

What are those lovely cruel Eyes to me?

Lightning that shines to kill;

Comets that bode the angry fates decree,

So wondrous bright, so wondrous cruel still:

Ah Phillis! can you have

Pow’r to destroy, and yet no will to save.

That Face, those Lips so Heavenly sweet and fair,

Alas! what do they prove

To me? to me alone, Hell and Dispair;

So curs’d is he that lives in hopeless Love:

Ill have the Gods design’d

To looks so Beautiful, thoughts so Unkind.

As L2r (147)

As thus Philander mourn’d his hopeless state,

Ah wretched Swain! said he,

Am I mark’d out to be the scorn of fate,

The only Object of her Cruelty?

Ah wretched Swain! he cry’d,

Then sigh’d away his loving Soul, and di’d.

L2 Pal- L2v (148)

Palemon, Menalcus, Dametas.
From
Virgil.

M.

Is this Dametas Melibeus Flock?

D.

No Ægons, now I look to Ægons Stock.

M.

Oh most unhappy Sheep! that jealous kind.

Lest I his Rival should more favor find.

His Passion night and day Neæra shews,

While this base Hireling hourly milks his Ewes,

Starves the young Lambs, and does the Dams
abuse.

D.

No more of that, Menalcas you are rude,

And not to be endur’d by Flesh and Blood;

You might give better Language, if you please,

No Man can bear such rude affronts as these:

I could L3r (149)

I could discover, I know what I know,

Both when, and where, and who the Spark was
too;

The Nymph I must confess saw’t with a smile,

But the He-Goats lookt all ascue the while.

M.

Then I suppose, when at friend Myco’s, I

Cut down his Vines, and spoil’d his Nursery.

D.

Or at the old Beeches, where Menalcas
you,

Ill natur’d Chit, broke Daphnis Yewen Bow;

And all the Arrows that were given him two.

You would have had ’em, and for madness cry’d,

Had you not done him Mischief, you had dy’d.

M.

What will the Master ever blush to do,

When little Hirelings thus presumptive grow!

You Rascal, did you not steal Damon’s Goat,

When Mungrel bark’d; you know? you did, I
sawt;

And when I cry’d, where runs that fellow there?

Tityrus eye the Flock, you hid for fear.

L3 D L3v (150)

D.

Shou’d he not pay me Shepherd when I
won?

I did out pipe him, that the Youth will own.

I beat him fairly, and he yielded too,

And wou’d the price of Victory forgoe;

The Goat was mine whether you know’t or no.

M.

You out-pipe him, ye Dunce, did ever
yet

You dare pretend to Pipe or Flagelet,

Such as we Artists use? I think indeed,

I’ve heard thee tooting on a jarring Reed;

Is’t not your trade at Wake or Country Fair,

To Murder Tunes as common as the Air?

D.

And say’st thou so, if’t be your Worship’s
will,

Let you and I have one fair trial of skill,

I’ll lay this Cow, she fills two pails aday,

And suckles twins, pray what is’t you dare lay?

M.

Lay Kid or Lamb, I neither will nor dare,

My Father’s strict, my step-dame most severe;

And L4r (151)

And twice a day by both they’r strictly told,

Shepherd I dare not with my Flock make bold:

But what in your own Eyes shall better be,

(Since you must play the fool and challenge me,)

I’ll lay two Beechen Bowls, of Art Divine;

Alcimidon wrought ’em, and then made ’em mine.

See how the Ivy to the Vine is laid,

To give each others Clusters welcome shade;

This is the outside Glory, look within

Two Mathematick Figures deck the Scene;

This Conon is, but who is that stands there,

Who with his staff points out the various year?

What time for sowing, what for reaping fit;

Spick and span new, they ne’re were drunk in
yet.

D.

I have two Bowls of the same kind with
thine,

The handles deckt with fragrant Jessamin;

Orpheus within does strike his Thracian Lyre,

While the Woods danc’d, and listning Beasts admire.

L4 Believe L4v (152)

Believe me, mine no Lip did e’re Prophane,

But to the Cow such trifles are but vain.

M.

You shan’t fly off, I’ll take y’at any rate,

Palemon if he please decide our Fate;

Shepherd I’ll make thee never challenge more.

D.

Why then begin, come shew the Muses
store,

I refuse no Man, good Palemon hear

This weighty Cause with an attentive ear.

Pa.

Strike up, on this green Liv’ry of the
Spring

I’ll sit and hear, while you two sit and sing;

Here the Woods blossom, and the Meadows
there,

No time so beautiful of all the year.

Dametas, You begin, Menalcas, pray

Observe to answer th’ Amœbean way,

The Muses love Alternate notes they say.

D.

With Jove begin, my Muse, give Jove his
Praise,

He loves the Lawns and listens to my Lays.

M. L5r (153)

M.

Phœbus loves me, to Phœbus I will sing,

And his loud Bays and Jacinth to him bring.

D.

With Apples Gallatea pelts her Swain,

Then runs to hide, but hopes she hides in vain.

M.

My lov’d Amyntas does his Passion own,

Diana to my Hounds is not more known.

D.

I know a Turtles Nest, and ere be long,

I will present my Mistris with the Young.

M.

’Twas all I had, ten Wildings my poor
store

I sent the Lad, to morrow I’ll send more.

D.

Oh! in what Notes my Nymph does tell
her love,

Carry, ye Winds, the tunes to th’Gods above.

M.

What boots thy Love, kind youth, if I
must yet,

While you pursue the Chace, but watch the Net?

D.

My Birth-day’s come, send me my Phillis
home,

At Ceres Feast Iola you shall come;

M.

Phillis is mine, that parting tears can tell,

Farewell she cryes, ah lovely Swain, farewell.

D. L5v (154)

D.

Winds blow down Trees, Storms lodge
whole Fields of Corn,

Wolves ruin Folds, me Amaryllis scorns.

M.

What Showers to new sown-Corn, what
Browz can be

To teeming Goats, Amyntas is to me.

D.

Pollio, my Muse, thy Rustic Song approves

His be that Heifer, since thy Notes he loves.

M.

Pollio in Epics has a skilful hand,

His be that threatning Bull that paws the Sand.

D.

Who Pollio loves, may h’ be as Pollio
great,

His Thorns bear Roses, his Oaks Honey sweet.

M.

Who hates not Bavy may on Mævy doat,

Plough with his Fox, and Milk his old He-Goat.

D.

Who Asaph, may he burn with Asaphs fire,

May Baccar guard his Brow, and Laurels deck
his Lyre.

M.

Who hates not Og, Doeg may fancy thee,

May milk his Bull, and wise as Waltham be.

D. You L6r (155)

D.

You that pick Flowers, and Strawberries,
have a care

Fly, fly, my Lads, an Adder’s lurking there.

M.

The Bank’s not safe, let not the Sheep come
nigh,

The Ram himself fell in and’s hardly dry.

D.

Tityrus, keep off the Kids from yonder
Flood,

I’ll wash ’em all my self, when I see good.

M.

Boys fly to Shades, if heat their Udders
drein,

We may ev’n milk our Ewes again in vain.

D.

How lean’s my Bull in a fat Pasture grown,

Love hath the Herd and Herdsman quite undone.

M.

Mine are meer skin and bones, without
Loves flames,

Some Magick Eye sure has bewitch’d my Lambs.

D.

Tell me, and thou shalt be my Delphick
God,

Where Heaven’s no more than just three Cubits
broad.

M. Tell L6v (156)

M.

Tell me sweet, heat, and Phillis be thine
own,

Where Flowers the Royal names of Kings do
Crown.

Pal.

Shepherd, it is not in my Power to say

Which of the two shall bear the prize away.

M.

You both shall march in Triumph o’er the
Plain,

Not only you, but ev’ry Amorous Swain;

Who Cupid’s Smiles, or Cupid’s Frowns shall dread.

Damm the Brook lads, ye have well-flow’d
the Mead.

On L7r (157)

On The
Death
Of
Famous Mr. Hobbs
OF
Malmsbury.

Is he then dead at last, whom vain report,

So often feign’d immortal in meer sport?

Whom we on Earth so long alive did see,

We thought he here had Immortality;

Or, as, like what he Writ, could not expire,

Whom all that did not love, did yet admire;

For L7v (158)

For who his Writings still accus’d in vain,

Were taught by him, of whom they did complain.

Some Authors vented have more truths, but so,

If truths they be, ’tis more than we can know;

He with such Art deceiv’d that none can say,

(If his be Errors,) where his Errors lay.

If he mistakes, ’tis still with so much wit

He Errs more pleasingly than other hitt.

For there are Counterfeits of Truth which are

In shew more truths, than truths themselves appear.

As Nature in meer sport has fram’d some Apes

Nearer to Man than some in Human Shapes;

All were by him so charmingly misled

They chose to lose the way with such a Guide.

And wander pleasantly rather than be

In the right way with duller Company:

With ill success some fond disputers strove

What Doctrine he had planted, to remove:

And L8r (159)

And justly are they blam’d; for that disease

Is ill remov’d, which more than health does please.

And who delightful Frenzies entertain,

When undeceiv’d, do of their Cure complain.

With such sweet force he does our thoughts invade

That where he cannot teach he does invade;

And we that read his writings, wish ’em true,

If we do not believe ’em to be so.

If he be in the wrong we hold it still,

Because the right appears not half so well;

And who would mend his faults must make a blot,

May be more truths, but most will like it not.

For tho fair Vertue Plato wish’d to see,

Yet Vice as fair will please no less than she.

Why are temptations names for what is ill,

But that her Charms are more prevailing still?

Or Vice call’d Pleasures, but to shew alone,

That Vice and Pleasure in effect are one;

Hence L8v (160)

Hence come our Wits to think there is no Devil,

Or if he tempter was, he was not Evil;

And finding him dress’d in a different Fashion,

According to the humour of each Nation.

And that the Indians were in this so civil

To whiten him we blacken for the Devil.

So Vice and Vertue both are our Opinion

And vari’d with the Laws of each Dominion;

To which who did conform, were understood

As their Mode differ’d, to be bad, or good.

SONG M1r (161)

A Song,
By Mrs. A.B.

While, Iris, I at distance View,

And feed my greedy eyes,

That wounded heart, that dyes for you,

Dull gazing can’t suffice;

Hope is the Food of Love-sick minds,

On that alone ’twill Feast,

The nobler part which Love refines,

No other can digest.

In vain, too nice and Charming Maid,

I did suppress my Cares;

In vain my rising sighs I stay’d,

And stop’d my falling tears;

M The M1v (162)

The Flood would swell, the Tempest rise,

As my despair came on;

When from her Lovely cruel Eyes,

I found I was undone.

Yet at your feet while thus I lye,

And languish by your Eyes,

’Tis far more glorious here to dye,

Than gain another Prize.

Here let me sigh, here let me gaze,

And wish at least to find

As raptur’d nights, and tender days,

As he to whom you’re kind.

Out M2r (163)

Out of
Horace,
Omitted in
Mr. Creech.
Ode III. Book III.

1.


The Praise of Justice, and Constancy, for these
Reasons Juno declares Romulus a God, tho Descended
from the Trojans, whom she hated for
Paris’s sake.

The Man that dares his word maintain,

To what is strictly just, and good
confin’d,

To him Seditions Rage in vain.

Nor Tyrants Threats can shake his constant
mind.

M2 Let M2v (164)

Let Auster in the Adria rave,

Let Jove, and all his Thunder threaten fear;

Nay let the Heavens fall, this brave,

Will all the broken Orb undaunted bear.

This Pollux Deifi’d, and this

Led wandring Hercules to Jove’s abode,

Where great Augustus sits in Bliss,

And takes his round of Nectar, as a God.

By this did Bacchus Tygers tame,

And force their Necks the unknown Yoak to
take;

This, this gave Romulus a Name,

That sav’d Quirinus from the Stygian Lake.

A Council of the Gods was call’d,

Where Juno sat Inthron’d to bless the day

And that the God might be Install’d,

Thus in a gracious Speech was pleas’d to say:

Troy M3r (165)

Troy, Oh ye Gods! the wicked Troy

For Fame has now expos’d my naked Shame;

Th’Incestuous Judge did once destroy,

And a strange Woman, that I hate to name.

Leomidon did some time since

Cheat the two Gods that built the wretched
Town;

Which, with the People and the Prince,

I, and the Chaste Minerva hate to own.

Now the spruce Youth to Styx is fled,

That stole his jilting Landlady away,

Priam and all his Sons are dead,

No more does Hector the brave Greeks destroy.

That War that was prolong’d by me,

Did long since end in a Victorious Peace;

I’ll now no more revengeful be,

And my inveterate Anger now shall cease.

M3 That M3v (166)

That Child which once I could not love,

Which Mars begot upon a Trojan Nun;

Shall now my gracious kindness prove;

While to the Father I resign the Son.

Let him for me drink Nectar now,

And his Celestial Throne in Peace injoy;

Thus Juno will serene her Brow,

And in the List of Gods enroll the Boy.

So long as raging Seas divide

The ruinated Troy, and rising Rome;

I grant ’em all the World beside,

And wish the Exil’d happy days to come.

So long as Beasts their Tombs shall stain,

In spight of Paris, and of Priam’s Ghost;

So long as Cubs may safe prophane

Those hated Monuments of cursed dust.

May M4r (167)

May the proud Capitol of Rome

Above the Conquer’d World advance her
head,

In Triumph may her Legions come,

And give new Laws to the poor Captive
Mede.

Rome will extend her dreadful name,

While ev’ry Barbarous Land, and Foreign
Isle,

Her Glory shall aloud proclaim,

From the Streights Mouth, e’en to the Banks
of Nile.

No Slave to Gold, which then is best

Confin’d to Earth, and Pluto’s dark Commands,

This Rome shall scorn, and never wrest

To Humane use, with Sacrilegious hands.

M4 From M4v (168)

From East to West her Arms shall flie,

To both the Poles the Romans shall be
known,

And to those distant Climes that lie

Under the torrid, and the frozen Zone.

But yet on this Romes Fate depends,

That she ben’t fond of what I did destroy,

And through Success that still attends,

Rebuild the ancient Walls of Cursed
Troy.

Troy but presume to rise again,

Again it shall a heap of Ashes prove,

While I to Plunder lead my Men,

Who am the Sister and the Wife of Jove.

Thrice let it rise to Walls of Brass,

And Phœbus build ’em too, if he so please,

Yet thrice my Greeks shall burn the Place,

Thrice lead their Women Captive o’re the
Seas.

Oh M5r (169)

Oh Stay thy flight my merry Lyre,

Where Soars my Muse, don’t thou presume
to teach

What the Gods Sing in their great Choir;

And spoil a Subject far above thy reach.

