Several Occaſions,

Together with a

By Mrs. S.F.

Printed, and are to be Sold by J. Nutt, near Stationers-Hall.

A1v A2r

To the Right Honourable Charles Lord Halifax, Auditor of Her Majesties Exchequer, &c.

My Lord,

Was not your Affability and Condeſcention, as Conſpicuous as your other Graces, I durſt not preſume on your Protection of these Trifles, ſome of the first A2 At- A2v Attempts of my unskilful Muſe. Moſt of the Copies being writ, ’ere I could write Seventeen; long they lay in a neglected Silence, and ne’er deſign’d to diſturb the World; but an unlucky Accident forc’d them to the Preſs, not giving time for that Examination and Correction, which might have made them, (tho’ a ſmaller ) yet more worthy Offering. My Zeal for your Lordſhip’s Name has ever been ſo Great, I could not perſuade my ſelf to paſs by this opportunity, of acknowledging it to the World. Which may perhaps too juſtly Condemn my Lines, but unanimouſly will applaud my Judgment in the choice of a Patron, as the beſt of Poets and of Judges. And as ſuch the Repreſentatives of the Mu A3r Muſes Addreſt to you, their Obſequies on the late Glory of their Parnaſſus; a loſs my Lord, much o’erpaid by you, whose inimitable Lines, (the ſoft Diverſion of your more leiſure Hours) can Charm that World, which was the buſineſs of his Life to pleaſe; as for thoſe ſofter Copies which are Interſpers’d thro’ the whole of mine, I hope your Lordſhip is of my Opinion, that where the Circumſtances do not make Love a Crime, the confeſſing it can be none. Beſides, our Sex is confin’d to ſo narrow a Sphere of Action, that things of greater Conſequence ſeldom fall within our Notices; ſo that Love ſeems the only proper Theme (if any can be ſo) for a Woman’s Pen, eſpecially at the Age they were writ in; A3 and A3v and ſome of them were done at the request of Friends, without any other warmth than that of my officious Muſe. Excuſes and Encomiums are, I think, the common buſineſs of Dedications; but I have too many Faults to proceed on the firſt, and your Lordship too many Excellencies to dare venture on the latter: Your Fame is too Great and Extenſive to want or receive Addition from mine, or any the ableſt Pens, none but a Genius equal to your own, can do Juſtice to your Merit. Forgive, my Lord, a ſilence which proceeds from a profound Veneration of thoſe Noble and Divine Qualifications, which are beyond the Power of Rhetorick, and a Theme ſo truly Great, that even Eloquence itſelf would A4r would want Expreſſion. Theſe Poems (except thoſe on Mr. Dryden,) tho’ writ long ſince, I offer to your Lordſhip with all their Priſtine Bloom, unſully’d by a vulgar touch, not handed round the Town for Opinion and Amendments; but just ſnatcht from their Recluſe in all their native Rudeneſs and Simplicity, preſume for Shelter from your hoſpitable Hand. They never were abroad before, nor e’er ſeen but by my own Sex, ſome of which have favour’d me with their Complements, and I was too much a Woman to refuſe them. But, my Lord, I detain you from their Ingenious Lines, which I hope will make ſome Atonement for my Defects, and obtain a Pardon, at leaſt, for the Ambition of Publickly A4 own A4v owning my value for your Lordſhip, and for begging your Protection, for your Lordſhip’s

moſt Humble, and Obedient Servant


To A5r

To Mrs. S.F. on her Poems.

Oh! ſay what happy Muſe informs thy Lyre,

Or do the ſacred Nine, thy Breaſt inſpire;

That thus we ſee in each judicious Line,

Nature and Art in beauteous Order ſhine,

The Numbers eaſy and the Thoughts Divine

No more let haughty Man with fierce diſdain,

Deſpiſe the Product of a Female brain,

But read thy Works, there view thy ſpacious Mind,

Thy Reaſon clear, thy Fancy unconfin’d

And then be juſt to thy immortal Fame

And with due Honours celebrate thy Name

In thy harmonious Strains at once admire,

Orinda’s Judgement, and Aſtrea’s Fire.

Many are in Poetick Annals found,

Whoſe Brows with never fading Laurels bound,

For ſome one Grace were by Apollo Crown’d:

Of A5v

Of generous Friendſhip, this compos’d her Song,

And that with Love ſtill Charm’d the liſt’ning Throng.

Another in Philoſophy excells

And pleaſing Wonders tunefully Reveals;

But thou alone on every Theme can’ſt write,

That task was left for thy ſuperior Wit.


To A6r

To Mrs. S.F. on her Poems.

Hail to Clarinda, dear Euterpe Hail,

Now we ſhall Conquer, now indeed prevail;

Clarinda will her charming Lines expoſe,

And in her Strength we vanquiſh all our Foes.

To theſe Triumphant Lays, let each repair,

A ſacred Sanction to the writing Fair;

Mankind has long upheld the Learned Sway,

And Tyrant Cuſtom forc’d us to obey.

Thought Art and Science did to them belong,

And to aſſert our selves was deem’d a Wrong,

But we are juſtify’d by thy immortal Song:

Come ye bright Nymphs a laſting Garland bring,

In never fading Verſe, Clarinda’s Praiſes ſing;

Read o’re her Works, ſee how Genuine Nature fires,

Obſerve the ſweetneſs which her Pen inſpires.

From A6v

From thence grow Wiſe, from thence your Thoughts improve

Here’s Judgment piercing Senſe and ſofter Love;

To idle Gayeties true Wit prefer,

Strive all ye thinking Fair, to Copy her.


To A7r

To Mrs. S.F. on her incomparable Poems.

Thou Champion for our Sex go on and ſhow

Ambitious Man what Womankind can do

In vain they boaſt of large Scholaſtick Rules,

Their skills in Arts and Labour in the Schools.

What various Tongues and Languages acquir’d,

How fam’d for Policy, for Wit admir’d;

Their ſolid Judgment in Philoſophy,

The Metaphyſicks, Truths, and Poetry,

Since here they’ll find themſelves outdon by thee.

Thy matchleſs Thoughts, and flowing Numbers ſweet,

And lofty Flights, in juſt Conjunction meet;

Thy mighty Genius can each Subject trace,

The beſt can equal and to none give Place.

Sappho the Great, whom by report we know,

Would yield her Laurels were ſhe living now,

And ſtrait turn Chaſt, to gain a Friend of you

Of A7v

Of you! to whom we all Obedience pay,

And at your Feet our humble Tribute lay,

Whilſt all around, your Beams dart like the God of Day;

We bask with Pleaſure in your Glorious ſhine,

And read and wonder at your Verſe Divine.


To A8r

To my Ingenious Friend Mrs. S.F. on her Poems.

Come ev’ry Muſe with Fire and Garlands too,

Inſpire my Breaſt adorn Clarinda’s Brow;

(Cypreſs and Mirtle with the Laurel twine,

Three Boughs of each, with Heavenly skill combine,

The myſtick Number ſuits the ſacred Nine,)

She does the force of every Paſſion tell,

None ever Lov’d, or Greiv’d, or Prais’d ſo well.

Sometimes ſhe ſoars aloft a Pindar’s height,

In a bright Track nigh loſt to human Sight;

Then gently ſlides into a ſofter Strain,

And does with Loves and Graces entertain:

In Panegyricks juſt to that Degree,

’Tis all complaiſant Truth, not nauſeous Flattery;

And when her Muſe Satyrick would appear,

’Tis without air of Spite, and yet ſevere.

Then A8v

Then in deep Thought reflects on human kind,

And traces Fate thro’ her myſterious Wind:

To ev’ry Theme ſhe does her Genius bend,

While every Art and Grace officiouſly attend.

Such ſacred Beauties grace her lays Divine,

Pæan’s immortal Beams ſhine Bright in every Line;

In Virgil, Ovid, Martial we prefer,

Some ſingle Gift, but we have all in her.

For bear by humble Muſe, thou art unfit,

To celebrate her various turns of Wit.

Let the ſoft Pen, who great Paſtora Mourn’d,

To more delightful rural Strains be turn’d;

And ſing Clarinda’s Fame, whoſe tender Lays,

Next to his own, deſerve immortal Praiſe.


The a1r
On B1r 1

On Friendſhip.

Friendship (the great purſuit of noble Minds)

Paſſion in abſtract, void of all deſigns;

Each generous Pen, doth celebrate thy Fame,

And yet I doubt, thou’rt nothing but a Name.

Some pregnant Fancy, in a raptur’d height,

Produc’d this mighty notional Delight.

The Muſes virtuoſal Chymiſtry,

To turn all Fortunes to Felicity;

’Tis fancy’d well, and this I dare ingage,

Were all Men Friends, ’twould be the golden Age;

But tell me where, this Extract may be found,

And what Ingredients make the Rich Compound;

Or in what Soul, is true kindly heat,

That can this great Experiment compleat.

Sometimes a fond good Nature lights upon

A ſoft and civil Temper like its own;

Strait they reſolve to be thoſe happy things,

Which when combin’d, pity contending Kings:

B Yet B1v 2

Yet e’er they reach theſe ſublimated Joys,

They’r poorly loſt, in Treachery or Toys.