A M5v (170)

A
Description
Of
Holland.
By Mr. NEVELL.

Those wonderful Wise Men, Nick-nam’d
Antiquaries,

Who to get Maggots, do Bugger old Worlds,

Spoiling Paper to prove how this and that varys,

Bring in to bear witness, some musty Records;

In all that they scatter

Of former and latter,

Makes only this clear, they know nothing o’th’
matter,

And M6r (171)

And Erasmus’s Statue, or Brass Rotterdamus,

Has more Sense than the best of that Tribe you
can name us.

Now I guess some old Fellow, that’s given to
poring,

Will wipe his Back-side with my Ballad in
Spight,

And swear I’m some Rhimer delighted in Whoring,

And a thousand to one in that he’s in the right.

But e’re he do so,

I’d have him to know,

It is for my own sake, not his what I do;

For being by Fate cast on Shore upon no Land,

I’m passing my time under Water in Holland.

Then not to be Idle, while here I am Smwimming,

I make observations on my fellow Fish,

And weighty Remarques of Antiquity bring in,

As useful as Cambden, that’s not worth a rush.

The M6v (172)

The Original Cause

Of their Customs and Laws,

And whence comes their Language, as sure as
Jack-Daws;

Such Wisdom will prove, tho ’twere before a
King,

Cut out for a Scholar, tho spoil’d in the making.

Then first I observe from the French-Man Des
Cartes
,

Men in the beginning like Cabbages grew;

You may say this Quotation not worth a F――rt is,

Tho he knew it as well as my self to be true;

But when all is done,

’Tis as clear as the Sun,,

That Dutch-Men had that beginning, or none;

For like Pumpkins, I tell you, they grew out of
Bogs,

And learnt their first words from the croaking of
Frogs.

Should M7r (173)

Should no other Nation Plant Men in their Sisters,

They wou’d not be reckon’d amongst Flesh
and Blood,

Nor would have more Bones than our Colchester
Oisters;

For Dutch-men at first were huge skins of
Mud;

At the top of which lay

Some Froth of the Sea,

Which harden’d to Brains, as Curds come from
Whey.

Which loosen’d at Bottom, away they did go,

Just such thinking Giants as Boys make of Snow.

You may wonder a little how I came to know it,

But wonder’s a sign of Ignorance still,

The Records of Nature, their Bodies, do shew it,

As he that goes there may know if he will;

And perhaps I might

Prove Hobbs in the right,

That Mankind by Nature wou’d fall to’t and
Fight,

For M7v (175174)

For these things no sooner each other did see,

But with Lobsters Claws they began Snicker Snee.

That Love and good Nature some Strangers bring
hither.

With all their Arts they cou’d never inspire,

For Guelt their sole God, they would hang their
own Father,

And Starving (if poor) would not make
him a fire.

The first word they spoke,

(Or rather did Croke,)

And their last to, was Guelt, which they throatled
i’th’ Throat,

All their Life-time a Bee’s not more busie for Honey,

Than they are for raking and scraping for Money.

For that, or for nothing at first they united,

Religion so talk’d of ’s the least of their care,

For’t being too costly they Popery slighted,

And wish’d, might they get by’t, the Alcoran
there;

They M8r (174175)

They count it no Sin,

To deny Christ agen,

As they did at Japan, so more Guelt it brought
in.

As Money at first did bring ’em together,

By Nature it keeps there a true State of War,

A Son will make nothing to Cudgel his Father,

For spending more of it than comes to his
share.

The Husbands and Wives,

Will out with their Knives,

And for keeping the Guelt will seek each others
Lives;

So they only ingender when Nature commands,

And feel no Affection altho P――o stands.

Yet heated with Brandy they sometimes do Fumble,

In the Sluce of that Bog, call’d the Belly of
Spouse,

Where Haunces in Kelder with Sooterkins tumble,

Sweet Babies like Pigs got by Stove on their
Sows;

For M8v (176)

For with Dildo of fire

They stir up desire,

And draw out the Water, or make it retire,

But for which invention of Ewfrows contriving,

The Sport might be better call’d Smimming than
S――ing.

I strove to discover the Freedom some prate on,

But with all my searching the Devil a bit,

Except it be this, that a Tapster may beat one,

That will not t’an all-to-mall reckoning submit;

The Schellums impose,

Both for Victuals and Cloaths,

For they hate all good dressing, as Quakers do
Oaths;

As for a good Suit, if you’ll wear one, you may,

But fifty per cent it will cost ev’ry day.

That N1r (177)

That ’tis a Republick can’t be forgotten,

’Tis felt in the Monstrous Excises they raise,

Which keeps their Poor empty, like Herrings shotten,

For they Tax ’em, the Devil knows how many
ways;

Not the Kermilk they eat,

Which is their best meat,

Nor their Water bewitch’d, but pays half to the
State;

Oh may all Phanaticks run mad their own way,

That for such Mock-freedoms, as freely will pay.

Their Government tho, thanks some Politick
Neighbours,

With much ado makes a Shift for to stand,

Yet sure ’t has been more than Hercules Labours,

So long to keep twisted a meer Rope of
Sand,

N Where N1v (178)

Where Fish-wives dare prate

Of matters of State,

And no Man is safe whom the Rabble does
hate,

A spreading Infection, which threatens undoing

To some, who too often have kept them from
ruine.

SONG N2r (179)

Song,
From the French.

The other day a fair yong Maid,

Who in a Neighb’ring Cottage dwells,

Beneath the Shade was sleeping laid,

To a soft Fountans mumuring Rills;

Her Robe was thin, and did discover

Enough to tempt the gazing Lover,

Which Am’rous ruffling Winds did move,

Discovering not in vain, the Throne of Love:

I need not tell you what they did,

Since Modesty such Tales forbid,

Without my aid you may presume,

That Silvia had a pleasant Dream.

She waking blush’d, and wou’d have fled;

But I retain’d her on the Grassie Bed,

While I her Pardon did implore,

By oft repeating what we’d done before.

N2 ECLOGUE. N2v (180)

Eclogue,
By Mr. J.W.

Hapless Philaster in a Midnight Shade,

More dark and horrid by his Sorrows
Made;

And yet as if too light for his Black thought,

The thickest Covert of the Forrest sought.

Where laid on the old Turf he seem’d to have

The nearest Bed to his desired Grave;

Silent as that, was then and there, the night,

And his Tyrannic Stars were all the light;

In this sad state thus the unhappy Swain,

All drown’d in tears did to himself complain;

“Wretched Philaster! to all griefs betray’d,

Whose past delights are double sorrows made;

Had N3r (181)

Had I ne’re seen Astels lovely face,

Or in her favor never had a place;

Had I ne’re heard her soft charming Words,

Nor tast all the sweets her Lip affords,

I had not now been with this Hell opprest,

But in my Ignorance of Bliss been blest;

Ah! how have I transgress’d so much amiss?

What sin, what horrid Sin cou’d merit this?

Was it my Love? I had, I must confess,

Been less offensive, had my love been less;

If in true Love we any crime can find,

I am more guilty than all Humane kind:

Pardon ye Gods, and my Astella move,

Like you, to pardon the excess of Love;

Love may ferment too high, but sure that fault

Can never be above Heav’ns pardon thought.

The Gods forgive, but she alone denys,

Yet has so much of Heaven in her Eyes;

Those soft sweet looks want no Celestial Grace,

But Pity only in Philasters case;

N3 Oh N3v (182)

Oh my Divine! but too too Cruel Saint,”

Thus the sad Shepherd ended his complaint.

When lo the Deity, Queen of that Grove

Appear’d, and thus to ease his Passion strove;

“Is there no mean in Love? what Charm appears

In Grief, to Wed you thus to Groans and Tears?

Consider Shepherd how Astella goes,

Slighting your Love, and laughing at your Woes;

She scorns the tender Passion you express,

And fancies most those Swains that merit less;

The Nymph who thus unjustly false can prove,

Think her not worth your sighs, less worth your
Love.”

Slowly at this the Youth his head did rear,

And saw (unmov’d) the lovely Dryade there;

(No Beauty, tho Divine, cou’d raise surprize

In him, who once had seen Astellas eyes)

“Goddess”, said he, “(for such you needs must be,

Pity and Beauty speak Divinity;)

In joy, enjoy your ever happy Loves,

And your eternal Revels in these Groves;

Be N4r (183)

Be ever by the Sylvian Gods admir’d,

And ease with Love, those Flames by you inspir’d,”

But I alas! have such a tortured heart,

All your Divinity can no Cure impart,

Astella only has that powerful Art.

“By her I live, by her I soon shall die,

Ah would that silent hour were still more nigh;

When back to my first Clay I shall arrive,

And be no more; yet shall my Love survive.

That noble Flame, to which these tears are due,

Is as immortal, and Divine as you,

First to their Fountains shall the Rivers flow,

Turtles forget to Mourn, those Trees to grow;

Showers shall fall upwards from whence first they
came,

Ere I forget the sweet Astellas name.”

Faint were those words, but his last groans were
strong,

When Death, or something like it, stop’d his
tongue.

N4 SONG, N4v (184)

Song,
By Mr. J.H.

In Cloris all soft Charms agree,

Inchanting Humour, Powerful Wit,

Beauty from Affectation free,

And for eternal Empire fit;

Where ere she goes Love waites her Eyes,

The Women Envie, Men Adore;

But did she less the Triumph prize,

She would deserve the Conquest more.

The Pomp of Love so much prevails,

She begs, what none else wou’d deny her,

Makes such advances with her Eyes,

The Hope she gives prevents desire;

Catches N5r (185)

Catches at every trifling heart,

Seems warm with every glimmering flame,

The common prey so deads the Dart,

It scarce can pierce a noble game.

I cou’d lie Ages at her feet,

Adore her, careless of my pain,

With tender Vows her rigours meet,

Dispair, Love on, and not complain.

My Passion, from all change secure

No Favours raise, no Frowns controuls,

I any torment can indure,

But hoping with a Crowd of Fools.

HORACE N5v (186)

Horace.
Ode VI. Book III.

Of the Corrupt, and Degenerate Manners of
this Age.

1.

Rome, your Fore-fathers Sins you’ll rue,

Though you at present less the Gods
provoke,

Unless you build their Temples new,

And purge their Images from Dust and
Smoak.

2.

Your Piety your Empire gave,

From thence it sprung and took this lofty flight;

But when the Gods no Worship have,

Repeated plagues poor Italy affright.

3. Twice N6r (187)

3.

Twice did the Parthian beat our Troops,

’Cause we the Augurs and the Gods Profan’d,

And with Success he Crowns his hopes,

And larger Bracelets now adorn his hand.

4.

When Civil Wars provoke our Fate,

And Rome Assaulted Rome with fresh Alarms,

Egypt and Scythia rent the State,

That with a Fleet, and this with flying Arms.

5.

This Age, in sin now fruitful grown,

The Sacred Rites o’th’ Bed invaded first,

From thence our Miseries all have flown,

Our Line’s degenerate, and our Race accurst.

6.

A tender Girl, scarce ripe for Man,

Learns the Ionic Mien, and wanton Dance,

Her Jilting hopefully comes on,

Till Sin to full Maturity advance.

7. Then N6v (188)

7.

Then while her Husband’s at his Wine,

She to her Bullys will her Pimps dispatch,

Nor nicely in the dark assign,

Where none can see, or conscious Lamp can
watch;

8.

But call’d, in sight of Spouse she’ll go,

Whether some trifling Factor for her Wait,

Or else some Spanish Merchant, who

Will purchase his disgrace at any rate.

9.

Those Heroes ne’re from hence did spring,

That dy’d the Seas with Carthaginian Blood;

That Pyrrhus beat, and Syria’s King,

And Annibal, who long Romes terror stood.

10.

But Martial Youths, that in the Field

To exercise their Manly strength delight,

Where all the day the Spade they wield,

And carry home their Mothers Wood at Night.

11. At N7r (189)

11.

At night when Western Sun is low,

And Trees and Mountains Shadows are increast,

When the tir’d Oxen quit the Plow,

And wearied Mortals go to welcome rest.

12.

What don’t destructive time decay?

Our Fathers did their Fathers Ill exceed,

And we are grown still worse than they,

And shall yet leave a more degen’rate Breed.

TO N7v (190)

To
Lesbia,
Out Of
Catullus
.

By an unknown Hand.

Lets live, my Lesbia, while we may,

In Love let’s pass the thoughtless day;

While Impotence, and Envie rage,

In Cold Censorious Duller Age,

Yonder Sun that sets to night,

Returns to morrow with new Light;

But when once our day is done,

Our Pleasures and our Joys are flown,

One N8r (191)

One poor stroke our hearts will sever,

And we sleep, we sleep for ever,

A hundred kisses then my dear,

A thousand more, nay yet I swear,

Another thousand does remain;

Then t’ other hundred o’re again,

Then another thousand more,

Then a hundred as before;

When many thousands thus are past,

We’ll mix, we’ll shuffle ’em so at last,

That no Witch-craft blast our bliss,

When our Joys are numberless.

ON N8v (192)

On
Alexander
The
Great
.

No wonder that great Monarch did complain,

And weep there were no other Worlds to gain;

His grief and his complaints were not amiss,

H’has cause to grieve, who gains no Worlds but
this.

A O1r (193)

A
Paraphrase
On The
Lords Prayer
.
By Mrs. A.B.

Our Father,

O Wondrous condescention of a God!

To poor unworthy sinful flesh and blood;

Lest the high Mistery of Divinity,

Thy sacred Title, shou’d too Awful be;

Lest trembling prostrates should not freely come,

As to their Parent, to their native home;

O Lest O1v (194)

Lest thy incomprehensible God-head shou’d

Not by dull Man; be rightly understood;

Thou deignst to take a name, that fits our sense,

Yet lessens not thy glorious Excellence.

Which art in Heaven,

Thy Mercy ended not, when thou didst own

Poor lost and out-cast Man to be thy Son;

’Twas not enough the Father to dispense,

In Heaven thou gav’st us an Inheritance;

A Province, where thou’st deign’d each Child
a share;

Advance my tim’rous soul, thou needst not fear,

Thou hast a God! a God and Father! there.

Hallowed be thy Name,

EFor ever be it, may my Pious Verse,

That shall thy great and glorious name rehearse,

By singing Angels still repeated be,

And tune a Song that may be worthy thee;

While O2r (195)

While all the Earth with Ecchoing Heav’n shall
joyn,

To Magnifie a Being so Divine.

Thy Kingdom come,

Prepare my Soul ’gainst that Triumphant day,

Adorn thy self with all that’s Heavenly gay,

Put on the Garment, which no spot can stain,

And with thy God! thy King! and Father! Reign;

When all the Joyful Court of Heaven shall be

One everlasting day of Jubilee;

Make my Soul fit but there to find a room,

Then when thou wilt, Lord let thy Kingdom
come.

Thy Will be done

With all submission prostrate I resign

My Soul, my Faculties, and Will to thine;

For thou, Oh Lord, art Holy, Wise, and Just,

And raising Man from forth the common dust,

O2 Hast O2v (196)

Hast set thy Sacred Image on his Soul,

And shall the Pot the Potters hand controul?

Poor boasting feeble Clay, that Error shun,

Submit and let th’Almighty’s Will be done.

In Earth as it is in Heaven.

For there the Angels, and the Saints rejoyce,

Resigning all to the blest Heavenly Voice;

Behold the Seraphins his Will obey,

Wilt thou less humble be, fond Man than they?

Behold the Cherubins and Pow’rs Divine,

And all the Heavenly Host in Homage joyn;

Shall their Submission yield, and shall not thine?

Nay, shall even God submit to Flesh and Blood?

For our Redemption, our Eternal good,

Shall he submit to stripes, nay even to die

A Death reproachful, and of Infamy?

Shall God himself submit, and shall not I?

Vain, stubborn Fool, draw not thy ruine on,

But as in Heav’n; on Earth Gods Will be done;

Give O3r (197)

Give us this day our daily Bread,

For oh my God! as boasting as we are,

We cannot live without thy heavenly care,

With all our Pride, not one poor Morsel’s gain’d,

Till by thy wondrous Bounty first obtain’d;

With all our flattered Wit, our fanci’d sense,

We have not to one Mercy a pretence

Without the aid of thy Omnipotence.

Oh God, so fit my soul, that I may prove

A pitied Object of thy Grace and Love;

May my soul be with Heavenly Manna fed,

And deign my grosser part thy daily bread.

And forgive us our Trespasses

How prone we are to Sin, how sweet were made

The pleasures, our resistless hearts invade!

Of all my Crimes, the breach of all thy Laws

Love, soft bewitching Love! has been the cause;

O3 Of O3v (198)

Of all the Paths that Vanity has trod,

That sure will soonest be forgiven of God;

If things on Earth may be to Heaven resembled,

It must be love, pure, constant, undissembled:

But if to Sin by chance the Charmer press,

Forgive, O Lord, forgive our Trespasses.

As we forgive them that Trespass against us.

Oh that this grateful, little Charity,

Forgiving others all their Sins to me,

May with my God for mine attoning be.

I’ve sought around, and found no foe in view,

Whom with the least Revenge I would pursue,

My God, my God, dispense thy Mercies too.

Lead us not into Temptation

Thou but permits it, Lord, ’tis we go on,

And give our selves the Provocation;

’Tis we, that prone to pleasures which invite,

Seek all the Arts to heighten vain delight;

But O4r (199)

But if without some Sin we cannot move,

May mine proceed no higher than to love;

And may thy vengeance be the less severe,

Since thou hast made the object lov’d so far.

But deliver us from Evil.

From all the hasty Fury Passion breeds,

And into deaf and blinded Error leads,

From words that bear Damnation in the sound,

And do the Soul as well as Honour wound,

That by degrees of Madness lead us on

To Indiscretion, Shame, Confusion;

From Fondness, Lying, and Hypocrisie,

From my neglect of what I ow to thee;

From Scandal, and from Pride, divert my thought,

And from my Neighbour grant I covet nought;

From black Ingratitude, and Treason, Lord,

Guard me, even in the least unreverend word.

O4 In O4v (200)

In my Opinion, grant, O Lord, I may

Be guided in the true and rightful way,

And he that guides me may not go astray;

Do thou, oh Lord, instruct me how to know

Not whither, but which way I am to go;

For how should I an unknown passage find,

When my instructing Guide himself is blind.

All Honour, Glory, and all Praise be givedn

To Kings on Earth, and to our God in Heaven.

—Amen.

THE O5r (201)

The
Despair.

In a sad unfrequented Cyprus Grove,

With all the symptoms of neglected Love,

The fair Urania lay,

By a clear murmuring Rivers side,

Her tears increasing the swift tide;

With Gales of sighs I heard her say,

“Some pitying Power oh ease my smart!

Or break at once my wretched heart.”

Then still as Death the Virgin sate,

Lost in a maze of thought,

But rouzing with a sudden start,

Usher’d by a sad Groan,

In Charming sounds her Lute she taught,

Her killing grief to moan.

Thus O5v (202)

Thus sung the fair! “ye Gods it cannot be,

Amintas is not, can’t be false to me;

Amintas he, who on my panting Breast,

So oft has lean’d his sighing head,

And things so soft, so tender said,

As rob’d me of my heart, and rob’d me of my rest;

So oft he vow’d, that I believ’d,

For with that tongue the World might be deceiv’d.

He woo’d, he won with such an Art,

To Love himself unknown,

Should he the fatal way impart,

All Maids were sure undone;

Yet Heav’n to this poor Perjur’d Swain,

Grant all the blessings in your Pow’rs;

Health to his Flocks, and may no stain

Of falshood blot his much-lov’d name;

That name Urania so adores:

Give him a fairer— Nymph almost she said,

But stoping cry’d,

Give him a thousand, thousand joys beside.”

HORACE O6r (203)

Horace,
Ode XXI. Book III.


He treats Coroine, and sings the Praise of
Wine.

1.

Oh my dear Flask, of mine own year,

When Manly did the Rod and Axes bear,

Whether whining Love, or Jokes,

Or Rage, or Lust, thy Spirit provokes,

Or kindly dost with sleep our heads repair?

2.

What ever name thy Massic has,

Come down, thou wert reserv’d for Holidays;

Coroine now expecting stands,

And I attend on his Commands,

Give’s mellow Wine, whose strength its Age allays.

Shew O6v (204)

3.

Shew not his Socratic Brow,

Let him be Stoic, he’ll be merry now:

Wine, ’tis said, in former days

Oft times old Cato’s Spirit did raise,

And from the Bottle did his Vertue flow:

4.

Thou dost a gentle force commit,

To try rough Tempers, and refine their Wit;

Thou to Bacchus dost reveal

The Secrets Wise Men would conceal;

For o’er the Glass, with open hearts we sit.

5.

When Souls dejected are with Cares,

Thou dost exalt their Spirits, expell their fears;

The poor Man thou dost briskly Arm,

Who full of Wine defies all harm,

From Tyrants Frowns, and Soldiers threatning
fear.

Kind O7r (205)

6.

Kind Venus shall with Bacchus joyn,

And all the Graces Revel now in Wine;

Lamps shall lengthen wasting night,

And Tapers lend a welcome Light,

Till Morning Sun shall come himself and shine.

O7v (206)

Selinda and Cloris,
Made in an
Entertainment
At
Court.

By Mrs. A.B.

Selinda.

As young Selinda led her Flock,

Beneath the Shelter of a shaded Rock,

The Melancholy Cloris by,

Thus to the Lovely Maid did sighing cry.

Cloris.

Selinda you too lightly prize,

The powerful Glorys of your Eyes;

You O8r (207)

To suffer young Alexis to adore,

Alexis, whom Love made my slave before;

I first adorn’d him with my Chains,

He Sigh’d beneath the rigour of my Reign;

And can that Conquest now be worth your
pain?

A Votary you deserve who ne’er knew how,

To any Altars but your own to bow.

Selinda.

Is it your Friendship or your Jealousie,

That brings this timely aid to me?

With Reason we that Empire quit,

Who so much Rigour shows,

And ’twould declare more Love than Wit,

Not to recall his Vows.

If Beauty could Alexis move,

He might as well be mine;

He saw the Errors of his Love,

He saw how long in vain he strove,

And did your scorn decline;

And O8v (208)

And Cloris, I the Gods may imitate,

And humble Penitents receive, tho late.

Cloris.

Mistaken Maid, can his Devotion prove

Agreeable or true,

Who only offers broken Vows of Love?

Vows, which Selinda, are my due.

How often prostrate at my feet h’as lain,

Imploring Pity for his Pain?

My heart a thousand ways he strove to win,

Before it let the Charming Conqueror in;

Ah then how soon the Amorous heat was laid!

How soon he broke the Vows he made!

Slighting the Trophies he had won.

And smiling saw me sigh for being undone.

Selinda.

Enough, enough, my dear abandon’d Maid,

Enough, thy Eyes, thy Sighs, thy Tongue have
said,

In P1r (209)

In all the Groves, on all the Plains,

’Mongst all the Shepherds, all the Swains,

I never saw the Charms cou’d move

My yet unconquer’d heart, to Love;

And tho a God Alexis were,

He should not Rule the Empire here.

Cloris.

Then from his charming Language fly,

Or thou’rt undone as well as I;

The God of Love is sure his Friend,

Who taught him all his Arts,

And when a Conquest he design’d,

He furnish’d him with Darts;

His Quiver, and his gilded Bow,

To his assistance brings,

And having given the fatal Blow,

Lends him his fleeting wings.

Tho not a Cottage-Slave, can be,

Before the Conquest, so submiss as he,

P To P1v (210)

To Fold your Sheep, to gather Flowers,

To Pipe and sing, and sigh away your hours;

Early your Flocks to fragrant Meads,

Or cooling shades, and Springs he Leads;

Weaves Garlands, or go seek your Lambs,

That struggle from their bleating Dams,

Or any humble bus’ness do,

But once a Victor, he’s a Tyrant too.

Selinda.

Cloris, such little Services would prove

Too mean, to be repaid with Love;

A Look, a Nod, a Smile would quit that score,

And she deserves to be undone, that pays a Shepherd
more.

Cloris.

His new-blown Passion if Selindas Scorn,

Alexis may again to me return.

Selinda.

Secure thy Fears, the Vows he makes to me

I send a Present, back to thee;

Then P2r (211)

Cloris.

Then we will sing, in every Grove,

The greatness of your Mind,—

Selinda

—And I your Love.

Both.

And all the Day,

With Pride and Joy,

We’ll let the Neighb’ring Shepherds see,

That none like us,

Did e’er express,

The heights of Love and Amity;

And all the day, &c.

P2 VER- P2v (212)

Verses
Made By
Sapho,
Done from the Greek
By
Boyleau,
And from the
French
By
A Lady of Quality.

1.

Happy who near you sigh, for you alone,

Who hears you speak, or whom you smile
upon:

You well for this might scorn a Starry Throne.

To P3r (213)

2.

To this compar’d the Heavn’ly Bliss they prove,

No Envy raises; for the Powers a Love

Ne’er tasted Joys, compar’d to such above.

3.

When ere I look on you, through every Vein,

Subtil as Lightning flies the nimble Flame,

I’m all o’er Rapture, while all over Pain.

4.

And while my Soul does in these Transports
stray,

My Voice disdains to teach my Tongue its way;

Each faculty does now its trust betray.

5.

A Cloud of wild Confusion veils my sight,

Sounds vainly strike my Ears, my Eyes the light,

Soft Languishment my Senses dis-unite,

6.

Swift trembling streight o’er all my Body flies,

Life frightned thence, Love dos his place supply,

Disorder’d, Breathless, Pale, and Cold, I die.

P3 HORACE P3v (214)

Horace,
Ode XXV Book III.

Warm with Wine, he resolves to sing the Praise
of Augustus.

Whether Bacchus full of thee,

Oh Whether Bacchus wilt thou ravish me?

To what Grove, or Laune must I,

Thus hurried on, by Inspiration fly?

To what Cell shall I retire,

To raise great sar to the Heav’nly Quire?

I will sing what’s great and new,

What never any Roman Lyre yet knew;

Thus do’s Enias awake,

And think to view cold Thrace, and Hebers Lake;

When P4r (215)

When but in a Trance she goes,

O’er Frozen Hills and Rodopeian Snows,

Oh how this my wonder moves,

To see these Rocks and solitary Groves!

Powerful God! at whose commands

Trees are Torn up by th’ Roots, by Womens
hands,

Lofty strains my Song shall be,

I’ll sing what’s great, and what is worthy thee;

Lead on Bacchus, now lead on,

I’ll follow thee, what danger e’er I run.

P4 A P4v (216)

A
Pindaric
To Mr. P. who sings finely.
By Mrs. A.B.

Damon, altho you waste in vain,

That pretious breath of thine,

Where lies a Pow’r in every strain,

To take in any other heart, but mine;

Yet do not cease to sing, that I may know,

By what soft Charms and Arts,

What more than Humane ’tis you do,

To take, and keep your hearts;

Or P5r (217)

Or have you Vow’d never to wast your breath,

But when some Maid must fall a Sacrifice,

As Indian Priest prepare a death,

For Slaves t’addorn their Victories,

Your Charm’s as powerful, if I live,

For I as sensible shall be,

What wound you can, to all that hear you, give,

As if you wounded me;

And shall as much adore your wondrous skill,

As if my heart each dying Note cou’d kill.

And yet I should not tempt my Fate,

Nor trust my feeble strength,

Which does with ev’ry softning Note abate,

And may at length

Reduce me to the wretched Slave I hate;

Tis strnaange extremity in me

To venture on a doubtful Victory,

Where if you fail, I gain no more,

But P5v (218)

But ’twill certain comfort bring,

If I unconquer’d do escape from you;

If I can live, and hear you sing,

No other Forces can my Soul subdue;

Sing Damon then, and let each Shade,

Which with thy Heavenly voice is happy made,

Bear witness if my courage be not great,

To hear thee sing, and make a safe retreat.

SONG P6r (219)

A Song,

Francellias heart is still the same,

Cold and hard as Winter Morning,

While my heart is always Burning,

But no frowns, or smiles can ever

Warm her Ice, or cool my Feaver.

How oft the Wood-Nymphs, Shades and Springs,

All the Meads, the Groves, and Fountains,

All the Rivers, Plaines, and Mountains,

Heard my sighs when e’er I named her,

And the Eccho’s seem’d to blame her.

Set by Mr. Porter.

SONG, P6v (220)

Song,

Know Astreas, time has wings

Swift as thought, or rays of light,

Let us then use the hours he brings,

While they’re here in soft delight;

The Mornings up, see where the Shepherd leads

His curled Flocks, into the Flowry Meads;

Then you’ll see him streight retire,

(When the days increasing fire

Burns the Fields,) into the Grove,

Where in his soft retreat,

He’ll cool his own and the days heat,

In some willing Virgins Love.

Let our Envy then pursue

Their Enjoyment all alone,

And use the happy Minutes too,

In kind Love that’s posting on;

Let P7r (221)

Let us repent, my Fair, we made not ours

The moments lost, and catch the coming hours,

Which we’ll wast in wanton kisses,

Conquer’d with the shades of night,

We’ll lie on fragrant Beds

Of Flowers, where the Lilly sheds

Odors to increase delight.