The mighty Notions of the exalted State,

Sink to a vulgar Commerce, or Debate:

Sure, like the Chymick Stone, it was deſign’d,

But to imploy the curious ſearching Mind,

In the purſuit of what, non e’er ſhall find;

Their Quality’s I’m ſure do prove all one,

Who truſts too much to either is undone.

The Extacy.


Mount, Mount, my Soul on high,

Cut thro’ the ſpacious Sky;

Scale the great Mountainous heaps that be,

Betwixt the upper World, and thee.

Stop not, till thou the utmoſt Region know,

Leave all the Glittering Worlds below:

Then take thy Noble flight,

Into the ſacred Magazine of Light,

View the bright, the Empyrean Throne

Of the great, the Almighty One

All B2r 3

All the Miriades of ſhining Hoſts ſurvey,

With the ſeraphick blazing Throng;

Celebrating their Eternal Day,

With an Eternal Song.

In vain my dazled Soul would gaze around,

(The beatifick Glorys ſo conſound)

It muſt be quite diſrob’d, e’er tread this Holy Ground.


Deſcend you daring Spirit, think ’tis fair,

If thou may’ſt traverſe the inferior Air,

Content with humbler Curioſities,

View the expanded the Skies,

With radient Worlds, ’tis richly deck’d,

By the Almighty Architect,

Mount Charles’s Wain,

Drive over all the Ætherial Plain,

And to augment thy Speed,

With blazing Comets laſh the Reſtive Steeds.

Make them neigh aloud and Foam,

Till all the sky a Milky way become;

What tho’ they Fret and Rage,

To paſs their wonted Stage.

B2 Make B2v 4

Make them Praunce o’er all the amazing Place,

Quite to the empty Space,

And as ye go, ſee what Inhabitants there are,

In every World, of every Star;

Their Shape, their Manners and their State,

Write in Journals as ye go,

And to the inquiring Earth relate;

By dropping it below.

When weary’d with your univerſal round,

Let the Sphears harmonious ſound,

Refreſh and Charm your Spirits, till they be

Fit to fly back to their firſt ventur’d one Immenſity

But oh! the Harmony’s too ſoft, too ſweet,

The Eternal ſtrains too raviſhingly great,

I cannot bear ſuch Tranſports yet,

Well then, I’ll leave theſe mighty heights and go

And over-look the little Globe below.


In this Amphibious Ball, is vaſt variety,

To entertain my Curioſity:

Here the great Waters of the mighty deep,

Their fixt amazing Bounds do keep;

In B3r 5

In vain they Rage and Roar,

But dare not touch on the reſtraining Shoar.

Here finny Herds of th’ ſmalleſt ſort,

Safely Play and Sport;

Wanton I’th’ Flood, with no more Danger then

The Paſtimes of Leviathan.

Here does in Triumph ride,

The ſtately Trophies of Britania’s Pride:

Her Ships which to the Indies Trade,

Such Noble Fabricks are made;

And ſo numerous appear,

The frighted Natives do our Traffick fear,

And doubt we will invade.

Securely too in theſe,

They viſit the Antipodes.

From Britain they, the courteous Race begun,

A piece of complaiſance unknown,

To all but civil Drake, and the obliging Sun.

Neptune with pompous Pride does bear

Thoſe glorious Terrors; Ships of War.

The floating Towr’s they in Battalia draw;

Keep all the circling Realms in awe.

Yet theſe vaſt Bodies, the ſoft Waters bear:

So the great Bird of Jove, mounts in the trackleſs Air.

B3 On B3v 6

On the ſmooth Floods, the ſwelling Billows riſe,

As if the liquid Mountains touch’d the Skies:

Then quick they plunged, with an Impetuous haſt,

And ſeem’d to ſpeak Deſtruction as they paſs’d,

Yet Arm’d with Avarice and Curioſities,

Men ſcorn the Dangers, of the threatning Seas.


Next on the ſolid Parts, I caſt my Eye,

Did vaſt ſcorcht Deſarts ſpie;

Which untamed Beaſts, and Monſters bred,

By them alone inhabited,

I ſaw huge Mountains of uncommon Earth,

Some belcht with Terror forth;

A ſulpherous Smoak,

Loud as amazing Thunder ſpoke,

From the unexhauſted Bowels came,

Aſhes and Stones, evacuated by Flame;

Remote from theſe are frigid Mountains too;

Thick cloth’d in fleecy Snow.

Some by reſtringent Air congeal’d as hard,

As if with Adamantine barr’d:

Stupen- B4r 7

Stupendious Rocks of hideous Stones I found,

Whoſe dangerous Heads, lean’d o’er the threaten’d Ground.

Deep in Earths center, far from human ſight,

I ſearch’d with intellectual Light;

(Pierc’d to the gloomy Ray

Where ſubterrenean Fires, in ſilence play,

Like the ſaint Glimps of an impriſon’d Day.)

Where unmoleſted Streams with gentle force,

Preſs, to their Primeveal ſource,

(And ſometimes upward, guſh thro’ poreous Earth,

Give to the healing Baths, a uſeful Birth;)

In its more wealthy parts, the Minerals lay,

And ponderous Mettals, ſhining Nerves diſplay:

In her bright Bowels, radient Gems remains

Till cruel Man diffects, and rends her Saphir vains.

With Grief and Wonder I behold,

The Noble, but miſchevious Gold;

Oh! with what Toil, and mighty Pain,

Men the inchanting Mettle gain.

This Tyrant Clay Lords it o’er human kind

Tho’ they themſelves in dirt, at firſt the Monarch find;

B4 Lets B4v 8

Lets their Stupidity, no more upbraid,

Who worſhipp’d Gods, which their own Hands had made,

Since we’re by Gold to greater Crimes betray’d.

Our Country, Faith, Friends, Honour for its ſold,

Nay, Heaven and Love is ſacrafic’d to Gold;

We’re worſe Idolaters, than they,

Who only Homage gave; ſince we miſcheviouſly obey.


Then the habitable World appear’d,

By Art, vaſt Towns and pompous Temples rear’d.

The pleaſing Fields, a while detain’d my fight

With a ſerene delight:

The flowry Meads, with various Colours dy’d,

And ſmiling Nature, in her verdant Pride;

Here ancient Woods, and blooming Groves,

(Fit receſſes, for celeſtial Loves,)

Where purling Streams, glide with delightful haſt,

On whoſe cool Banks, are ſpreading Willows plac’d:

The chearful Birds ſing on the ſhading Bough,

In ſuch glad Notes, as Nature did beſtow.

The B5r 9

The bleating Flocks and Herds, o’erſpread the Plains,

And recompence the joyful Peaſants pains.

Here the unenvy’d Village ſtood,

Rais’d of native Clay, and neighbouring Wood.

The Inhabitants as void of Pride, or Art,

Bleſt with plain Diet, and an honeſt Heart;

Theys Plow’d the Ground, and Sow’d the pregnant Grain,

Reap’d joyfully; the plentious Crop again:

Innocent Slaves, to whoſe rude Care we owe,

The chief ſupports of Life, and utmoſt needs below.

Remoter helps are Springs to Luxury,

Rich Wines and Spices, and the Tyrian die,

Do not our Wants, but Wantonneſs ſupply.

Here in his humble Cott, the Ruſtick lies,

Knows not the Curſe, of being Great or Wiſe;

Ambition, Treachery, and Fear,

Are Strangers here.

Secure and quiet they go plodding on,

Happy, becauſe too mean to be undone.

Then B5v 10


Then I eſpy’d from far,

Troops of ſhining Men, ingag’d in War,

Their artful Weapons, are with Rage imploy’d,

And Man, by Man, is Savagely deſtroy’d:

Poor mercenary Slaves they die,

But ſeldom know for why;

Oh! what Confuſions here I connot bear,

Theſe horrid Groans that reach my diſtant Ear

From ſlaugher’d heaps, of dying Accents there

Sometimes waſt Towns in Flames appear,

Huge Caſtles mount, and ſhatter in the Air,

But ah! what pity ’tis,

Mankind ſhould Glory in ſuch Arts as theſe;

Then to the populous Cities, I repair’d,

Found they were little leſs inſnar’d;

Tho’ not Alarm’d with mighty noiſe of Wars,

Yet curs’d with grating, private Jars,

Envy and Strife, Self-Intereſt, and Deceits,

Extravagance and Noiſe, her Fate compleats.

Then I ſurvey’d the ſplendid Court,

Found pageant Follies, Revelling and Sport,

Baſe B6r 11

Baſe Falſhood, Luſt, Ambition, Emnity,

Soft wanton Intervals, and Luxury,

Deſtructive Flattery, and hateful Pride,

And all the City Sins beſide.

Thinks I, what ſhall I do

If I muſt live again below,

For I remember’d that I had been there,

And a return to Earth, did fear.

Grant ye bleſs’d Powers, faid I,

If I muſt downwards fly;

I may Deſcend upon the blooming Plain,

Bleſs’d with the harmleſs Nymph, and humble Swain,

There let me ever undiſturb’d remain.

On the Honourable Robert Boyl’s, Notion of Nature.

Tis bravely done, great Boyle has diſenthron’d.

The Goddeſs Nature, ſo unjuſtly Crown’d,

And by the Learn’d ſo many Ages own’d.