ODE P7v (222)

Ode XXVII. Book III.

He disswades Gallatea from going to Sea,
from the Example of Eropa.

1.

The Wicked Men a Journey make,

The chat’ring Pye her flight shall take,

A Bitch with Whelps shall be their Guide,

And Wolves and Foxes cross their way beside.

2.

A Snake shall fly like firy Dart,

And fright their Horse and make him start;

But now for whom shall Horace fear,

Or play the Augur with a provident care?

3.

Before the Crow come to the Fen,

And foretell Storms to cunning Men,

I the Prophetick Bird will rouze,

And to the East direct my early Vows.

4. Live P8r (223)

4.

Live, my dear, where e’er you be,

Still happy, and still kind to me,

No Amorous Rook shall thee come near,

No Pye create my Gallatea’s fear.

5.

But see Orion goes to set,

And threatens raging Winds and Wet,

What Adria is, I know and dread,

Calabrian Calms do ofttimes Storms precede.

6.

May the unlucky rising Kid,

Over Enemies Wives and Children speed,

On foaming Seas, that rage and rave,

While the Shores tremble at each breaking Wave.

7.

So once Europa needs would ride,

And did the Treacherous Bull bestride;

But when the Waves, and Monsters plaid,

The daring Nymph began to be afraid.

8. Thus P8v (224)

8.

Thus She, that picking Flow’rs of late,

To Crown the Nymphs i’th’ Meadows sate,

In a Star-light night, can now

See nought, but Heaven above, and Seas below.

9.

But when she came to th’ Isle of Crete,

Made by a hundred Cities great,

Father said that Wicked I

Should that dear name, and my own duty flye!

10.

Oh whence, Oh whether am I fled!

One Death can’t salve a Maiden-head;

Am I awake, and thus defil’d?

Or is my Innocence by Dreams beguil’d?

11.

Dreams that through Gates of Ivory come,

Which Dreams tho vain are troublesom,

What was best to cross the Main,

Or pick the new-blown Flowers upon the Plain.

12. Oh Q1r (225)

12.

Oh would that wicked Bull were here!

Now when my rage exceeds my fear,

I’d scratch his horns, and break his pate,

Whom I, alas, so dearly lov’d of late.

13.

Impudent Wench, that dar’d to fly,

That dar’d to sin, yet fear to die!

If any God vouchsafe to hear,

Oh that I naked among Lyons were.

14.

Before my Beauty fade away,

Before my tender Youth decay,

I wish, i’th’Pride of all my Charms,

To be embrac’d in a fierce Tygers Arms.

15.

Base Coward, does her Father cry,

Thou wishest Death, yet dar’st not die,

See here’s thy Girdle, there’s a Tree,

This fit to hang, and that to strangle thee.

Q 16. Or Q1v (226)

16.

Or if those Cliffs do rather please,

Hence thou maist headlong reach the Seas,

Unless thou’dst basely sit and spin,

And a Kings Daughter stoop to Concubin.

17.

Thus did the wretched Nymph complain,

Nor were her sighs and tears in vain,

Dame Venus smiling came along,

Leading young Cupid, with his Bow unstrung.

18.

When she a while had laugh’d and droll’d,

Peace, Nymph, said she, fie, do not scold,

This hated Bull shall come and stand,

And let thee stroke him, till thou tire thy hand.

19.

What! know’st thou not thou’rt Wife to Jove?

Come do not sigh, nor sob my Love;

Learn, learn to bear thy state for shame,

One part o’th’ World shall bear Europa’s name.

FROM Q2r (227)

From
Horace.
Ode IV. Book IV.

The innate Valour of Noble Bede, which is yet
improv’d by Education, in the Example of
Drusus, and Tiberius, under the Discipline
of Augustus.

1.

As the young Eagle that Joves Thunder
bears,

And of all Birds the name of Monarch wears,

Because she safe convey’d the Boy,

Fair Ganymed, the lovely Prince of Troy.

2.

Her innate spirit, and growing courage drove

Out of her Nest, unfledg’d, into the Grove,

Where she as winds did gently blow,

First learn’d to flye, flut’ring from bough to bough.

Q2 3. Then Q2v (228)

4.

Then by degrees did stop to make her prey,

Now Sheep-folds to her Tallons Tribute pay,

Nor Dragons scape, that come in sight,

Some fall for love of prey, and some for flawed-reproduction1 word

5.

Or as a Kid in the rank Pasture spies,

A Lions Whelp, and from his Fury flies,

That now with rage pursues his game,

Because he must no longer suck his Dam.

6.

Such did the Rhætians, and Bavarians see

Drusus engage, and routed Armies flee;

I ne’er intend to ask my Muse,

Why these the Amazonian ax do use.

7.

None may know all, this once Victorious foe,

By Drusus tam’d, does by experience bow,

How breeding betters Royal Blood,

How great Augustus Soul animates young Boys to
good.

8. The Q3r (229)

8.

The Valiant propagate their Valiant Seed,

The Bull, and Horse follow their generous breed,

And no Records of time can prove,

That e’er the Eagle bred a tim’rous Dove.

9.

Yet Discipline a native Vertue mends,

And from th’ Assaults of Vice the heart defends;

If Virtue once to Vice give place,

Base Actions do Ennobled Blood debase.

10.

What then, O Rome! do’st to thy Neroes owe

Metaurus Streams, and Asdrubal can shew;

Oh happy was that glorious day,

When the insulting African gave way.

11.

When Annibal from Town to Town did run,

Swift as the rapid Flames fly burning on,

Or the more Rapid Wind, that storms and raves,

When Eurus rides o’er the Sicilian Waves.

Q3 12. Hence Q3v (230)

12.

Hence Rome enjoy’d a more propitious fate,

And wisht Success did on our Ensignes wait;

Our Gods more kind in Temples are,

Which were demolish’d in that Barbarous War.

13.

In this Perfidious Annibal spoke true,

We are, said he, like Dears, who Wolves pursue;

We hasten Fate, like mad-men die,

Force Fight on them, ’twere Victory to fly.

14.

A People, that when Troy was laid in dust,

By Tempest on the Tyrrhen Ocean tost;

Their Sons, their Fathers, and their Gods

Brought to th’ Ausonian Coast to seek abodes.

15.

A People, that as Palmes, the higher grow,

Being lop’d and prun’d, and thrive by ev’ry blow

Are made by their own ruine great,

By Fire, and Sword, and Ship-wreck grown compleat

16. So Q4r (231)

16.

So Hidra from her wounds still stronger grows,

And still new heads did Hercules oppose;

Such Monsters once at Colchos grew,

And such a Crop at Thebes once Cadmus knew.

17.

Sink ’em, they’l rise more glorious and great,

Beat ’em, when routed they’l the Conqu’rors beat;

They’l fight to Triumph when undone,

And their Wives boast the Fields, their Husbands
won.

18.

To Carthage I no more proud Post shall send,

Our Punic Victories are at an end;

The Fortune of our Arms is fled,

Fled all our hopes, since Asdrubal is dead.

19.

There’s nothing can the Claudian Force abide,

When Jove himself declares on Nero’s side;

Or Force, or Stratagem is vain,

Their prudence will an easie Triumph gain.

Q4 ON Q4v (232)

On The
Miraculous Escape
Of His
Royal Highness,
Going into
Scotland
By
Sea.
By Mr. E.A. M.A.

Shall Heav’n in vain his great Credentials
give,

And Faithless he still scruple to believe?

Shall more than common proofs assert his Right,

While we alike ’gainst Truth and Justice fight?

And Q5r (233)

And that great Prince from future Crowns debar,

Whose wondrous Scapes shew him preserv’d to
wear;

Can we forget that sad and tedious while,

That home-bred Malice kept him in Exile,

And made him rather venture on the doom

Of Foreign than Usurping Pow’rs at home,

Whose swelling Rage, within no bounds content,

Envy’d his Liberty of Banishment.

Adnd had not Strangers been more Just and Brave,

Had made his Sanctuary become his Grave;

But Providence, which saw how they wou’d need

That Hero’s help, whom they had doom’d to bleed,

Preserv’d him to defend, and bless their Land,

If they the Blessing could but understand;

And tho our Foes aim’d at his Life alone,

(Knowing all ours concentred in that one)

Some secret power Deaths Messenger mislead,

And turn’d their Fury from his Royal Head;

So Q5v (234)

So that untoucht this stately Cedar stood,

Whilst Lightning blasted all the under-wood.

But as if Fate by saving did intend

To bring him to a more ignoble end,

And ruine him by those he did defend;

Ungrateful we abuse that purchas’d Peace,

And wanton grown with Pleasure and with Ease,

Wou’d now Exclude him that Paternal Throne,

Which next great Charles he ought to sit, or none

To raise the Peoples Idolized Son.—

So once the true and Sacred Worship fear’d,

When such great Nothings were at Bethel rear’d;

But Heav’n who knew his Cause to be its own,

Since Princes Rights depend on Heav’n alone,

Has pleaded, and appear’d for both in one;

And made that rage, which did his Reign oppose,

His best preservative against his Foes;

And that throughout the World it might be heard,

How much he was by Providence indear’d,

It Q6r (235)

It left its Favourites to the Sea expos’d,

With Deaths as numerous as those waves inclos’d,

Deaths which to him, and such as he might
want,

But to no other wou’d a Pass-port grant;

To shew by this one Act, so far from Chance,

Its great Concern for his deliverance;

So our Bless’d Lord did not his Lazarus save,

Till he was near corrupting in the Grave,

That by his grief, the life he did restore,

Might seem more valu’d, and the wonder more.

But tho preserv’d for Heavens immediate sake,

His Life’s a Blessing, which we all partake,

And ought in Votive Tables to express

The mighty Favor, and the Happiness;

And so we will: but what have we to Vow?

Since more alas! than we can give, we owe.

But ’tis not all the worth of Sacrifice,

But the sincere design that Heav’n does prise;

Then Q6v (236)

Then since no more’s requir’d, let us bring

Of what we have, a chearful Offering;

And if the Scepter which great CHARLES
did Sway,

Shou’d want his hand, (but far be that sad day)

Then we in Vows of Loyalty must pray,

And Heavens great pleasure in his Power obey.

FROM Q7r (237)

From
HORACE,
A
Secular Poem:
A
Hymn
To

Phœbus and Diana,

For the Prosperity of the
Roman Empire.

1.

Phœbus, and thou great Goddess of the Skies,

Whose Altars dully smoak with Sacrifice,

O grant us what we humbly pray,

On this your Solemn Holiday!

When Q7v (238)

When the old Sybills gave a strict command,

That untouch’d Boys, and Virgins hand in hand

Should sing a Hymn to those kind Powers,

That love our Hills, and guard our Towers.

2.

Great Sol who dost both night and day divide,

Who daily new, do’st still the same abide;

May you ne’er see, where e’er you come,

A Town more Great than Mighty Rome.

Gentle Diana, tho thy self a Maid,

Thou giv’st all Travelling Wombs a timely aid;

Oh save our Mothers by thy care,

So Luna, or Lucina hear.

3.

Encrease our Progeny, confirm all Laws

That do concern the Matrimonial Cause;

Let no Decree o’th’ Senate die,

That does invite to Multiply;

And Q8r (239)

And when twice Fifty years do end their date,

Rome shall these Hymns and solemn Plays repeat;

Three following Suns shall see these Rites

That are renew’d, the following Nights.

4.

Ye Fates, whose sacred truths command our Aw,

Let what’s decreed be an eternal Law;

Give to Romes Fortunes, that are past,

Supplys, that may for ever last;

May plenteous Crops and Folds the Fields adorn,

That Ceres may be Crown’d with Ears of Corn;

May wholsom Streams, and healthful Air,

Make all our Flocks look fresh and fair.

5.

Apollo now lay by thy dreadful Bow,

And hear the Lads with a smooth pleasant Brow;

Diana Queen of all the Stars,

As kindly hear the Virgins Prayers.

If Q8v (240)

If Rome was built by your Divine Command,

When the poor Trojans left their Native Land;

And long by Seas and Tempest tost,

Arriv’d on the Etrurian Coast.

6.

When through the Flames of Troy a dang’rous way,

Æneas safely did his Men convey,

And promis’d still that they should find

A better place than that behind;

Ye Gods! grant to your Youth what’s good and
great,

Not to the old and peaceful calm retreat.

Our Children and our Wealth increase,

And Rome with honour ever bless.

7.

Let Venus and Anchises Son obtain,

(Who with white Bullocks does your Altars stain)

To raise his Empire above all,

Still kind to pity those that fall;

The R1r (241)

The Mede does now already trembling stand

In fear of Rome, Potent by Sea and Land;

The Scythians now our pleasure wait,

And so the Indians did of late.

8.

Faith, Peace, and Honour, now their Rules dispense.

We’re Chaste as in the time of Innocence;

Now Vertue does the State adorn,

And Rome is bless’d with Plenty’s Horn.

If he that future doubts, knows to divide,

Whose Golden Bow does beautifie his side;

Adorn’d by the Muses, and no less

By those that skill in Herbs profess;

9.

If Phebus prosper the Palatian Towers,

Favor Rome’s Empire, and be wholly ours;

May he for ever bless the State,

And make it to all Ages great.

R Diana R1v (242)

Diana that upon the Aventine dwells,

And from Mount Algidus sweet savor smells;

The thrice fierce Priest o’th’ Sibylls hear,

And to the Boys vouchsafe an Ear.

10.

Now are we sure our Prayers to Heaven are
flown,

That Jove and all the Gods are now our own.

While we the Chorus Praises bring,

To Phœbus and Diana sing.

ON R2r (243)

On The
University
Of
Cambridge.

A
Dialogue
Between

Tutor and Pupil.
By an Unknown Hand, 1684Annnnno 84.

Pup.

Hither as to an Oracle I come

To be inform’d, and return wiser home;

For from these Walls, this Consecrated Place,

The God of Wit, to this day does not cease

R2 To R2v (244)

To th’ wondring World Precepts Divine to
give,

And teaches how to write, and teaches how to
live.

Tut.

The Place I own is much oblig’d to Fame,

Yet are its Merits great, as is its Name;

Here Wisdom, Learning, and Religion thrives,

Here happy Innocence, and Virtue lives;

Virtue that is it self its own reward,

And Innocence that never needs a Guard.

Pup.

Happy the People, and belov’d of Heav’n,

To whom this sweet, this safe retreat is given;

Free from the Noises Tumults of the Age,

Pens do their hands, and Books their minds engage;

No Faction’s known, no base Rebellion here,

But only to be wise, and loyal is their care.

Tut. R3r (245)

Tut.

Oh blest be ye indulgent Pow’rs, to you

This happy Seat, this sacred Rest we owe;

Here doth the God-like Albemarle preside,

The Muses Safety, and the Muses Pride;

They him with everlasting Praises bless,

And he secures their humble happiness.

Pup.

But he or to the Camp, or to the Court,

Zealous to serve his Prince still makes resort,

From thence by what inducements will you bring

Him, who so truly loves, and serves the King.

Tut.

His Power remote protects us from all harm,

And, like the Sun, his Beams at distance warm.

Pup.

But who deputed does the Muses sway?

Whom in his absence do the Tribes obey?

R3 Tut. R3v (246)

Tut.

They chose him freely, but repent their Choice,

Ja――s is the Man, scarce fit to Govern Boys,

And yet he seems for Majesty design’d,

And is a King, tho not in Power, in mind;

He’d Act according to his Haughty Soul,

Be absolute, and Rule without controul;

But our wise Senate did his Pride condemn,

And made him better know himself, and them;

To counter-poise the Ballance, and to set

’Gainst one great Ill, one Vertuously great.

Take him who does Divinity profess,

Whom all the glory of our Age confess,

And never satisfi’d with hearing Bless.

Beaumont, a Name the Learn’d with Reverence
know,

And scarcely more to their own Hooker owe;

’Mongst all his numerous, brave adopted Sons,

Barnes is his eldest Joy, that Barnes who moans

The R4r (247)

The Martyr’d Charles; exposes former Crimes,

And by an early care reclaims our Times;

Salisbury’s Youth, by such Instructions led,

Does in the Noblest Paths of Honour tread;

His late unhappy Fathers Fate he mourns,

And wisely from the hated Faction turns:

Manchester too, by Nature made to be

The best of Friends, or dreadful’st Enemy;

Always averse to dull indifference,

Is here at once taught Loyalty and Sense:

Add to these Heroes, one of equal worth,

Mountague, great in Learning as in Birth,

Whose early Merit just Preferment bears,

And greater Honours wait his riper years:

Next Asculapian, Goslin, Spencer, More,

The Martial Peachel, and the Learned Gower;

Men that will ne’er from threatning danger fly,

But rather than Rebel would bravely dye;

Men always ready, for the publick good,

To Sacrifice their Fortunes and their Blood;

R4 Nor R4v (248)

Nor let the Ingenious Eachard be forgot,

His Colledge interest studious to promote;

These grateful Walls will speak his deathless
Praise,

With them he does a fame more lasting raise:

Nor Exton, Exton knowing in the Laws,

And always zealous for the Royal Cause;

With these, and such as these, some hours we
spend,

True to our Prince, and Faithful to our Friend.

When weary, from our Studies we retire,

Repair lost strength, and quicken new desire,

A Generous Bottle Crowns the Chearful Board,

Sweet the Discourse, and useful every word.

Pup.

But who’s the fam’d Physician, that thought fit

To Censure Loyalty, and Noblest Wit?

Tut.

’Twas B――dy damn’d the never-dying Verse,

That Albemarl’s just Praises did rehearse;

That R5r (249)

That show’d how blest we are in Charles’s his Reign,

And sung the Rebels Fate with brave Disdain;

And so he sung, so charm’d us, that his Name

Shall ever live among the Sons of Fame,

Lasting as his, who absent Cæia Mourns,

Or his whom scornful Sacharissa burns;

They all of our great Learned Mother come,

The Ingenious Offspring of her fruitful Womb;

She Chaucer too, and Cowly first brought forth,

Before in time, but not before in worth;

In Dryden’s Mighty self she claims a part,

Tho he to Oxford has resign’d his heart;

Thebes did his green unknowing youth ingage,

But he chose Athens in his riper Age;

Not so the nobler C――on did disown

This place, for which he left the Lewder Town,

Hither retir’d, and here in studious rest,

From Vice and Folly free, is truly blest.

Pup. R5v (250)

Pup.

But must I here be to a Gown confin’d?

No other good Associate can I find,

Worthy a Mans Acquaintance? is there none

In all this numerous neighboring sparkish Town.

Tut.

Beware ah fond believing Youth! beware,

But leave these Walls, and streight you’r in a
snare;

Or to Mens Avarice you are made a Prey,

Or Womens Smiles will lead your heart astray,

Tho nothing should less tempting be than they.

One boasts that she of Noble Lineage comes,

Tho all her Race were Chamber-maids and
Grooms;

Another tho her Birth be mean, yet she

(Thanks to her Stars) has ingenuity;

And blest she is with such a Beauteous face,

So charming, so resistless, every Grace,

She’ll not to th’ proudest of her Sex give place.

A R6r (251)

A third her Portion boasts, tho few there are,

That e’er will have that Sin to answer for;

Five hundred Pounds were by her Father
left,

Got neither by Extortion, nor Theft;

Tho bare five shillings first the Villain had,

And honestly improv’d it by the Pad:

Such dirty Stuff as this, I charge ye shun,

And from the Town as from a Pest-house run;

Keep close within thy Colledg Walls, and there

Enjoy thy self, Books only be thy care,

And such few friends, by whose wise converse
you

To Man, and something more than Man may
grow.

ON R6v (252)


On The
Author
of that
Excellent Book
Intituled
The way to Health, Long
Life
, and Happiness.

By Mrs. A.B.

Hail Learned Bard! who dost thy power
dispence

And show’st us the first State of Innocence.

In that blest golden Age, when Man was young,

When the whole Race was Vigorous and Strong;

When Nature did her wond’rous dictates give,

And taught the Noble Savage how to live;

When R7r (253)

When Christal Streams, and every plenteous
Wood

Afforded harmless drink, and wholsom food;

E’er that ingratitude in Man was found,

His Mother Earth with Iron Ploughs to wound;

When unconfin’d, the spacious Plains produc’d

What Nature crav’d, and more than Nature us’d;

When every Sense to innocent delight

Th’ agreeing Elements unforc’d invite;

When Earth was gay, and Heaven was kind and
bright,

And nothing horrid did perplex the sight;

Unprun’d the Roses and the Jes’min grew,

Nature each day drest all the World anew,

And Sweets without Mans aid each Moment
grew;

Till wild Debauchery did Mens mind invade,

And Vice, and Luxury became a Trade;

Surer than War it laid whole Countrys wast,

Not Plague nor Famine ruins half so fast;

By swift degrees we took that Poison in,

Regarding not the danger, nor the sin;

Delightful R7v (254)

Delightful, Gay, and Charming was the Bait,

While Death did on th’inviting Pleasure wait,

And ev’ry Age produc’d a feebler Race,

Sickly their days, and those declin’d apace,

Scarce Blossoms Blow, and Wither in less space.

Till Nature thus declining by degrees,

We have recourse to rich restoratives,

By dull advice from some of Learned Note,

We take the Poison for the Antidote;

Till sinking Nature cloy’d with full supplys,

O’er charg’d grows fainter, Languishes and dies.

These are the Plagues that o’er this Island reign,

And have so many threescore thousands slain;

Till you the saving Angel, whose blest hand

Have sheath’d that Sword, that threatned half
the Land;

More than a Parent, Sir, we you must own,

They give but life, but you prolong it on;

You even an equal power with Heav’n do shew,

Give us long life, and lasting Vertue too:

Such R8r (255)

Such were the mighty Patriarchs, of old,

Who God in all his Glory did behold,

Inspir’d like you, they Heavens Instructions
show’d,

And were as Gods amidst the wandring
Croud;

Not he that bore th’ Almighty Wand cou’d
give

Diviner Dictates, how to eat, and live.

And so essential was this cleanly Food,

For Mans eternal health, eternal good,

That God did for his first-lov’d Race provide,

What thou by Gods example hast prescrib’d:

O mai’st thou live to justifie thy fame,

To Ages lasting as thy glorious Name!

May thy own life make thy vast Reasons
good,

(Philosophy admir’d and understood,)

To every sense ’tis plain, ’tis great, and clear,

And Divine Wisdom does o’er all appear;

Learn R8v (256)

Learning and Knowledge do support the
whole,

And nothing can the mighty truth controul;

Let Fools and Mad-men thy great work condemn,

I’ve tri’d thy Method, and adore thy Theme;

Adore the Soul that cou’d such truths discern,

And scorn the fools that want the sense to
learn.

EPI S1r (257)

Epitaph
On the Tombstone of a Child, the last of
Seven that died before.
By Mrs. A.B.

This Little, Silent, Gloomy Monument,

Contains all that was sweet and innocent;

The softest pratler that e’er found a Tongue,

His Voice was Musick and his Words a Song;

Which now each List’ning Angel smiling hears,

Such pretty Harmonies compose the Spheres;

Wanton as unfledg’d Cupids, ere their Charms

Had learn’d the little arts of doing harms;

Fair as young Cherubins, as soft and kind,

And tho translated could not be refin’d;

S The S1v (258)

The Seventh dear pledge the Nuptial Joys had
given,

Toil’d here on Earth, retir’d to rest in Heaven;

Where they the shining Host of Angels fill,

Spread their gay wings before the Throne, and
smile.

A S2r (259)

A
Pindaric
By The
Honourable
Edward Howard,
To Mrs. B.


Occasioned By a Copy she made
On His
Play,
Called

The New Eutopia.

1.

That Gift, which late you did bestow

Upon a Hapless Play,

The Bounties of your Wit does shew,

Flowing in numbers of your Verse,

Which like Rich Ornaments you cast away,

T’adorn some undeserving Herse,

S2 Which S2v (260)

Which by Decree of Fate does fall

Into Deaths Arms, tho by a rude and hasty Funeral.

2.

Your Wit, ’tis true, may well reprieve,

What the less knowing can condemn,

And Faction just Correction give,

Should its bold Tongue your Muse Blaspheme;

Tho ’tis too much in this you write,

To seem to blush in black and white,

Which were ingratitude in me to blame,

Since I must glory in your gift of Fame;

As who would not of Death Ambitious be,

If after he might boast to live,

When Wit, and Beauty, both agree

To Epitaph his Memory.

3. Fortune S3r (261)

3.

Fortune in wit prevails much more

Than all its Charms and Arts,

As some by chance, or trick do better start,

Than they who run with skill and force,

Where vigorous Spirit does maintain the course,

Which your Muse justly might deplore,

If scantily applauded of deserts;

Tho its bright Triumphs to you bring

Such Glorys, never any she could sing;

While from the Copies of your wit and face,

The Nine must their own Beauteous Figures
grace.

4.

Would I implore again my hapless Muse,

Invited by the Charms of yours,

Themes of your Wit I were oblig’d to chuse,

Ennobling thence my more ignoble Pow’rs;

But since that Object is too great,

I needs must yield to my defeat,

Or Victory that’s gotten by retreat;

S3 To S3v (262)

To most, successful wit

Proves like some Feaverish fitt,

Who has a cold one near attending it.

5.

’Tis not the Vote, nor Faction of the Town,

That shall (if you approve) condemn my
Pen,

Your Muse instructs the knowing part of
Men;

But I my humble thoughts lay down,

With such submission, as you make

The Captives, which your Wit and Beauty
take;

Yet dare not farther either hope or own.

EPI- S4r (263)

Epilogue
To The

Jealous Lovers.
By Mrs. Behn, in 16821682.

And how, and how Mesieurs! what do
you say

To our good Moderate, Conscientious Play?

Not Whig, nor Tory, here can take Offence;

It Libels neither Patriot, Peer, nor Prince.

Nor Shrieve, nor Burgess, nor the Reverend Gown,

Faith here’s no Scandal worth eight hundred
pound;

Your Damage is at most but half a Crown:

S4 Only S4v (264)

Only this difference you must allow,

’Tis you receive th’ Affront and pay us too,

Wou’d Rebell Ward had manag’d matters
so.

Here’s no Reflections on Damn’d Witnesses,

We scorn such out-of-Fash’on’d-things as these;

They fail to be believ’d, and fail to please.

No Salamanca Doctor-ship abus’d,

Nor a Malicious States-man here accus’d;

No Smutty Scenes, no intrigues up Stairs,

That make your City Wives in Love with Players.

But here are fools of every sort and Fashion,

Except State-Fools, the Tools of Reformation,

Or Cullys of the Court-Association.

And those Originals decline so fast,

We shall have none to Copy by at last;

Here’s Jo, and Jack a pair of whining Fools.

And Ligh and I brisk Lavish keeping Fools.

He’s for Mischief all, and carry’s it on

With Fawne and Sneere, as Jilting Whigg has done.

And like theirs too his Projects are o’rethrown.

OVID S5r (265)


Ovid to Julia.
A
Letter,
By an Unknown Hand.

Fair Royal Maid, permit a Youth undone

To tell you how he drew his Ruin on;

By what degrees he took that Poison in,

That made him guilty of Promethius sin;

Who from the Gods durst steal Cœestial fire,

And tho with less success, I did as high aspire.

Oh why ye Gods! was she of Mortal Race?

And why ’twixt her and me, was there so vast a
space?

Why was she not above my Passion made

Some Star in Heaven, or Goddess of the Shade?

And S5v (266)

And yet my haughty Soul cou’d ne’er have
bow’d

To any Beauty, of the common Crowd.

None but the Brow, that did expect a Crown

Cou’d Charm or Awe me with a Smile, or
Frown;

I had the Envy of th’ Arcadian Plains,

Sought by the Nymphs, and bow’d to by the
Swains;

Where I pass’d, I swept the Fields along,

And gather’d round me all the gazing throng:

In numerous Flocks and Herds I did abound,

And when I spread my wanton wishes round,

They wanted nothing but my being Crown’d.

Yet witness all ye spightful Powers above,

If my Ambition did not spring from Love!

Had you my Charming Julia been less fair,

Less Excellent, less Conqu’ring than you are,

I had my Glorious Loyalty retain’d,

My Noble Blood untainted had remain’d,

Witness S6r (267)

Witness ye Groves, witness ye Sacred Powers!

Ye shaded Rivers Banks, and Beds of Flowers,

Where the expecting Nymphs have past their
hours.

Witness how oft, all careless of their Fame,

They languish’d for the Author of their flame,

And when I came reproach’d my cold reserve;

Ask’d for what Nymph I did my Joys preserve?

What sighing Maid was next to be undone?

For whom I drest, and put my Graces on?

And never thought, (tho I feign’d every proof

Of tender Passion) that I lov’d enough.

While I with Love’s variety was cloy’d;

Or the faint pleasure like a Dream injoy’d.

’Twas Julia’s brighter Eyes my soul alone

With everlasting gust, could feed upon.

From her first bloom my Fate I did pursue,

And from the tender fragrant Bud, I knew

The Charming Sweets it promis’d, when it Blew.