Reſ B6v 12

Refuge of Atheiſts, whoſe ſupine deſire,

Pleas’d with that Stage, no farther will aſpire:

It damps the Theifts too, while they aſſign,

To Nature, what’s done by a Power divine.

We know not how, nor where, to aſcribeevents,

While ſhe’s thus Rival to Omnipotence;

Sure that alone, the mighty Work can do,

The Power that did create, can Govern too:

It is not like our ſublumary Kings,

That muſt be circumſcrib’d to place, and things,

Whoſe ſtraighten’d Power, doth Miniſters Elect,

That muſt for them remoter buſineſs act,

The Omnipreſence, of the Power Divine,

Argues it need no Deputies aſſign;

Nor is’t beneath the Glory of his State,

To Rule, Protect the Beings he create:

But ſtop my Pen, bluſh at thy weak pretence,

Tis Boyle, not thee, that muſt the World convince;

Boyle the great Champinion of Providence.

Whoſe conquering Truths in an Inquiry dreſt,

Have celebrated Nature diſpoſſeſt;

Not the Vice gerent of Heavens ſettled Rules,

But nice Idea of the erring Schools.

Fate, B7r 13

Fate, Fortune, Chance, all notional and vain

The floating Fictions of the Poet’s brain;

The World rejects, yet ſtupidly prefers,

This wild Chimera of Philoſophers:

This more inſinuating Notion lay,

Unqueſtion’d till you made your brave Aſſay,

Which doth the daring Sceptick more confute,

Than a ſuſpected Orthodox diſpute.

They can’t pretend Int’reſt, thy Lines doth Bribe

With which they cenſure, the Canonick Tribe:

’Twas Love of Truth alone, thy Pen did move,

Nor none but thee, could ſo ſucceſful prove.

Methinks I all the School-mens Shades eſpy,

Tending thy Tryumphs of Philoſophy,

And all the pregnant Naturiſt of Yore,

From the Great Stagarite, to deſcartes and more;

Reſigning their Gigantick Notions now,

And only what you write for Truth allow.

See they have all their renounc’d Volumes brought,

(Bidding Mankind believe, what you have Taught;

Aſham’d they’ve been, renown’d ſo may Years,

Each from his bluſhing Brow his Laurel tares:

With B7v 14

With their own Hands, in one juſt Wreath they twine,

Adorning that victorious Head of thine.

And ſhall my Female Pen, thy Praiſe pretend,

When Angels only, can enough commend,

In Songs, which like themſelves, can know no End.

Satyr against the Muſes.

By my abandon’d Muſe, I’m not inſpir’d,

Provok’d by malice, and with Rage I’m fir’d,

Fly, fly, my Muſe from my diſtracted Breaſt,

Who e’er has thee, muſt be with Plagues poſſeſt:

Fool that I was, e’er to ſollicite you,

Who make not only Poor, but wretched too.

Happy I liv’d, for almoſt Eight years time,

Curſs’d be your Skill, you taught me then to Rhime:

The Jingling noiſe, ſhed its dark Influence,

On my then pleaſed, unwary Innocence,

I ſcarce have had one happy Moment ſince.

Here B8r 15

Here all the Spire and Rage of Womankind,

Cannot enough advance my threatning Mind,

Let Furies too, be in the Conſort join’d.

Paſſion, that common Rage, I here refuſe,

Call Hell itſelf, to curſe my torturing Muſe;

Not the calm Author of bleſt Poetry,

But the black Succubus of Miſery:

There let her fit, with her Infernal Chyme,

And put the Schreiks and Groans of Fiends in Rhime.

May their Parnaſſus, like Veſevius burn,

Their Laurels wither, or to Cypriſs turn;

May Stuff like Hopkin’s Rhyme, degrade their Fame,

And none but Ballad-makers uſe their Name:

May they deſpis’d, ſad and neglected ſit,

Be never thought upon by Men of Wit.

May all the Ills a fond Imperious Dame,

Wiſhes the Man that dare reject her Flame,

Light upon him, that does commit the Crime,

Of writing any thing, in jingling Rhime;

Nothing like that, to Dangers can expoſe,

May none be Happy, but what write in Proſe.

Curſe on the Whimſical, Romanick Fool,

That yielded firſt, to his Phantaſtick Rule;

That B8v 16

That Wit like Morris-dancers muſt advance,

With Bells at Feet, and in nice meaſures Dance.

Let pregnant Heads, but think of Poetry,

And juſt before the Brain-delivery;

Fancy ſhall make a Prodigy of Wit,

Which ſoon, as born, ſhall run upon its Feet:

Sure, ’tis ſome Necromantick Ordinance,

That Sence, beyond the Circle mayn’t advance;

Was all the learned Ancients Courage dead,

That Wit, in Fetters, is tame Captive led?

Had Some oppos’d, when Rhyme at firſt grew bold,

Then her Defeat, not Triumphs had been told?

But now the Plague is grown ſo populous,

’Tis hard to ſtop the univerſal Curſe.

Doubtleſs, they are miſtaken who have told

Spightful Pandora’s pregnant Box did hold

Plurality of Plague, She only hurl’d

Out Verſe alone, and that has damn’d the World.

Curſes, in vain, on Poets I beſtow;

I’m ſure, the greateſt is, that they are ſo;

Fate, ſend worſe if thou can’ſt, but Reſcue me

From trifling torturing wretched Poetry.

To C1r 17

To the Queen.

My trembling Muſe, with awful Duty preſs,

Mong’ſt kneeling crouds, with thy unfeign’d Addreſs;

Since meaneſt Slaves, to Altars may repair,

With ſacred Rites, of Sacrifice and Prayer.

Heaven takes the Incenſe, if it is ſincere,

Freely as if the Great, had offer’d there,

Bleſs’d with ſuch hopes, my Muſe, with Proſtrate Zeal,

Dare at the Feet of her great Sovereign kneel;

You I revere, like Heaven, not cauſe you’r high,

Not for your Glory, but Divinity.

The radiant Gems, that deck Britannia’s Crown,

Ne’er ſhone ſo Bright, till you had put it on;

You, who have condeſcended to a Throne.

In you kind Heaven, the unuſual Bleſſing brings,

Greatneſs and Goodneſs, are conſiſtent Things:

Your Subjects modeſt Merits your regard,

Virtue, not Impudence, now finds Reward;

Goodneſs like yours ſo aws the Bolder ſort,

As makes a Sanctuary of your Court.

C All C1v 18

All your Retinue, ſo reform’d appear,

As if the Golden Age, were Blooming here;

Fix’d like the Sun, ſuperior you diſpence,

On all the under World, your bliſsful Influence.

The Graces in your ſmiles, with Grandeur move,

And form an Air of Majeſty and Love:

Heaven be propitious to my Monarch’s Arms,

And make them as Victorious, as her Charms,

Revenge on your proud Foes, their Salick Law,

With your fair Hand, their boaſted Greatneſs awe.

Why are we barr’d, or why I Woman made,

Whoſe Sex forbids to Fight, and to Invade,

Or give my Queen, more than my wiſh for Aid?

I ſhall not tremble, at the Launce, or Sword,

Will ſtrait turn Amazon, but ſpeak the Word;

Scarce can I curb, my eager loyal Soul,

For you I’d fight, Mankind from Pole to Pole,

Till all the Kingdoms, in one Empire meet,

Then lay the Crown at your Imperial Feet.

They’d bleſs the Arms, which did their Realms ſubdue,

And hug the Chains, which made them Slaves to you;

May you in Peace, long Rule your Native Land,

And the juſt Terror, of Ambition ſtand:

May C2r 19

May every Subject you protect; Profeſs

As much as I, and dare to act no leſs.

The Liberty.

Shall I be one, of thoſe obſequious Fools,

That ſquare there lives, by Cuſtoms ſcanty Rules;

Condemn’d for ever, to the puny Curſe,

Of Precepts taught, at Boarding ſchool, or Nurſe,

That all the buſineſs of my Life muſt be,

Fooliſh, dull Trifling, Formality.

Confin’d to a ſtrict Magick complaiſance,

And round a Circle, of nice viſits Dance,

Nor for my Life beyond the Chalk advance:

The Devil Cenſure, ſtands to guard the same,

One ſtep awry, he tears my ventrous Fame.

So when my Friends, in a facetious Vein,

With Mirth and Wit, a while can entertain;

Tho’ ne’er ſo pleaſant, yet I muſt not ſtay,

If a commanding Clock, bids me away:

But with a ſuden ſtart, as in a Fright,

I muſt be gone indeed, ’tis after Eight.

C2 Sure C2v 20

Sure theſe reſtraints, with ſuch regret we bear,

That dreaded Cenſure, can’t be more ſevere,

Which has no Terror, if we did not fear;

But let the Bug-bear, timerous Infants fright,

I’ll not be ſcar’d, from Innocent delight:

Whatever is not vicious, I dare do,

I’ll never to the Idol Cuſtom bow,

Unleſs it ſuits with my own Humour too.

Some boaſt their Fetters, of Formality,

Fancy they ornamental Bracelets be,

I’m ſure their Gyves, and Manacles to me.

To their dull fulſome Rules, I’d not be ty’d

For all the Flattery that exalts their Pride:

My Sexs forbids, I ſhould my Silence break,

I loſe my Jeſt, cauſe Women muſt not ſpeak.