This gave me Love, and ’twas in vain I try’d

The Beauty from the Princess to divide;

For S6v (268)

For he at once must feel, whom you inspire,

A soft Ambition, and a haughty fire,

And Hopes the Natural aid of young desire.

My unconsidering Passion had not yet

Thought your Illustrious Birth for mine too great,

’Twas Love that I pursu’d, vast Love that leads

Sometimes the equall’d slave, to Princes Beds.

But I forgot that Sacred Flame must rest

In your bright Soul, that makes th’ Adorer blest;

Your generous fire alone must you subdue,

And raise the Humbler Lover up to you;

Yet if by Chance m’ Ambition met a stop,

By any thought that check’d m’ advancing hope,

This new one straight would all the rest confound,

How ev’ry Coxcomb aim’d at being Crown’d;

The vain young Fool with all his Mothers parts,

(Who wanted wit enough for little Arts,)

With Crowds, and unmatch’d nonsense, lays a
claim

To th’ Glorious title of a Sovereign;

And S7r (269)

And when for Gods such wretched things set up,

Was it so great a crime in me to hope?

No Laws of Heaven, or Man my Vows reprove;

There is no Treason in Ambitious Love.

That Sacred Antidote, i’th’ poison’d Cup,

Quells the Contagion of each little drop,

I bring no Forces, but my sighs and tears,

My Languishments, my soft complaints and Pray’rs,

Artillery which I ne’r sent in vain,

Nor Sail’d where e’er address’st, to wound with
pain:

Here, only here! rebated they return,

Meeting the sollid Armour of your Scorn;

Scorn! By the Gods! I any thing could bear,

The Rough Fatigues and Storms of dangerous
War;

Long Winters Marches, or the Summer heat,

May even in Battel, from the Foe defeat;

Scars on my face, Scars, whose dull recompence,

Would ne’er attone, for what they rob from
thence.

Scandal S7v (270)

Scandal of Coward, nay half witted too,

Or siding with the Pardon’d Rebell Crew;

Or any thing but scorn,—and yet frown on,

Your Slave was destin’d thus to be undone.

You the Avenging Deity appear,

And I a Victim fall to all the injur’d Fair.

A S8r (271)

A
Warning
To
Lovers.

How Men may be wiser than their Fore-Fathers.
Made by a Gentleman in Bethlehem.

When you this Title read, I know you’l
ask

Who ’tis that undertakes this weighty task?

Know then, ’tis I my self, thus boldly dare!

And now you are no wiser than you were,

Nor shall you be for me; for know, I prize,

At something higher rate than so, my Eyes:

For shou’d the Women know me, without doubt,

In Malice, and revenge, they’d scratch ’em out.

Take, S8v (272)

Take, if you will, for nothing, my advice,

If you won’t, chuse, I’ll ne’er ask you twice;

Contemn that gaudy Mischief, Woman-kind,

Insatiate as the Sea, false as the Wind;

Set out for Ruin, in gay flatt’ring Forms,

But rude, and as destructive too as Storms;

Ungenerous Cowards all, and do maintain

(As Cowards do, by lyes and Frauds,) a Name

Of their false Honour, here’s the only test;

She that deceives you most, and jilts you best,

Sets up for Fame and Honour ’bove the rest;

Or she the most convenient Coxcomb finds,

Whom his own Folly, not her Conduct blinds.

This passes for discreet, because she can

Delude so long the doating keeping Man;

While the unthinking World mistakes the Cheat;

’Tis he’s a Block-head, and not she a Wit.

Here a great Lord, imagin’d wise and nice

Thinks long-kept Phillis chaste, as untouch’d ice;

The T1r (273)

The Beauty, and the Vertue of the Town,

To whom each Sonnet-making Fop is known,

Of whom each scowring Spark is weary grown;

While she retains the necessary Tool,

Not ’cause she’s Honest, but that he’s a Fool.

From the beginning, Men were Jilted all,

Witness our first, our wise Original.

Adam, to satisfie a Womans Lust,

T’ himself, and to his Heirs, was so unjust,

He sold the most intire, and blest Estate,

That Man e’er lavish’d, at the poorest rate;

A trifling Apple; rather for a Core,

The Jilt had eat the best of it before;

And He, whom Heaven had made so Great and
Wise,

Was Cully’d out of Glorious Paradice.

David was Pious, Wise, and Stout, yet
see,

No Man was madder for a Wench than he;

T A T1v (274)

A Loyal Subject’s Faith he thus repay’d,

First gave him Horns, and then his Life betray’d

For a vain peevish Woman; by your Leave;

Great Sir, this was to play both Fool and Knave.

King Solomon I find, in Holy Writ,

Cry’d up for Mighty Parts, for wondrous Wit;

Yet he to Women wholly bent his Mind,

Passion, that worst of Errors, struck him blind;

For Faithless Beauty, Heaven he did defie,

And gave a loose to Love, and to Idolatry;

The Petticoat did make this wond’rous Man,

For all his Wisdom, put the Fools-coat on.

Sampson made Foxes, (by a subtil
slight)

His Enemies, for all his wrongs, requite;

And he mow’d down two, as the Story goes,

With th’ Jaw-bone of an Ass, a thousand foes;

Yet Woman, who’s a thing more trivial far

Than that Jaw-bone, o’ercame this Man of War;

His T2r (275)

His Passion all his Secrets open laid,

And by a Whore the Heroe was betray’d.

Susanna’s Judges did deserve to die,

For their fond Doatage, not their Perjury;

For since they did but ’gainst a Woman swear,

By Heaven, ten groats apiece was too severe;

But since fond Love was itching in their Blood,

Damn the old Fops, a Halter was too good.

Paris the Gods themselves esteem’d so
wise,

They made him Judge between three Deities;

They bribe him high, all bribe him for the Prize:

Pallas would Wisdom, Juno Kingdoms grant,

But Venus swore a Miss he should not want;

To Charming Helen she the Swain would bring,

For whom the Youths of Greece were languishing:

Mad with his new-born hopes, her he presents,

Rewards her for the worst of Punishments;

For a false Woman, Wisdom he refus’d,

And rather than a Crown, a Wench he chus’d.

T2 The T2v (276)

The Macedonian Youth, whose Glorious Name

Stands first recorded in the Book of Fame;

He, who by Conquest all the World had won,

By Fair Destructive Woman was undone,

And all the Honours which his Youth did boast,

His Love! his damn’d bewitching Passion lost.

In a Debauch, at a lewd Whores desire,

He set the Fam’d Persepolis on Fire.

Poor Tarquin; I lament thy Fate,
’bove all,

That e’er were ruin’d thus! thy Noble Fall

Forces my tears: for tho it were thy luck

With this unhappy blindness to be struck;

Yet thou dist scorn to Court a thing so base

As feeble Woman for a fond Embrace,

With whine and cringe, such as dull Coxcombs
use,

When Cunning and not Vertue does refuse:

Dear Cœia, hear your Lover, or I die,

If you will stab me to the heart, deny.

Such T3r (277)

Such Stuff disdain’d, resolv’d to win the Field,

He cry’d! “I must enjoy, and you must yield.”

This Vigorous Youth long Sieges could not bear

But, with his Dagger twisted in her hair,

He did not Parley, but invade the Fair:

Great pity ’twas he was undone by this;

But she too stab’d her self, my comfort is.

Then all ye whining Fops, that e’er were
born,

If you would wiser be, these Vices scorn.

T3 OUT T3v (278)

Out of
TjIbullus,
Book III. Elegy II.
By H.Crisp, Fellow of Kings-College in
Cambridge.

Cruel hard-hearted Man was he, who first

Lovers from their dear soft Embraces
forc’d;

He too, was a hard-hearted Man, who liv’d,

Who dully liv’d, when of his Love depriv’d;

I ne’er will be that patient Coxcomb, I

Rob’d of my Mistris, will resolve to die:

Mean Souls may brook such injuries as these,

When Cœia’s gone, take up with Doll, or Bess,

Then all that’s Woman-kind, alike can please;

But if the brave, and generous Lover lose

The Vertuous Darling Mistriss of his Vows;

So T4r (279)

So great’s the grief, so desperate the wound,

No cure, but only in pale Death, is found.

Sad is the truth I speak; alas! I own,

My Life’s a burden I would fain lay down;

Nor can that Man be truly said to live,

The only bus’ness of whose life’s to grieve:

Wretched Tibullus die, a speedy fate

Does best become thy hopeless lost estate;

But when I leave this hated Light, and go

To those less cruel Regions below,

With Hair dishevell’d in a mournful mien,

Let fair Neæra at my Grave be seen;

With her, her Mother, let ’em there bemoan

A hapless Husband, and a slaughter’d Son.

Thou weeping Stone, the dismal story tell,

By what untimely Fate Tybullus fell;

And that my Love may never be forgot,

Let this Inscription on my Tomb be wrought:

Tibullus, when Næera was deny’d,

Thought nothing here worth living for, and dy’d.

T4 Lesbia T4v (280)

Lesbia’s Sparrow
Out of
Catullus.
By Mr. Hen. Crisp, Fellow of Kings-College,
Cambridge.

Prettiest of Birds, my Lesbia’s Favourite,

Her tuneful Joy, her innocent delight;

Her sweet diversion; always to her Breast

Kindly admitted a most welcome Guest;

Oft with her fair fore-fingers gently stroke,

Would she thy eager Appetite provoke;

With thee my Bird, to quench her Amorous fire,

Lesbia, the brightest object of desire,

Would often, I remember, sport and play,

Beguile her passion, and deceive the day;

Then T5r (281)

I too, a happy partner of the Bliss,

Could play with thee, when her I meant to
kiss:

Thee much lov’d Bird, thee did I often find

The best Physician of my Love-sick mind;

Grateful to me, as to the Coy swift Maid

The Golden Apple was; that Apple which betray’d,

And drew the Virgin, to her Nuptial Bed.

OUT T5v (282)

Out of
Catullus.
The
Death
Of
Lesbia’s Sparrow
.
By Mr. Hen. Crisp, of Kings-College Cambridge.

Come all ye Venuses, ye Cupids all,

And whatsoe’er we gay or pretty call,

Come and lament my Lesbia’s Sparrow’s fall.

My Lesbia’s Sparrow’s dead! the sweetest Bird,

The most delightful chirper e’er was heard;

[So T6r (283)

So much the Darling of my Charming Fair;

Scarce her own eyes were to her self more dear.

No Child his Mother ever better knew

Than he his Mistris, to whose Arms he flew,

There dwelt, and bid his fellow-Birds adieu;

There skipt about and plaid, and there was blest,

Her downy Bosom was his only Nest;

All her discourse to him he understood,

And kindly answer’d in what voice he cou’d:

But now he’s gone, gone to his silent Urn,

From whence, they say, none ever can return.

Curse on ye all, ye darkest shades of Hell!

Ye envious Shades, by you my Sparrow fell.

Thus all the best, the prettiest things we have,

Are made the Plunder of the greedy Grave;

Ah lovely hapless Bird! since thou art dead,

With tears my Lesbia’s swelling Eyes look red.

Ovids T6v (284)

Ovids Amours,
Book I. Elegy V.
CORINA ENJOYED
.
By an Unknown Hand.

Warm was the Season, spent was half
the day,

Seeking repose, on softest Downe I lay;

Part of the Window shut, part open was,

Just such a glim’ring light through Woods does
pass,

Such is the doubtful light, when sets the Sun,

Or day scarce risen, tho the night be gone;

’Tis to such Light even bashful Virgins yield,

And Modestly will venture so conceal’d,

When lo Corina enter’d, loose her Gown,

Her hair was o’er her Beauteous Shoulders
thrown;

So T7r (285)

So drest, ’tis said, the fair Semiramis

Imbrac’d her Lover, and improv’d the Bliss;

So bright, so charming, Lais did appear,

If Lais self may be compar’d to her;

I with kind force her gentle Robe remove,

She to defend her secret Beauties strove;

But so she strove, such faint resistance made,

She encourag’d me more fiercely to invade;

Her self at length she kindly did betray,

Easie the Conquest was, and rich the Prey:

But oh! When she before me naked stood,

Heavens! how inflam’d in every vein, my blood

Boundless, as was my Passion, overflow’d;

What thoughts the blissful Object did inspire,

Filling at once my wonder and desire;

That Beauteous Shape I saw, those Limbs did feel

Where Love, where all perfection seem’d to
dwell;

Her Bosom did a Scent more grateful yield,

Than ever blest the sweetest flowery field;

Soft T7v (286)

Soft were the downy Pillows of her Breast,

And fit by happy Lovers to be prest;

Her Belly did in tempting Beauty spread,

And like some swelling Plain it self display’d;

At such a sight, whose Courage would not rise?

So white a Neck, such Arms, such youthful
Thighs:

What e’er I touch’d and saw, was all Divine;

Amazing Beauty in each part did shine;

I prest her lovely Body close to mine.

The rest you know, grant ye kind Gods, that I

sSuch happy Noons may every day injoy.

OUT T8r (287)

OUT OF
Propertius,
Book III. Elegy XIV.
On
His Imperious Mistris
.
By Mr. Hen. Crisp, of Kings-College
Cambridge.

Her Letter comes at Mid-night, and away

To Tiber summons me, without delay;

What shall I do, thro’ darkest shades of Night

Shall I, a daring Lover, take my flight?

Shall I all dangers for my Love despise;

Or less my Safety than my Mistris prize?

What did I see! oh my unmanly fear!

As if I cou’d be safe, when from my dear:

’Tis T8v (288)

’Tis only dangerous to disobey,

My fears for that foul sin, must sadly pay;

I disobey’d her once, and Banish’d was,

A whole long tedious twelve Month, from her
face;

For as there’s none than Cynthia more fair,

So none than Cynthia can be more severe.

I’ll go! what Cruel Barbarous Man would hurt

A harmless Lover? or prevent his sport?

Me the kind Moon, the Stars will me direct,

Me Cupid, and the Queen of Love protect:

The Dogs, while I to Cynthia go, forget

Their native fierceness, and no longer bite;

Lovers at any time, in any place,

May to their Mistris securely pass:

What Villain’s he, his Impious hands who
stains

I’th’little Blood left in a Lovers Veins?

But yet suppose the worst of things, suppose

(If Innocence has any such) my Foes

Assault U1r (289)

Assault and slay me, and a certain Fate

On the unhappy Wanderer should wait;

’Tis such a death that I would gladly die,

’Tis such a death, with all I’m worth, I’d buy,

So dying, none can be so blest as I.

Then shall I be my dearest Cinthia’s care.

She’ll bury me, and then at least she’ll shed a
tear.

U A U1v (290)

A
Pastoral
To Mr. Stafford,
Under the Name of
SILVIO,

On His
Translation
Of The
Death of Camilla:
Out Of
VIRGIL.
By Mrs. Behn.