Myſteries muſt not be, with my ſearch Prophan’d,

My Cloſet not with Books, but Sweat-meats cram’d

A little China, to advance the Show,

My Prayer Book, and ſeven Champions, or ſo.

My Pen if ever us’d imploy’d muſt be,

In lofty Themes of uſeful Houſwifery,

Tranſcribing old Receipts of Cookery:

And C3r 21

And what is neceſſary ’mongſt the reſt,

Good Cures for Agues, and a cancer’d Breaſt,

But I can’t here, write my Probatum eſt.

My daring Pen, will bolder Sallies make,

And like my ſelf, an uncheck’d freedom take;

Not chain’d to the nice Order of my Sex,

And with reſtraints my wiſhing Soul perplex:

I’ll bluſh at Sin, and not what ſome call Shame,

Secure my Virtue, ſlight precarious Fame.

This Courage ſpeaks me, Brave, ’tis ſurely worſe,

To keep thoſe Rules, which privately we Curſe:

And I’ll appeal, to all the formal Saints,

With what reluctance they indure reſtraints.

To the Lady Cambell, with a Female Advocate.

Go, fatal Book, yet happy at the laſt,

Since in ſo fair, ſo kind a Hand thou’rt plac’d,

(That ſuch a Trifle, e’er ſhould be ſo grac’d.)

But your Deſires, which are to me Commands,

Can charm what e’er you pleaſe out of my Hands;

C3 I ra- C3v 22

I rather than neglect obliging you,

Expoſe my Follies, to your nice view:

But hope your Goodneſs, will one Smile beſtow,

On what my tender Infant Muſe did do.

Scarce fourteen Years, when I the piece begun,

And in leſs time than fourteen days ’twas done;

Without deſign of Publication writ,

And Innocence ſupply’d, the want of Wit.

But ah! my Poetry, did fatal prove,

And robb’d me of a tender Father’s Love;

(I thought that only Men, who writ for Fame,

Or ſung lewd Stories, of unlawful Flame,

Were puniſh’d for, their proud or wanton Crime.

But Children too, muſt ſuffer if they’ll Rhyme:)

The Preſent is but mean, which you receive,

Yet coſt me more, than all the World can give,

That which I would, with Life itſelf retrieve.

But madam, if your Goodneſs condeſcend,

And one kind Minute, on this trifle ſpend;

It will compleat my Happineſs at laſt,

And recompence for all my Sorrows paſt.

On C4r 23

On my leaving London, June the 29.

What croſs impetous Planets govern me,

That I’m thus hurry’d on to Miſery;

I thought I had been bleſs’d, a while ago,

But one quick puſh, plung’d me all o’er in Woe.

My cruel Fate, doth act the Tyrant’s part,

And doth Torment me, with a lingering ſmart;

To make me ſenſible of greater Pain,

Lets me take Breath, then ſcrews the Rack again:

Ah! where’s the Joy, of ſuch precarious Bliſs,

That for one ſmiling ſhort Parentheſis;

I muſt ſuch tedious horrid Pangs indure,

And neither State, will either kill or cure.

With all Submiſſion, I my Fate implore,

Deſtroy me quite, or elſe Torment no more;

At least let not one glimps of Joy appear,

It only makes my Sufferings more ſevere.

No, here I’ll Rule, not ſue to you for this,

You cannot tantalize me now with Bliſs;

For when you took, my Father’s love away,

Perverſe as you, I’d not let others ſtay:

I was not ſo inſenſibly undone,

To hoord up Counters, when my Gold was gone.

C4 Plun- C4v 24

Plunder’d of all, I now forſake the Place,

Where all my Joys, and all my Treaſure was,

Ah do not now, my wandering Footſteeps Trace;

I left the Town, and all Divertiſement,

And in a lonely Village am content.

Nor do I ask to be remov’d from hence,

Tho’ Man and Beaſt, are both of equal Senſe:

I had not fled, but ſtrongly forc’d by you,

In haſt bid Mother, Siſters ſad adieu.

I ſaw them laſt of all I knew in Town,

Yet all alike to me are Strangers grown;

I almoſt have forgot I e’er was there,

And the ſad Accidents that brought me here.

Ah Fate! purſue me not in this Retreat,

Let me be quiet in this humble Seat:

Let not my friends know where to ſend to me,

Leſt I grow pleas’d with their Civility.

I’d fain live unconcern’d, not pleas’d nor croſs’d,

And be to all the buſy World as loſt.

The C5r 25

The Repulſe to Alcander.

What is’t you mean, that I am thus approach’d,

Dare you to hope, that I may be debauch’d?

For your ſeducing Words the ſame implies,

In begging Pity with a ſoft Surprize,

For one who loves, and ſighs, and almoſt dies.

In ev’ry Word and Action doth appear,

Something I hate and bluſh to ſee or hear;

At firſt your Love for vaſt Reſpect was told,

Till your exceſs of Manners grew too bold,

And did your baſe, deſigning Thoughts unſold.

When a Salute did ſeem to Cuſtom due,

With too much Ardour you’d my Lips purſue;

My Hand, with which you play’d, you’d Kiſs and Preſs,

Nay ev’ry Look had ſomething of Addreſs.

Ye Gods! I cry’d, ſure he deſigns to woo,

For thus did amorous Phylaster do.

The Youth whoſe Paſſion none could diſaprove,

When Hymen waited to compleat his Love;

But now, when ſacred Laws and Vows confine

Me to another what can you deſign?

At C5v 26

At firſt, I could not ſee the lewd Abuſe,

But fram’d a thouſand Things for your Excuſe.

I knew that Bacchus ſometimes did inſpire

A ſudden Tranſport, tho’ not laſting Fire;

For he no leſs than Cupid can make kind,

And force a Fondneſs which was ne’er deſign’d;

Or thought you’d travel’d far, and it might chance,

To be the foreign Mode of Complaiſance.

Till you ſo oft your amorous Crimes repeat,

That to permit you would make mine as great;

Nor ſtopt you here but languiſhingly ſpake,

That Love which I endeavour’d to miſtake:

What ſaw you in me, that could make you vain,

Or any thing expect, but juſt Diſdain?

I muſt confeſs I am not quite ſo Nice,

To Damn all little Gallantries for Vice;

(But I ſee now my Charity’s miſplac’d,

If none but ſullen Saints can be thought Chaſt:)

Yet know, Baſe Man, I ſcorn your lewd Amours,

Hate them from all, not only cauſe they’re yours.

Oh ſacred Love! let not the World prophane,

Thy Tranſports, thus to Sport, and Entertain;

The Beau, with ſome ſmall Artifice of’s own,

Can make a Treat, for all the wanton Town:

I C6r 27

I thought my ſelf ſecure, within theſe Shades,

But your rude Love, my Privacy invades,

Affronts my Virtue, hazards my juſt Fame,

Why ſhould I ſuffer, for your lawleſs Flame?

For oft ’tis known, through Vanity and Pride,

Men boaſt thoſe Favours which they are deny’d:

Or others Malice, which can ſoon diſcern;

Perhaps may ſee in you ſome kind Concern.

So ſcatter falſe Suggeſtions of their own.

That I love too: Oh! Stain to my Renown;

No, I’le be Wiſe, avoid your Sight in time,

And ſhun at once the Cenſure and the Crime.

To Mr. Norris, on his Idea of Happineſs.


If Pythagorick notions would agree,

With ſublimated Chriſtianity;

What mighty Soul, ſhall I allow,

Informs thy Body now;

For when did ſuch appear,

Sure the belov’d Diſciple’s Soul is here.

Not C6v 28

Not us’d ſince then, but kept above,

And taught a more extatick Love;

The Underſtanding more inlarg’d and free,

Each generous Faculty

Refin’d, Improv’d, made more compleat,

In the ſeraphick Seat.

The brighteſt warmeſt of th’ exalted Quire,

Flaming with Rays of beatifick Fire;

Such ſeems thy elevated Soul to be,

And not the uſual ſort gave to Mortality.


The great, the Eternal God of Love,

Took Pity on us from above;

He could no longer ſee,

Our Souls wrapt in Obſcurity:

But ſent thee like, a bright celeſtial Ray,

To clear our Sight, and to direct the Way;

To the Etherial Courts of Bliſs,

The only great, and laſting Happineſs,

The active native Principle of Love,

We found did move

By an internal Influence,

But ’twas toward ſome object of the Senſe:

Ef- C7r 29

Effects and Cauſes were not underſtood,

We only knew we wiſht for Good,

And would with Joy each glimpſe purſue,

Reſolve to faſten there, and think ’twas true.

In vain we thought our Love was fixt,

For all thoſe Joys were intermixt

With Diſappointments and Deceit,

Our ſtrugling Souls themselves did cheat:

Still they deſir’d and lov’d, but were not bleſt,

Nor found they Reſt,

Till thy bright Pen markt out the happy Prize,

Taught us at once to love and to be wiſe.


Thou doſt diſect our weak diſtemper’d Soul,

Diſcover’ſt the Diſeaſe and mak’ſt us whole;

Preſcrib’ſt ſuch Methods, which if we obey,

We ſhall no longer doat on Clay,

Which long our vitiatred Souls have fed,

But ſhall have Appetite to Celeſtial Bread.