Thirsis and Amarillis.

Thirsis.

Why Amarillis dost thou walk alone,

And the gay pleasures of the Meadows
shun?

Why U2r (291)

Why to the silent Groves dost thou retire,

When uncompell’d by the Suns scorching fire?

Musing with folded Arms, and down-cast look,

Or pensive yield to thy supporting Hook:

Is Damon safe? and has his Vows betray’d,

And born the Trophies to some other Maid?

Amarillis.

The Gods forbid I should survive to see

The fatal day he were unjust to me.

Nor is my Courage. or my Love so poor

T’out-live that Scorn’d, and miserable hour;

Rather let Wolves my new yean’d Lambs devour

Wither ye Verdant Grass, dry up ye Streams,

And let all Nature turn to vast extreams:

In Summer let the Boughs be cale and dry,

And now gay Flowers the wandring Spring
supply,

But with my Damons Love, Let all that’s charming
die.

U2 Thirsis U2v (292)

Thirsis.

Why then this dull retreat, if he be true,

Or, Amarillis, is the change in you?

You love some Swains more rich in Herds and
Flocks,

For none can be more powerful in his looks;

His shape, his meen, his hair, his wondrous face,

And on the Plaines, none dances with his Grace;

’Tis true, in Piping he does less excell.

Amarillis.

The Musick of his Voice can charm as well,

When tun’d to words of Love, and sighs among,

With the soft tremblings of his bashful tongue,

And Thirsis, you accuse my Faith in vain,

To think it wavering, for another Swain;

Tis admiration now that fills my soul,

And does ev’n love suspend, if not controul.

My thoughts are solemn all, and do appear

With wonder in my Eyes, and not despair!

My U3r (293)

My heart is entertain’d with silent Joys,

And I am pleas’d above the Mirth of Noise.

Thirsis.

What new-born pleasure can divert you so,

Pray let me hear, that I may wonder too.

Amarillis.

Last night, by yonder purling stream I stood,

Pleas’d with the murmurs of the little Flood,

Who in its rapid glidings bore away

The fringing Flow’rs, that made the Bank so gay,

Which I compar’d to fickle Swains, who invade

First this, then that deceiv’d, and yielding Maid:

Whose flattering Vows an easie passage find,

Then unregarded leave ’em far behind,

To sigh their Ruin to the flying Wind.

So the solid flow’rs their rifled Beautes hung,

While the triumphant Ravisher passes on.

This while I sighing view’d, I heard a voice

That made the Woods, the Groves, and Hills rejoyce.

U3 Who U3v (294)

Who eccho’d back the charming sound again,

Answering the Musick of each softning strain,

And told the wonder over all the Plain.

Young Silvio ’twas that tun’d his happy Pipe,

The best that ever grac’d a Shepherds Lip!

Silvio of Noble Race, yet not disdains

To mix his harmony with Rustic Swains.

To th’ humble Shades th’Illustrious Youth resorts,

Shunning the false delights of gaudy Courts,

For the more solid happiness of Rural sports.

Courts which his Noble Father long pursu’d,

And serv’d till he out-serv’d their gratitude.

Thirsis.

Oh Amarillis, let that tale no more

Remembred be on the Arcadian Shore,

Lest Mirth should on our Meads no more be found,

But Stafford’s Story should throughout resound,

And fill with pitying cryes the Echoes all around.

Amarillis. U4r (295)

Amarillis.

Arcadia keep your peace, but give me leave,

Who knew the Heroes Loyalty, to grieve;

Once Thirsis, by th’Arcadian Kings Commands,

I left these Shades, to visit forein Lands;

Imploy’d in public toils of State Affairs,

Unusual with my Sex, or to my Years;

There ’twas my chance, so Fortune did ordain,

To see this great, this good, this God-like Man:

Brave, Pious, Loyal, Just, without constraint,

The Soul all Angell, and the Man a Saint;

His temper’d mind no Passion e’er inflamed,

But when his King and Countrey were profan’d;

Then oft I’ve seen his generous blood o’er spread

His awful face, with a resenting Red,

In Anger quit the Room, and would disdain

To herd with the Rebellious Publican.

But Thirsis ’twould a worship’d Volume fill,

If I the Heroes wondrous Life should tell;

U4 His U4v (296)

His Vertues were his Crime, like God he bow’d

A necessary Victim to the frantick Croud;

So a tale sheltring Oak that long had stood,

The mid-days shade, and the glory of the Wood;

Whose aged boughs a reverence did command,

Fell lop’d at last by an Ignoble hand:

And all his branches are in pieces torn,

That Victors grac’d, and did the Wood adorn.

—With him young Silvio, who compos’d his Joys,

The darling of his Soul and of his Eyes,

Inheriting the Vertues of his Sire,

But all his own is his Poetic fire;

When young the Gods of Love, and Wit did grace

The pointed, promis’d Beautys of his face,

Which ripening years did to perfection bring,

And taught him how to Love, and how to Sing.

Thirsis.

But what dear Amarillis, was the Theam

The Noble Silvio Sung by yonder Stream?

Ama- U5r (297)

Amarillis.

Not of the Shepherds, nor their Rural Loves,

The Song was Glorious tho ’twas sung in Groves!

Camilla’s Death the skilful Youth inspir’d,

As if th’Heroic Maid his soul had fir’d;

Such life was in his Song, such heat, such flight,

As he had seen the Royal Virgin fight.

He made her deal her wounds with Graceful Art,

With vigorous Air fling the unfailing Dart,

And form’d her Courage to his own great heart.

Never was fighting in our Sex a Charm,

Till Silvio did the bright Camilla Arm;

With Noble Modesty he shews us how

To be at once Hero, and Woman too.

Oh Conquering Maid! how much thy Fame has
won,

In the Arcadian Language to be sung,

And by a Swain so soft, so sweet, so young.

Thirsis. U5v (298)

Thirsis.

Well hast thou spoke the noble Silvio’s Praise,

For I have often heard his charming lays;

Oft has he blest the Shades with strains Divine,

Took many a Virgins heart, and Ravish’d mine.

Long may he sing in every Field and Grove,

And teach the Swains to Pipe, the Maids to Love.

Amarillis.

Daphnis, and Colin Pipe not half so well,

E’en Dions mighty self he does excell;

As the last Lover of the Muses, blest,

The last and young in Love are always best;

And She her darling Lover does requite

With all the softest Arts of Noblest Wit.

Thirsis.

Oh may he dedicate his Youth to her!

Thus let ’em live, and love upon the square,

But U6r (299)

But see Alexis homeward leads his Flock,

And brouzing Goats descend from yonder Rock;

The Sun is hasting on to Thetis Bed,

See his faint Beams have streak’d the Sky with
Red.

Let’s home e’er night approach, and all the way,

You shall of Silvio sing, while I will play.

TO U6v U7r

To
Lysander.

Lysander having by chance met
with a small Piece in French, Intituled
Moral Reflections; and finding
many things concerning Virtue, something contrary
to your Notions of it, (fond of convincing
all your little Errors of Judgment) I gave
my self the Liberty (I cannot say Trouble)
of putting it into English, as there is not one
Sentence but is applicable to some body or other,
so you will find many that will touch your self:
and many more that I doubt not but you will lay
at my door, especially any Satyr on our Sex:
but since there is wherewithal to quit Scores, do
your worst. I know too well you have abundance
of Gravity, to the loss and destruction of many
an honest hour, which might have been past more
gayly if you had pleased to have laid by that
(sometimes necessary) humour; and that face of U7v
of dull business, enough to mortifie all thoughts
of Mirth about one. I know you have a great
deal of that which my Reflections tell you passes
for Vertue, nay even your self it deludes
with that Opinion, as well as the World: you should
be a Lover too, if one will believe you or your
Complexion; and to my knowledge you have
goodness enough to pardon all the faults you will
find here, at least you dissemble it well, and
that will do as well. These Motives, joyned to the
desire I have to let you see you are more in my
head than you imagine, oblige me to chuse you
from out the number of my few Friends, to
address this part of my handy-work to; called
Senica Unmasqu’d: whether good or bad you
have them almost as I found them; but if it be
necessary that I should render them acceptable by
some better recommendation than barely telling
you I translated them: I give you to understand
they are charged on a Great Man, and a great Wit
of the French Court, the Duke of Rushfaucave
but since I always distrust the general voice, ’tis
enough that the World has fixt ’em on him, to make
me think that he knows nothing of ’em. So much
for the original as to the Copy, (which I have drawn purely U8r
purely out of complacence to you, I can only say
if it do not extremely resemble the Original, at
least for ought I know it may be as good a Piece:
and that may pass as well. I would give you
my sentiments of the whole, but that I am affraid
of shewing my self a Critick; but no
matter, I am so us’d to be impertinent in Lysanders
Company that ’twill appear no more
strange than what he is entertained with every
time I have the happiness of seeing him: where
his grave silence, and scarcity of speaking (afflicting
enough to me) gives me an occasion to run
into the other Extream of talking all, purely to
prevent a dumb Entertainment, for which I have
many times met with wise Reproofs, as tis very
likely I may now, and which will as little work
upon the temper of a Woman of my humour, as
Mercy to a hardned Whig: but I was going to
tell you my opinion, and you are like to hear it;
which is

That these Maxims, as ’tis easie to find
at first sight, were not design’d to be made
publick, neither by the Author, nor your humble
servant: (only by the last, for your entertainment,
if you think it fit to esteem it one) neitherther U8v
the one nor the other aspiring here to the
Glory of an Author: yet if it hapned that both
have unwillingly contributed to their being exposed
to the World, let me tell you, ’twill spoil neither
of our Reputations: since we both of us pretend
to some other Pieces, that have indured the
Test, and passed for Good and Currant Wit.
yYou will say, perhaps, I boast now, and take too
great a Presumption on me, to name my self
with this supposed great Author: but as to that
’tis no wonder for an Author to praise himself,
and extol his own works: how else do you think
witty things should be recommended to the unjudging
part of the World, who by no other way
can understand the true value of a thing: but if
the Author himself vouches for it; why (they
civilly cry) it must needs be good, for the Poet
says so, and who can tell better than him that made
it? Well then, suppose it, the Duke of Rushfaucave’s
Original, and I speaking for him, and my
self, in praise of it; which if you will believe me,
(as you seldom do) I promise you, you will find
here all the force and judgment of elevated
thought (if I have not paul d it in the part I
managed, as ’tis very likely, being as you know very X1r
very unlucky) a Circle of pretty Expressions and
Observations, accompanied with a certain Air
Gallant, which is not usual with common Writers;
’tis true, you will not find that exact Order
which might have been observed in the placing
of ’em, and as one might have taken care to
have done if designed for publick view; but
for Persons who write as Monsieur the Duke
and I, (at this time) did, purely for Idleness,
and our own Lazy Diversion (I can speak of
nothing under Monsieur the Duke and I.


I think they are not concerned in such a Case to
follow Rules and Methods, it being as unnecessary
where People write but to ease their minds, and
just as things fall into their thoughts, as to
make set Speeches in Love, and study for Eloquence
when there is none in Love like that of
Love it self: no, at this time we left Rule and
Order to those who write for advantage: the
Dramatick poor Devils that depend on the uncertain
Humours of the Stage and Town; or the
Great who write for Honour, and make so dead
a Trade of Wit, and are a sort of Interlopers
who run away with all the Glorious Game that
others toil in vain for. This Irregularity and X disorder X1v
disorder nevertheless has its Graces, and those
Graces which Art cannot imitate, I know not
whether you will be of my Opinion or not, but
Lysander, if you are I ought to take it for the
greater Favour, since you so seldom are so:
but for my part I must own I always prefer that
unstudied, and undesigned way of writing (tho
not so approved of by the Learned) which is
used by a Courtier who has Wit, as that of the
late Lord Rochester and present Lord Mulgrave
to the Regularities tortured, and wrack’d,
by many other stiff Writers, whose Judgment
is better than their Wit or Natural Fancy; all
which are to admiration found in all the Writings
of the above-named Great Men, as also in those
little chance things of Sir Carr. Scroope, whose
natural softness so infinitely exceeded all the
flights and Industry of most of those who make a
business of it, tho every where I must except the
Charming and Incomparable Mr. Dryden, where
wondrous wit, and wondrous meeting they have
given him the Glory of having out-done all Ages
past, and undone those that shall arrive. But as
I said, there is nothing that a Witty Man of Quality
says or writes (who scorns the Mechanick part the X2r
the drudgery of dull Method) but has an Air of
Gallantry, a tendernesss Graceful, a softness unaffected,
and an easiness animitible; and if there
be Art, it lies so delicately veiled under natural expressions,
as ’tis not at all discernable; while this
exactness of Rule, which all Poets so boast of,
(and which the best do not always pursue) has
always in it an Air of stiffness and constraint harsh
and disrelishable, and ’tis as easie to discern what
belongs to a Man of Quality and Wit, and what
to a trading Poet, as to distinguish a Citizen by
his mien and dress from a Courtier tho all about
him be as Rich and Fashionable as on the other;
and doubtless the real Beauty of Poetry is, when
Art disguises her self under natural appearances,
and that’s the Talent of Easie and Noble Writing,
when ’tis like the description of Armidas Pallace
as Tasso describes it, says he, “Art has no
share in this admirable Structure; Nature
forming all the Place as if it were by chance,
knows so well how to imitate the exactness
of Art, that the Eye deceived with a
fair Illusion, believes ’tis Art that follows
the Dictates of Nature.”
This I could have given
you in Verse if I had had a mind to it: but this
will serve as well.