We ſhall no longer fondly play,

With Trifles on the way,

But climb the Hill with a delightful haſt,

And feaſt our Souls at thy divine Repaſt.

But C7v 30

But leſt, like doubtful or unthankful Gueſt,

We ſhould neglect the Royal Feaſt;

Thou, to incourage our appearance there,

Haſt kindly given us a Bill of Fare.


By powerful Energy of Thoughts divine,

Thou didſt thy Soul raiſe and refine,

With ſtrong Impulſe it did upward move,

Mounting on eager Wings of Love;

Through all th’ inferior Courts it made its way,

To the bright Spring of everlaſting day;

Did all the amazing Glories ſee,

And what it ſhou’d hereafter be,

Saluted by the ſoft Seraphick Quire,

Who’s Anthems all its Faculties inſpire,

But flaſht to mighty Rays of ſacred Fire.

For the refulgent Glories were too great,

It could not bear ſuch Raptures yet,

Till Immortality had made it more compleat:

It could no longer ſtay, no longer view,

Then down again it flew

Did with Angelick Radiance ſhine,

Inſpir’d with Sapience divine.

It C8r 31

It doth its bright Etherial Voyage tell,

And in what Bliſs departed Souls do dwell:

All this in pure and pregnant Elegance we hear,

Plain as Corporeal Organs can declare,

That when we read thy Lines we almoſt think we’re there.

The Retreat.

Adieu to all ſplendid Gallantry,

Complaiſant Pleaſures, modiſh Gaiety;

Airy Delights, imaginary Joys,

Faſhions, Entertainments, Wit and Noiſe;

To all the Follies of my former State,

All that’s Genteel, or Popular, or Great.

I’ll move no longer in this gaudy Sphear,

I’ve been gaz’d at enough, ’tis time to diſappear.

Without Concern, I’ll leave the glittering Seat;

No, not the ſofteſt Sigh ſhall ſound retreat,

Leſt Fate ſhould over-hear, miſtruſt my Flight,

Purſue me now, and ſo undo me quite.

In theſe ſoft Shades, I no Misfortune fear,

For ſhe will never think to find me here;

My C8v 32

My Joys, ſhall be by her no more betray’d,

I’ll cheat her now, in this kind Maſquerade;

While ſhe in Noiſe and Crowds doth ſearch for me

I’ll lie Secure in ſafe Obſcurity.

A ſilent Village doth poor Pleaſures yield,

Or harmleſs Sports of the delightful Field;

Then all the pageant Glories of a Throne,

Luxurious Pleaſures of the wanton Town.

Here is the Copy of loſt Paradice,

The pure and ſpotleſs Quinteſſence of Bliſs:

All the ſafe Paſtimes Mankind can enjoy,

Which Innocence delight, but not deſtroy:

Here I am bleſt in theſe ſecure Abodes,

As once in Shades were the retiring Gods:

Theſe ſilvan Joys know no ſurprizing Strife,

This is to live, whilſt others ſpend a Life:

Here is the Summum Bonum of the Earth,

Here the renowned Poets had their Birth;

Or hither, from the noiſy World retir’d,

Here their great Souls, with noble Raptures fir’d

Philoſophers of old, in Solitude,

Their own reſiſting Paſſions firſt ſubdu’d;

Then with good Precepts civiliz’d the Rude:

They D1r 33

They knew a Court or City would moleſt

The calm Conceptions of a ſtudious Breaſt.

Here the Manntuan Swain gain’d all his Bays

To Solitude his unmatch’d Pen doth raiſe,

Diſſerved Trophies of immortal Praiſe.

How many Monarchs weary of their State,

Have quit their Glories for a mean retreat;

Thought ſilent Shades far happier than Thrones,

That Garlands ſat much eaſier than Crowns.

Then why’s the wond’ring World amaz’d at me,

For leaving Fraud and Infidelity?

The poor miſtaken World who places Joys

In ſplendid Popularity and Noiſe,

When after all it’s Search it muſt conclude,

’Tis in a Friend, and well-choſe Solitude.

To who in Love, ſet a Figure.

In vain alas ye ſearch artleſs Books

A lover’s Fates writ in his Miſtriſ’s Looks;

Tis to no purpoſe that ye gaze ith’ Skys,

There are no Stars like her propitious Eyes.

When Hearts are loſt to ſet a Figure vain,

None but the Thief knows if you’ll hav’t again.

D Your D1v 34

Your Venus ask, not Mercury’s Aid intreat,

For he knows nothing of an amorous Cheat:

’Tis ſhe alone that can the Myſtery tell,

Read but her Looks they are infallible;

Conſult the upper World for Death and Wars,

She is Love’s Heaven, her Eyes the only Stars:

Since her kind Influence hath attracted you,

She may admit of Conjunction too.

To Philaſter

Go perjur’d Youth and court what Nymph you pleaſe,

Your Paſſion now is but a dull Diſeaſe,

With worn-out Sighs deceive ſome liſt’ning Ear,

Who longs to know how ’tis and what Men ſwear,

She’l think they’r new from you; ’cause ſo to her.

Poor couſin’d Fool, ſhe ne’er can know the Charms

Of being firſt encircled in thy Arms.

When all Love’s Joys were innocent and gay,

As freſh and blooming as the new-born day.

Your Charms did then with native Sweetneſs flow,

The forc’d-kind Complaiſance you now beſtow,

Is but a falſe agreeable Deſign,

But you had Innocence when you were mine,

And all your Words, and Smiles, and Looks divine

How D2r 35

How Proud, methinks, thy Miſtriſs does appear

Her ſully’d Cloths, which I’d no longer wear;

Her Boſom too with wither’d Flowers dreſt,

Which loſt their Sweets in my firſt choſen Breaſt;

Perjur’d impoſing Youth, cheat who you will,

Supply defect of Truth with amorous Skill;

Yet thy Addreſs muſt needs inſipid be,

For the firſt Ardour of thy Soul was all poſſeſs’d by me

At my leaving Cambridge August the 14th, Extempore.

Cambridge adieu! I ne’er ſhall ſee thee more,

Nor feaſt my Soul at Learning’s mighty Store;

Not one freſh Drop of thy ambroſial Senſe,

To quench my Thirſt at learned Cham’s Expence;

Apollo’s Fountain I muſt ever quit,

Who’s only Nectar is the ſtreams of Wit;

I thy fair Colleges no more ſhall ſee,

Each Greece, Rome, Athens, in Epitomy;

The antient infant Learning which they taught,

Could only here be to Perfection brought;

D2 They’ve D2v 36

They’ve finiſh’d all, each long hid Spring diſcern,

The Gods themſelves may hover here and learn;

And if in every Grace they would advance,

Let B— give Wit, and G— teach Complaiſance;

To th’ ſacred Vatican no more I come,

But grieve like Ovid when excluded Rome.

To Orabella, Marry’d to an Old Man

Tell me fair Nymph who juſtly had deſign’d

A charming Youth to ſuit your equal Mind;

What did ſeduce you thus to match with one,

Whom if by Nature made ſhe’ll ſcarcely own?

For form’d ſo many Centuries ago,

She has forgot if he’s her Work or no;

I think the way to do his Reverence right,

Is to ſuppoſe him a Pre-Adamite:

Your blooming Youth his Age beyond decay,

Will teach cenſorious Malice what to ſay

Who ſpite of Virtue will your Fame betray.

What ſtrong Perſuaſions made you thus to wed,

With ſuch a Carcaſs ſcandalize your Bed?

Sure’t was no earthly Gain that charm’d you to’t,

Nothing but hopes of Heaven ſhould make me do’t:

But D3r 37

But ſince there’s other ways to gain that Bliſs,

Diſpatching Martyrdom I wou’d not miſs;

To be ſecur’d, could I but ’ſcape from this.

The monſter Twin whoſe Brother grew from’s Side,

With all the ſtench he ſuffer’d when he dy’d,

Is a juſt Emblem of ſo yok’d a Bride.

But Ptiſick, Gout and Palſie have their Charms,

And did intice you to his trembling Arms:

Kind amorous Glances from his hollow Eyes,

Did your gay Breaſt with rapturous Joys ſurprize

Ah! who can blame to ſee a yielding Maid,

By all theſe blooming Charms to Love betray’d.

Oh! for a veſtal’s Coldneſs to reſiſt

The tempting Softneſs in ſuch Beauties dreſt.

The bright Idea ſoon diſſolves in Air,

And in it’s room the Picture of Deſpair.

A moving Skeleton he ſeems to be,

Nature’s antienteſt Anatomy.

Worth Obſervation, hang him up therefore

In Greſham College, and I’ll ask no more.

D3 To D3v 38

To Alexis, on his abſence.

Say, lovely Youth, why all this niceneſs ſhown,

Is modeſt Paſſion, ſo offenſive grown?

I’ll not oblige too far, nor force my Charms,

To tempt your Coyneſs to my flighted Arms:

Give me but leave, with ſecret ſighs to Gaze,

And ſilent Joys, view that dear fatal Face.

I never dreſs’d, nor ſmil’d, us’d no ſoft Art,

No little Amorous cheat to win your Heart,

Nor knew in mine you had ſo great a Part;

Till from my Sight you cautiouſly remov’d,

Then, not till then, I knew how well I lov’d:

’Twas my Advice, you ſhould awhile abſent,

I ne’er deſign’d it for a Baniſhment.

But wiſely you, as if you fear’d your Fate,

Shun what you would not Love, and cannot hate;

Yet ſpite of all your Vanity and Care,

Know my Alexis, that I have you here:

Here in my Breast, your deareſt Image glows,

Warms every Wiſh, and ſoftens all my Vows.

Inſpires my Muſe, to wanton in your Charms,

And feaſt on Joys, which are deny’d my Arms:

In D4r 39

In melting ſtrains, ſhe ſhall my Paſſion tell,

Deſcribe thoſe lovely Eyes, and Smiles ſo well;

Till every Nymph who my ſoft Lines ſhall ſee,

Sights and Adores, and owns ſhe loves like me.

That ſhape, that Mein, that dear undoing Tongue,

With thouſand unknown Charms ſhall fill my Song,

To glad the liſtening World and make it laſt as long.

With an Eternal blaſt the trump of Fame,

Will ſound Alexis and Clarinda’s Name,

Your matchleſs Graces, my unequall’d Flame.

You ſhall this fondneſs of my Muſe forgive,

And tho’ not in my Arms, in my ſoft numbers live:

While warlike Heroes who are half Divine,

Shall have their Glories ſung, in meaner Lays than thine.

A Song.

Curſe on this Virtue Conſtancy,

Of which we’re vainly Proud;

It like a Crime doth Torture me,

Since all my ſofter thoughts of Bliſs,

And ev’ry kind and tender Wiſh,

Is on a careleſs thankleſs Swain beſtow’d.

D4 I D4v 40

I with more eaſe could bear my Fate,

Forgive his Cruelty,

If ſtupidly our Sex he hate:

But he doth Smile on every Fair,

The partial Curſe I cannot bear,

For, oh he’s kind! he’s kind! to all but me.


Love, like Original Sin, in all does dwell,

Fools ſighs in private, and the Witty tell;

Boaſt they’r fond Paſſions in repeated Rhymes,

That other Reigning Miſchief of the Times:

The Learn’d aſham’d to own their Amorous Pain,

Vent the warm Raptures in a Pious ſtrain,

Sigh, Languiſh, Die, (tho’ for a Mortal fair,)

In Lays Divine, like Quarles and Arwaker.

A Song.

Phylaſter’s grown unkind,

The lovely perjur’d Youth,

Tho’ by ſacred Oaths confind;

Has now loſt all his Truth.

He D5r 41

He ſwore ten thouſand times,

By all the Powers above,

Wiſh’d they would revenge his Crimes,

If he was falſe to Love.

Yet, ſpite of all he’s gone,

Fled my once dear Imbrace;

And now I muſt be undone,

For ſome new Shape or Face.

Ye heedleſs Nymphs beware,

How you receive my Swain,

Ah! believe not tho’ he Swear,

For he will change again.

The ſullen part of Love,

Doth only Torture us,

When the Men pleaſe to remove,

They make ſome new Addreſs.

With Paſſion like ſoft Truths,

They court freſh gentle ſcorn;

We muſt wait till other Youths,

Do want to be forſworn.

To D5v 42

To One who ſaid I must not Love.

Bid the fond Mother ſpill her Infants Blood,

The hungry Epicure not think of Food;

Bid the Antartick touch the Artick Pole:

When theſe obey I’ll force Love from my Soul.

As Light and Heat compoſe the Genial Sun,

So Love and I eſſentially are one:

E’er your Advice a thouſand ways I try’d

To eaſe the inherent Pain, but ’twas deny’d;

Tho’ I reſolv’d, and griev’d, and almoſt dy’d

Then I would needs dilate the mighty Flame,

Play the Coquet, hazard my deareſt Fame:

The modiſh Remedy I try’d in vain,

One thought of him contracts it all again.

Weary’d at laſt, curſt Hymen’s Aid I choſe;

But find the fetter’d Soul has no Repoſe.

Now I’m a double Slave to Love and Vows:

As if my former Sufferings were too ſmall,

I’ve made the guiltleſs Torture-Criminal.

E’er this I gave a looſe to fond Deſire,

Durſt ſmile, be kind, look, languiſh and admire,

With wiſhing Sighs fan the tranſporting Fire.

But D6r 43

But now theſe ſoft Allays are ſo like Sin,

I’m forc’d to keep the mighty Anguiſh in

Check my too tender Thoughts and riſing Sighs,

As well as eager Arms and longing Eyes.

My Kindneſs to his Picture I refrain,

Nor now imbrace the lifeleſs lovely Swain.

To preſs the charming Shade tho’ thro’ a Glaſs,

Seems a Platonick breach of Hymen’s Laws,

Thus nicely fond, I only ſtand and gaze.

View the dear conq’ring Form that forc’d my Fate,

Till I become as motionleſs as that.

My ſinking Limbs deny their wonted Aid,

Fainting I lean againſt my frighted Maid;

Whoſe cruel Care reſtores my Senſe and Pain,

For ſoon as I have Life I love again,

And with the fated ſoftneſs ſtrive in vain.

Diſtorted Nature ſhakes at the Controul,

With ſtrong Convulſions rends my ſtrugling Soul;

Each vital String cracks with th’ unequal Strife,

Departing Love racks like departing Life;

Yet there the Sorrow ceaſes with the Breath,

But Love each day renews th’ torturing ſcene of Death.

On D6v 44

On the Death of dear Statyra.

Begone my Muſe, Tears quench thy ſacred Fire,

True Grief, like Love, without thee can inſpire.

Mod’rate Sorrows may be told with Art,

But the Diſtractions of my troubled Heart

With ſad Confuſion I muſt needs expreſs,

My Verſe will, like my Sighs, be numberleſs.

Ah cruel Death! why was’t thou ſo ſevere,

To take the Young, the Witty, and the Fair,

The gay Statyra in her blooming days:

Could no leſs Feaſt ſerve thy luxurious Jaws?

Would not the old or diſcontented do?

Thoſe whom Miſfortune forc’d to wiſh for you

No thoſe I by experience find you fly;

And ’tis not thoſe we would, but thoſe you pleaſe, muſt dy.

Guide me, ſome Friend, if I have any one,

Whom Grief has ſpar’d ſince dear Statyra’s gone:

Lead me, I ſay, to ſome ſad Cypriſe ſhade,

Dark as the Grave of the once lovely Maid;

There let me ever mourn the Friend I’ve loſt:

Ye Gods, why was Statyra made a Ghoſt?

I can D7r 45

I can no more gaze on that charming Face,

Hear that ſweet Voice, nor have one dear Imbrace;

View that ſoft Air and Mien, and ſport and play,

As we was wont on Summer-banks each day.

Ye pleaſant Walks whom ſhe ſo oft did grace,

Who’s Charms did dart a Glory round the place.

Keep on your diſmal Hue, let not the Spring

Put on your freſh Attire, nor Summer bring.

The leſs gay verdant Look ye Birds be ſtill,

Sound not one Note unleſs ſad Philomel.

Each lofty Tree hang down your ſtately Head,

Bud forth no more now gay Statyra’s dead;

But let your naked Boughs be ever join’d

In murmuring Sorrows with the ſighing Wind:

No Blow, no Wind to move the yielding Bough,

My louder Sighs will do that Office now.

Keep back your force ye Springs that grace the Woods,

My Tears alone will ſwell you into Floods:

And all too little for the Friend I grieve,

Now ſhe is gone ’tis not worth while to live.

On D7v 46

On being ―― tax’d with Symony.

Hence ye prophane Intruders, what d’e mean,

To pry in ſecret Things that mayn’t be ſeen?

Your Paſtor wonders at your Inſolence,

’Tis Treaſon ’gainſt your Eccleſiaſtick Prince.

Pulpits no more than Crowns muſt be propahn’d,

And if poſſeſs’d, not queſtion’d how obtain’d:

With-hold your hands, rend not the ſacred Veil

Of his Sanctorum, leſt his Prieſthood fail.

The mighty Myſteries he ſo long conceal’d;

Will be by Lay-mens impious means reveal’d:

Sure, you’ll not dare the Secret to pronounce,

No more than Jews their Tetragrammatons.

Yes, it is out the ſymonaick Sound,

With Horror doth the frighted Prieſt confound

Sure, the laſt Trumpet can’t amaze him more,

For he till then had ſet in on the Score;

In vain he’ll to the Horns of th’ Altar fly,

(Alias his Patron) for Security:

They’ll drag him thence, that is no ſacred Hold,

Since tip’d by him with ſymonaick Gold:

Had they been guided by the Patroneſs,

She kindly had contriv’d the Danger leſs:

No D8r 47

No avaritious Zeal her Soul did move,

For ſhe was nobly guided by her Love:

Thought Youth and Wit ſufficient to prefer,

They were more tempting Things than Gold with her.

But now the Favourite muſt his Purchaſe quit,

And live, not by his Learning, but his Wit.

An occaſional Copy, in Anſwer to Mr. Joshua Barns, Extempore.

Go my proud Muſe, yet thanks ſubmiſely yield,

Not from obliging, but obliged Field;

Since mighty Barns doth Complement thee ſo,

The World will ſure ſome little Pride allow.