X2 And X2v

And this is my Opinion of the following
Reflections in general: but what’s my Opinion
to you? we never accorded in that point
hitherto, and you’ll go near to carp at some
of these Reflections for all my Opinion, and say
many of ’em want weight, most of em wit, abundance
of ’em Truth, and that they all tax even
Virtue it self; but I believe neither the Author
nor your assured friend had any such Malice to
Mankind: tho he represents to you, that there
are very few Virtues very pure in the World,
and that in the greatest part of our Actions, there
is a mixture of Error, and Truth, of Perfection,
and Imperfection, of Vice and of Virtue. He
finds the heart of villanous Man corrupted by
Pride, and Self-love, and surrounded with ill
examples; and as in Towns besieged, the Governor
wanting Money makes it of Leather or Pastboard,
which bearing the Royal Image impressed
of good and currant Money, passes at that rate
amongst the Besieged in time of necessity, and for
want of Gold or Silver: So do the Actions of
the greatest part of Mankind, which are esteemed
Virtuous, when most commonly they have but
the Image and bare resemblance of it: neverthelessless X3r
they have their value, and appear worthy
(in some degree) of our esteem; it being a
most difficult thing to meet with better, according
to the course of the World; and indeed my Author
does wisely believe there is no Vertue true in
Man, if you consider him in his Humane Nature.
Nor is he alone of that Opinion. But if I did
not fear to boast of too much Learning for my
Sex, I could cite you many Authors, as well Fathers
of the Church as great Saints, who were of
Opinion that Self-love, Interest, and Pride, was
the cause of the most Glorious Actions of the
greatest Heroes of the World. Who applauded the
Chastity of Lucretia (whom all the World now celebrates
for a Vertuous Woman) till they made it a
subject of private Revenge, and the occasion of the
Liberty of Rome? and which drew the wonder of
so many Ages. Do you think it was Virtue in
Junius Brutus to Sacrifice his own Sons to set up
a Commonwealth? Or that the last Brutus Murdered
his supposed Father Juliussar, meerly
from the Dictates of Virtue? which appears to
me no other than Self-love, or Ambition; and
after Ages may as well celebrate the Actions
of a Modern Prince for Virtuous; which X3 in X3v
in ours to all good Men appears a Monstrous Ingratitude
and Folly; yet had he been almost Deifi’d
with the new Saints, and Male-contents if his Designs
had taken effect. Nay this sort of Vertue
is so wide (with the greatest part of the People)
from the appearance of Vice, that the delusion has
even blinded the Ambitious deceiver himself, who
is I believe so far from perceiving the Cheat, even
in his own heart, so distant from the thought
that his Treason is a Vice, that he really is perswaded
’tis a Meritorious Vertue: and possibly he
may have advanced so far in this dull Error that
he may really fancy that ’tis more to justifie his
Vertue that he plays the ungrateful Traitor than
to attain to the Glory of Empire; and there are
thousands who will like him be abused into the
same Error, blinded with the appearance of Vertue
and Religion: so that ’tis not only the Error
of the Heathens, but even those who have the
advantage of professing Christ. Do you think
Seneca who made his wise Man equal with the
Gods was wise himself? or that he could impose
that belief on others? in spight of his Pride he
would confess ’twas impossible to find a Vertue
so accomplished in Man, and that the most perfectfect X4r
amongst Men was he who had the least faults:
he was of that belief that Socrates himself was
subject to Reproach, for that he had but a feigned
friendship for Plato and Aristotle: that
they were Covetous, that Epicurus was Prodigal,
and Voluptuous; but yet he says at the same
time, that we should be too happy if we could but
attain to the knowledge to be able to follow their
Vices: this Grave Philosopher had reason to say
so much of his friends, who was so happy to
laugh, as he did, at all Worldy Blessings, as Honours,
Pleasures, &c. Seeming to despise them,
and yet to see himself Master of the Empire, as
well as of the Emperor, and at the same time a
lover of the Empress; to have Glorious Palaces,
delightful Gardens, and all the joys of Magnificence
and Love to use at his Pleasure. I should
have loved to have been a Philosopher at this
rate, and could be contented amidst such an abundance,
to have recommended and extoll’d Moderation
and Poverty to the World; whilst Riches,
Power, and Love attended my desire; tell me,
dear Lysander, do you think that this Learned
Stoic who feigned so well to master his Passions,
had not some Vices conceal’d under his Vertues? or X4v
Or when he cut his Veins (when commanded to
kill himself by the Emperor) do you think he
did not more than once repent that he had
not killed his Disciple, when in his power, that
compelled him to it? and by His Death have
prevented his own? Yes doubtless he did. Observe
but the false bravery of this Man whose steddy
Vertue has been and is so cry’d up in the World,
and you will see notwithstanding his great Reasonings
of the Immortality of the Soul, what
mighty pains he took to appear above the fear of
death; he mustered up all his force to make a
good show (as did a Modern Hero lately) he bit
his tongue for fear he should confess that Death
had a Sting; he who pretended that Reason can
make a Man uncapable of Suffering, instead of
humbling his Pride, he raised it above a Deity.
He would much more have obliged us to
have freely and franckly confessed the corruption
and weakness of Mans heart, than to have
taken so much pains to have deceived us. The
Author of these Reflections does not cheat us so,
he exposes to light all the failings and frailties of
Man: he shews that in spight of all the efforts
of his Sense and Reason, that Pride and Self- love Y1r
Love hide themselves in his heart, and from thence
diffuse their Poison, unperceivably, into every
of his Motions. Now perhaps you will be positive
and assure me, that you know by experience
a Man may be generous and good without design
of Interest, or any other regard than that of
Goodness. Not considering the good or the ill,
but meerly out of a natural generous goodness of
the heart which leads you (without thinking) to
that which is good: would I could believe this
of any Man that boasts it upon his word; and
that ’twere true that humane Nature had but
reasonable Motions, and that all our Actions were
but naturally Virtuous: but how can we reconcile
such a belief to the Opinion of the Fathers of
the Church, who have asserted that all our Virtues
are but imperfect, that our Will being born
blind, our desires blind, and our conduct blind,
’tis no wonder that Man who wanders in so much
darkness should often rove, stumble, and
fall: They say that all the wisdom of Man is not
able to foresee what shall happen; how then
shall he be able to prevent it? what humane force
is able to defend it self from an unwarning Enemy?
how then shall we prevent an evil? Why, Y you’ll Y1v
you’ll say, by resolution: but, as I said before, self-
love is so mixed with every motion of the soul
that one cannot resolve without callllling that to Counsel,
and that can suffer nothing to hurt it self: that
always insensibly debauches the Will, and you must
take your Will along with you or you can do
nothing: you’ll say your temperance shall guide
you, but there’s so much self-love even in temperance
that that can neither resolve nor condemn but
what self-love permits, and secretly, even unknown
to your own Reason approves. In fine, fix your
resolve on what you will, you will if you with unbiassed
judgement examine it, find self-love enough
there to debauch your nicest Virtue; at least to find
there is an allay of self-love that renders it not so
pure as it ought; upon this subject I could enlarge
much, but this is enough to put you upon tedious
dispute for a larger time than I am willing to lose
on so dull a subject, therefore I commit ’em to your
serious consideration, assuring you they have this
good quality, that the more you look, the more you’ll
like, I wish I could say so much of,

Lysander,
Your real Friend and Servant

Astrea.

Y2r (301316)

Seneca
Unmasqued,
Or
Moral Reflections.
From The
French:
By Mrs. A.B.

“Our Vertues are for the most part but
Vice disguised.”
  • 1.

    That which we take for Virtue, is most
    commonly but a mixture of divers Actions,
    and of several Interests, which
    Fortune, or our Industry knows how
    to set in order, and ’tis not Courage that makes a Y2 Man Y2v (302316)
    Man Brave, nor Chastity that makes a Woman
    Honest.

  • 2.


    The great and splendid Actions which dazle
    and amuse the wondring Crowd, and which are
    represented by Polititians as great and glorious
    Designs, are indeed the effects of Humour, and
    private Passions. As the War of Augustus and
    MarkAnthony, (which served and managed their
    Ambition, only to make themselves Masters of
    the Universe) was no other perhaps than an effect
    of Jealousie.

  • 3.

    Men are not only subject to forget good deeds,
    and Injuries, but they even bear a secret hate
    to those that have most obliged them, and are
    often kind to those that have done ’em outrages;
    and the business of recompensing the good, and
    revenging the ill, is a slavery they hate to undergo.

  • 4.

    The Clemency of Princes is usually but a Policy
    to gain the Love of their Subjects.

  • 5.
    Clemency, which is made a Virtue, is commonlymonly Y3r (103317)
    practised out of Vanity, sometimes out of
    Lasiness, oft times out of Fear, and for the most
    part by all three together.

  • 6.

    6.The Temper which we so admire in happy
    persons, proceeds from the Calm which good
    Fortune procures ’em only, which puts ’em in
    Humour.

  • 7.

    Moderation is the effects of a fear we have
    of being envied, and of falling under that contempt
    which they deserve, who are infatuated
    with their own good Fortune. It is a vain boast
    of the strength of their Wisdom; and Temper in
    Men in their highest exaltation is only a pride
    and desire to appear greater than what has raised
    them.

  • 8.

    That which is called Constancy in the Grave
    and Wise, is only an Art to conceal the Sentiments
    of their hearts.

  • 9.

    We have all strength enough to bear the misfortunes
    of others.

  • Y3 10. Those Y3v (304318)
  • 10.

    Those that are condemned to Death most times
    affect a Constancy, and contempt of Death, which
    is in effect a Vizarding of their sentiments, and is
    in reality an effect of fear rather, which they disguise
    to flatter themselves and gain even then an
    Opinion from the Crowd.

  • 11.

    Philosophy easily triumphs over Ills past and

    Ills to come, but present Ills triumph over that.

  • 12.

    Very few persons rightly apprehend Death,
    they do not suffer it from their Courage, but
    from a Stupidity, and all Men, even Seneca
    himself, died because he could not avoid it.

  • 13.

    When great Men suffer themselves to languish
    under the continuation of a misfortune, they are
    rather supported by the power and strength of
    their Ambition than that of their Souls.

  • 14. We Y4r (305319)
  • 14.

    We want more Vertue to support our good
    fortune, than our ill.

  • 15.

    We very often boast of the most Criminal Passion,
    but that of Envy is so Ungenerous and Shamefull
    a Passion we never dare own it.

  • 16.

    Jealousie is in some Persons just and reasonable,
    because it tends to the preservation of what
    is dear to us, or what we believe at least belongs
    to us, but Hatred is a madness that will not indure
    to see others happy.

  • 17.

    The Ills we act do not draw upon us so great
    afflictions and hatred, as our Virtues and Merits.

  • 18.
    We have more strength than wit, and oftentimes
    to excuse our selves to our selves we imagine
    things impossible.

  • Y4 18. Our Y4v (106320)
  • 19.

    Our own Vices make us so severe and Satyrical
    on the remarques we take of those in others.

  • 20.

    We promise according to our hopes, and perform
    according to our fears.

  • 21.

    Interest speaks all sorts of Languages, and acts
    all sorts of Persons, even to self-denial; nay, we
    flatter even those who have no interest at all.

  • 22.

    Interest that blinds one, is the light of another.

  • 23.

    Those who apply themselves to little trivial affairs
    make themselves uncapable of great undertakings.

  • 24.

    We have not power enough to follow all our
    Reason.

  • 25. Men Y5r (107321)
  • 25.

    Men often think they govern themselves with
    Wisdom and Conduct, when at the same time they
    have so blind a sight as not to perceive they are
    governed by others, and while his Wisdom and
    Interest leads him to one Design, his heart insensibly
    Conducts him to another.

  • 26.

    Force, and weakness of Wit, are mistaken
    names, which are but in effect the good or ill dispositions
    of the Organs of the Body.

  • 27.

    The Capriss of our Humours are more inconstant
    than those of Fortune.

  • 28.

    Fancy sets the Rate on things, and we value all
    the advantages Fortune brings, according to our
    Humours.

  • 29.

    True happiness is in the Gust of a thing, not
    in the thing it self, and to possess the Person my
    Love renders Lovely, is to me the height of Felicity,licity, Y5v (308322)
    and not the Person another thinks Charming.

  • 30.

    One is never so happy or unhappy as one
    thinks.

  • 31.

    They who believe themselves most Meritorious
    esteem it a Glory to be unfortunate, both to perswade
    others and themselves that they alone are
    worthy to be the mockery and object of the capriss
    of Fortune, and are proud and vain of suffering.

  • 32.

    Nothing ought to lessen our satisfaction and
    the opinion we have of our selves so much as the
    inconstancy of our Tempers, and to find we love
    and approve at one time, what we are cold to, and
    disapprove at another.

  • 33.

    Whatsoever difference may appear to be in
    Mens Fortunes, yet there is still an ill to allay the
    good, and some good to recompence the ill, which
    renders all equal.

  • 34.

    What advantages soever Nature bestows in Courage, Y6r (309323)
    Courage, Beauty, Wit, and Virtue, ’tis not those,
    but Fortune alone that makes a Hero.

  • 35.

    The Scorn and Contempt of Riches among the
    Philosophers, was but a hidden desire to revenge
    themselves on the injustice of Fortune, by seeming
    to despise what that deprives ’em of; ’tis a secret
    to cure themselves of those Reproaches and Contempts
    which Poverty brings, and the best way
    to defend ’em from the consideration and desire
    of Riches.

  • 36.

    To hate the Favourite is no other than to be
    in love with Favour; and they comfort and
    please themselves with the contempt of what they
    cannot enjoy, and denying those their respect
    whom they are not able to deprive of their Honour,
    they withdraw from the World; whilst
    their sullenness and ill-natur’d Pride passes for
    Vertue.

  • 37.

    To be well established in the World, one
    ought to appear as if one were already well establish’d
    there.

  • 38.

    Tho Men flatter themselves with the greatness and Y6v (013324)
    and bravery of their Actions, yet they are not
    so often the effects of great design, as they are of
    chance or hazard.

  • 39.

    Our Actions seem to be influenced by the lucky
    unlucky aspect of our Stars, to which we owe a
    great part of the Praise, or dispraise that is given
    us, and not to Merit.

  • 40.

    There is no Accident so unfortunate from
    which a Person of Wit and Industry will not
    draw an advantage, nor none so lucky but imprudent
    People may turn to their prejudice.

  • 41.

    Fortune disposes all things to the advantages of
    those she favours.

  • 42.

    The happiness or unhappiness of Men depend
    more on their Humour than Fortune.

  • 43.

    Sincerity is an opening and frankness of the
    Soul which is rarely to be found, and that Friendship
    so in fashion, is only dissembled to draw a confidence
    and secret from another.

  • 44. The Y7r (311325)
  • 44.

    The aversion we seem to have for Lying, Deceit,
    Cunning, and Hypocrisie, is only to render
    what we say and do our selves the more considerable,
    and to procure for our selves that respect
    we pay the Just and Religious.

  • 45.

    Truth it self does not so much good, or appears
    so grateful to the World as the appearance
    of it only does ill.

  • 46.

    There is no praise so great as what we give to
    prudence; yet great as its Vertue is it cannot assure
    us of a just moderation and evenness in our
    tempers, because ’tis applyed to Man who is the
    most inconstant thing in Nature.

  • 47.

    A discreet Man ought to regulate the course of
    his designs, and to model them into good order,
    for our greedy desires often perplex and make us
    undertake too many things at once: and while
    we aim at that of the least importance, we neglect
    those the most considerable.

  • 48. The Y7v (312326)
  • 48.

    The handsome Mien and genteel Carriage of
    the Body is as advantagious as the understanding
    of the mind.

  • 49.

    Silence i