He who’s great Pen and elevated Senſe,

Can grace the Acts of an Heroick Prince;

Yet condeſcends to celebrate thy Name,

Whoſe approbation is ſufficient Fame.

What need was there to ſend it by a Friend?

Sure Barn’s Verſe itſelf can recommend:

Sent by a Foe my Rage you had beguil’d,

And for its ſake I had been reconcil’d.

How D8v 48

How ſhould your Fancy be inrich’d by me,

Thou pregnant Author of beſt Poetry.

The fruitful Fields do ſtock the Barns each Year,

My barren Muſe cannot allow it here:

She is but Poor, and been ſo long retir’d,

She could not write until by you Inſpir’d.

Heaven has not giv’n Woman higheſt Wit,

But you good Nature to ſpeak well of it;

I wiſh I did deſerve the Praiſe you give,

Then like your Verſe I ſhould Immortal live;

But thus I take your Lines they ſpeak to me,

Not what I am, but what I ought to be.

Song on Madam S-------

Tho’ the Amorous Beau,

So courtly and fine,

Admire a Dreſs,

And Face of fifteen.

Let Orinda but ſpeak,

Her Tongue will ſurprize,

And make him her Slave,

Spight of Celia’s bright Eyes.

Was E1r 49

Was ſhe old and deform’d,

Her Wit and her Air,

Would conquer more Hearts,

Than the Young and the Fair.

Thoſe Charms are more noble,

The Lovely and Kind

May vanquiſh the Body

She conquers the Mind.

The Fate.

Tell me ye partial Power that wound our Hearts

Why ſtrike ye not with ſympathizing Darts?

Let Nymph and Swain be warm’d with equal Fires,

Not thus half-link Averſion and Deſires.

Sure you delight to ſee us fondly crave

Thoſe Joys, ſome other thankleſs Wretch muſt have.

Thus Love the ſacred ſource of Unions croſt,

And we perplex’d with what ſhould pleaſe us moſt.

I would not raſhly your Decrees prophane,

But am too much concern’d not to complain.

E The E1v 50

The wealthy Strephon’s panting at my Feet,

Tis I alone, that can his love compleat.

Yet with proud Scorn his dying Sighs repay,

Find all my Softneſs forc’d another way.

In gay Exalis centure all my Bliſs,

Nor have a Thought but what’s entirely his:

Careleſs of me, he does for Cloe pine,

Who ſlights him; and to Damon does resign.

Thus Strephon for Larinda almoſt dies,

But ſhe can only ſoft Exalis prize,

He dotes on Cloe, ſhe for Damon sighs.

Gods! tis too hard all Love yet all muſt part,

By ſome nice Touch turn every other Heart;

But if too cruel to redreſs us all,

To my Exalis let your Bleſſing fall.

On Cloe or Larinda the Change muſt be,

Grant I may pleaſe like her, or elſe she love like me;

For either way will eaſe my grateful Breaſt,

So our Exalis will but think he’s bleſt.

A E2r 51

A Song

How pleaſant is Love,

When forbid or unknown;

Was my Paſſion approv’d,

It would quickly be gone.

It adds to the Charms,

When we ſteal the Delight;

Why ſhould Love be expos’d?

Since himſelf has no Sight.

In ſome Silvan Shade,

Let me ſigh for my Swain;

Where none but an Echo,

Will ſpeak on’t again.

Thus ſilent and ſoft,

I’ll paſs the Time on;

And when I grow weary,

I’ll make my Love known.

E2 On E2v 52

On a Gentleman and his Wife viſiting a Lady. He ſleeping the while. Extempore. Spoke by Morpheus.

Pardon, fair Nymph, I durſt exert my Power,

Invade your Rights in a facetious Hour;

With gentle Slumbers ſeal thoſe wondring Eyes,

That might, unweary’d on ſuch Beauties gaze:

My Strength had fail’d had not your Forces joyn’d,

And your own conquering Charms firſt ſtruck him blind;

Your ſofter Graces did his Soul intrance,

Or I in vain ſhould to the Sence advance.

All the Mysterious One I did not seize,

But ſpar’d that part which was moſt like to pleaſe;

She whoſe diverting Tongue could entertain,

With choice Collections from each Poet’s Brain:

But ſee my Fetters could not bind him long,

He humbly ſues for Pardon and a Song,

From your ſoft Voice which turns the Soul to Ear,

And drouſie as I am, I’ll ſtay to hear:

If I with Nods ſhould to the Tune keep time,

It is at worſt, but a complaiſant Crime:

Oh with what Joy! my Godhead I’d forſake,

Might you for ever Sing, and I for ever Wake.

The E3r 53

The Viſion.

Quite weary’d with the buſineſs of the Day,

To unfrequented Shades I took my way,

And by a murmuring Stream ſupinely lay.

Soft thoughts confuſedly revell’d in my Breaſt,

Till by compoſing Slumbers I was bleſs’d.

Huſht was my Sences as the unhaunted Grove,

And all the Viſion of my Soul was Love;

Methoughts I ſaw a ſoft Celeſtial Youth,

Whoſe Eyes ſpeak Love, and ſmiles Eternal Truth:

Gay as the Spring in all its vernal Pride,

With Amorous Joy ſit panting by my ſide.

I gaz’d with Wonder at a Form ſo bright,

And thought ſome Sylvane God had bleſs’d my ſight:

With equal Scruple, Zeal and Paſſion mov’d,

If he ſhould be ador’d or be belov’d.

His Eyes and Smiles darted refin’d delight,

As if Heavens glowing Glories touch’d the ſight;

A thouſand Charms his flowing Locks beſtow,

For every Curl’s inevitably ſo:

His welcome Head on my kind Boſom laid,

On a ſoft Flute delightful Airs he play’d.

E3 Mean E3v 54

Mean while ſuch dear undoing looks he caſt,

And evry Note with artful Motions grac’d:

No Youth e’er ſeem’d ſo ſoftning and Divine,

Sure he was made for Love, at leaſt for mine.

Then was his Pipe out-rival’d by his Voice,

As when he Play’d all other Muſick was:

A Mein ſo Gay and Shape that rivals Joves,

His Hand more ſoft than down of Venus Doves

Her young Adonis had not half his Charms,

When he moſt pleaſing fill’d her preſſing Arms;

So kind he look’d, ſuch tender things he ſaid,

With eager Joy I graſp’d the lovely Shade.

The fleeting Charmer ſoon diſſolv’d in Air,

I ſearch’d around but could not find him there,

(Then to the Grove ſigh’d Love and loud deſpair.)

It was Alexis form I did purſue,

My conſcious Soul took the ſad Omen too;

Cry’d out the lovely Youth forſakes my Breaſt

And will be never but in Dreams poſſeſt.

The E4r 55

The Power of Love.

In this Amrous Age now Love is grown,

The modiſh Entertainment of the Town,

And the fond Beau loves his half ſcore aday,

The Ladies too almoſt as Vain as they;

Spare me, ye cruel Powers, let me not prove,

The only Victim of a laſting Love.

I had my ſhare three tedious Years a Slave,

And knew no Joys but what Phylaster gave;

When ſpite of Vows he prov’d unjuſt at laſt,

In diſtant Shades contending Months I paſt,

Thought I could ſee the Youth at my return,

With gay Indifference and Unconcern.

I long’d to know the Temper of my Heart,

And ſee if Paſſion could outlive deſert;

But this my Curioſity has won,

To know alaſs! I am again undone:

I thought my ſelf with Reſolution bleſs’d,

The ſporting Boys delight in Amorous Pain,

And flock’d in haſt to Revel here again;

With downy Wings they Fan the couchant Fire,

And every Spark revives with freſh deſire:

E4 I E4v 56

I Gaze and Sigh, and wiſh I’m juſt the ſame,

As the firſt Tranſports of my blooming Flame.

Almighty Love thy Power to me is known,

Without new Tortures I’ll thy Godhead own;

But if I’m doom’d to Love may my Fate be,

(Rather than him) to love each Face I ſee.

Tis Sin againſt the cuſtom of the Nation,

To love but one and all this while with Paſſion,

I’d rather be the ſhifting Fool in Fashion.

Then if I’m tortur’d with Variety,

I ſhan’t be blam’d for Nonconformity.

To Marcella.

In this ſo wanton and debaucht an Age,

We come to find out Virtue on the Stage;

By a promiſcuous Choice it can’t be done,

Our nicer Fate compels to You alone.

You, who’s triumphant Virtue doth declare,

That Women can withſtand the fatal Snare

Of vaſt Temptation, when ſhe’s Young and Fair.

In you the ancient Miracle we ſee,

(Tho’ here we can boaſt but of One to Three)

Unhurt E5r 57

Unhurt amidſt the mighty Flames you move,

The wond’ring Gazers only Martyrs prove;

Of all your Sex Great Albion muſt prefer

You the chaſt Lucrece of her Theater.

Ye yielding Nymphs now you have no exuſe,

Nor blame the Beaus you did your Honour loſe;

For your Defence your ſoftness is expreſt

With (oh ſuch Charms! no Woman can reſiſt).

Yes Woman can in this fair Maid we ſee,

Contempt of all their Love and Gallantry;

Wit, Youth and Beauty, does this Lady bleſs,

She’s made for Love and fitted for Addreſs:

While Crowds of Slaves ly ſighing at her Feet,

She bravely ſcorns what you would run to meet.

Among them all doubtleſs there’s more than One,

Charming as thoſe by whom you were undone:

The Soft, the Gay, the Great, the knowing Man,

Have try’d all ways Wit, Wealth, or Paſſion can,

To gain this Fair who ſtill her Heart ſecures,

Unmov’d ſhe ſtands, ſlights all their ſoft Amours,

What would you give the Scene of Love were yours?

I know your Spite imputes it to her Pride,

Be’t what it will her Honours juſtify’d:

Her Virtue is the greater Miracle,

To ſtand with that by which the Angels fell.

Hail, E5v 58

Hail, lovely Maid, who contradicts the times,

Your Virtue wears a Vail like others Crimes:

How do your Eyes and Tongue bely your Heart,

When languishing you play the amorous part,

And ſoftly fold your ſeeming loving Arms,

And ſpeak and look a thousand killing charms?

Fair, ſoft Deceiver, oh! were I the Men,

I’d give the World you was in earneſt then;

Your pleas’d Spectators with ſuch Joys you bleſs,

They wiſh your Virtues or your Charms were leſs.

The Invocation.

With ſome auſpicious Aid ye Pow’rs above,

Help to ſupport the weight of ſlighted Love

I ask not Rage to curſe the daring Man;

That by Inſtinctive Power all Women can,

But keep me mild as when Love firſt began.

’Tis the malignancy of low deſire,

That with neglect turns to revengeful Fire:

But my great Paſſion, like Æthereal Flame,

Without Supply can ever burn the ſame;

Love glows in every Atom of my Frame.

Sparkles E6r 59

Sparkles in every Thought, flames at my Heart,

Like the extenſive Soul it does exert;

’Tis all in all, and all in every part

From his cold Breaſt no languid warmth I want,

His Fires when at their height to mine are faint,

Yet my hard Fate forces this ſoft Complaint.

That ſo much Truth is unreguarded loſt,

And we have leaſt when we deſerve it moſt.

Oh! was I fickle as the reſtleſs Wind,

Or as the wiſer part of Woman-kind:

Then for the Charmer I’d no longer mourn,

But treat his Negligence with equal Scorn.

He ſhould no more my ſlighted Favours wear,

But from the ſighing Crowd that deaf my Ear,

I’d chooſe ſome kinder Youth and fix ’em there.

But oh! my tender Soul too weak does prove,

Either to change or bear the force of Love;

Too ſure ’tis doom’d by my relentleſs Fate

That I muſt love and ſink beneath the weight.

On E6v 60

On the Author of Religion by Reaſon, or the Light of Nature a Guide to Divine Truth.

Hail, modeſt Author, who obſcure do’ſt lie,

But to prevent our fond Idolatry;

Thou’ſt baffld all the Writers of the Age,

Who’s active Pens reach the ten thouſandth Page:

And doth commit with ſo much Induſtry,

Their Names in Folio to Poſterity.

Who’s wire drawn Notions and expanded Senſe,

Swell a great Volume with as great Expence;

Which when we’ve read the whole Prolix design,

Contains not half that’s in one Page of thine.

Nay, chooſe the beſt in thy small Tract we ſee,

A thouſand of them in Epitome;

Our way of Study is by Contemplation.

Revolving Thoughts in the mind by dull Suceſſion

But yours ſeems Angel-like pure Intuition.

To what perfections Orthography brought,

How could you write in Words ſo like your Thought;

Truths ſo Divine in ſo refin’d a Stile,

Sure Angels view with a conſenting Smile:

Let E7r 61

Let the bold Atheiſt read thy Noble Line,

In every Leaf he’ll ſee a Power Divine.

Not long Diſputes confounding the intent,

But ſubtle clear convincive Argument;

Had Hobs but ſeen it, that bold daring Man,

Hiſelf had burnt his own Leviathan.

What ſceptick Scruples can in Man be rais’d,

But by your Conquering Truths may be appeas’d?

The Perſian Sophi and the papal Chair,

Uſurp what Heaven doth ſure on you confer.

The careful Student need not any more,

Waſte Pruſe and Time to turn great Volumes o’er,

Your well fraught Book in which all Truths agree,

Will be itſelf ſufficient Library.

On Atheiſm.

Tell me, ye daring Atheiſt, what’s your End,

To what ſure Point do your Debauches tend?

You would be happy and ſecure it here,

And have no Glymps of future Worlds appear;

Your Minds ſcarce doubt, but Crimes Reverſion fear.

Who E7v 62

Whoever knew a ſober Atheiſt yet?

Tis the Extravagance of floating Wit,

Buoy’d up with Wine and ſenſual Apetite.

That Wine can uncreate by all’s confeſt,

Unmakes the Man, and levels him with Beaſt:

What is’t they would not give the Change were true?

For they with Doubts do all their Crimes purſue;

They are more plagu’d to curb the Thoughts of Hell,

Then all the Self-Denials to live well.

No Man at firſt to Atheiſm inclin’d,

He takes that Refuge after he has fin’d;

Bold in his Crimes until he can’t repent,

Then ſtrives to think there is no Puniſhment:

Lull’d in lewd Pleaſures from Devotion free,

We call him Atheiſt, Alias Debauchee.

Where is the Happineſs they ſo much boaſt,

Their Joys are in their Conſequences loſt?

Women and Wine their greateſt dear Concern,

But cheat their Hopes and make an ill Return:

Raptur’d with Charms of his deluding Fair,

Oh! the Delights and Bliſs he centers there;

And in carouzing with laſcivious Songs,

And all the Frolicks which to Wine belongs.

Theſe E8r 63

These are their Summum Bonum, here they’re bleſs’d

In thoſe wild Joys that ſting while they’r poſſeſs’d;

Their Diſappointments Pride and Jealouſy,

Are more ſevere than Faſt and Mortify;

A hectoring Rival or Deceaſe at laſt,

Fully revenge the gay Delight that’s paſt;

The Pains and Qualms that wait a drunken Fit,

Severely ſcourge the Guſt of Appetite;

They’re punish’d here, and if there is no Hell,

(As they would fain believe but cannot tell.)

We have the beſt on’t for we’re Happy now,

Our Joys no torturing Exceſs allow;

Pleas’d and ſecure amidſt our Bliſs we move,

And with juſt Tranſports hope for more above;

In this we’re bleſs’d; and ſince it laſts as long

As Life, what matter tho’ we’er in the wrong?

We’er Happy whilſt we are, and shall not know

If we miſtake, whether we did or no;

If you’r in th’ wrong, your Error more perplex’d,

You’r plagu’d in this World to be damn’d i’th’ next,.

On E8v 64

On a Sermon Preach’d Sept.September the 6th, 1697. on theſe Words, You have ſold your ſelves for Nought.

With Grotius on New-Teſtament yo’ve done,

And choſe Authentick Coke and Littleton;

The latters Tenures did inſpire your Brain,

To vent your ſelf in legiſlative Strain:

Where you each nice Diſtinction did purſue,

The Bargain, Sale, and the habendum too.

It was not done by Leaſe or Mortgage then,

To be redeem’d as you told how and when;

By Deed of Feoffment we had paſſed away,

For nothing too our Tenement of Clay;

And that the Devil who the Purchaſe bought,

He nothing gave nor nothing had he got.

On this you Cant (awhile) at laſt recal,

Cum Pertinentiis, he had gotten all;

When of the Gſpel you make Law take Place,

Statues may well get upper-hand of Grace:

Sure you the Primitive deſign have miſt,

Joshua muſt yield to an Evangeliſt.

But Littleton in you has got the ſtart,

Did’ſt know if thou in Church or Temple were’t?

Tho’ F1r 65

Tho’ you ſo Zealously the Non-cons hate,

Methinks too like the Pro and Cons you Prate,

The Sermon is at beſt but a Debate:

Inſtead of Proofs you bring us Preſidents,

Need more the Judges than the Saints conſents.

You Declare, Plead, Join Iſſue or Demur,

Then ſell at laſt with (come ceo Sur;)

Fatal Defeazance, for if you Preach ſo,

Your Hearers may remain in Statu quo:

So far you on the legal Rights intrench,

We ſcarcely know your Pulpit from the Bench.

A Song.

When firſt I ſaw Laurinda’s Face,

I bleſsd the dear Surprize,

For there was ſporting every Grace;

Love wanton’d in her Eyes.

A thouſand ways ſhe has to move,

Not Looks and Smiles alone,

Her Shape and Mien might Conquer Jove;

And make the God her own.

F But F1v 66

But oh! the Fair diſplays her Charms,

For Conqueſt, not Delight;

Proudly denies thoſe lovely Arms,

To which her Eyes invite.

On my leaving S—y

Sy thou deareſt ſoft Retreat adieu

Methink I tremble at the leaving you;

You, whoſe ſafe Harbour kindly did receive,

My Shipwrack’d Veſſel and gave means to live:

With Gilded Stern and Gaudy Sails I mov’d,

Fraught with this Wiſh, be Great and be Belov’d.

My Pageant Bark undauntedly I ſteer’d,

No Rocks nor Wind, nor Enemies I fear’d:

Young and unskill’d in this unlucky Sea,

For want of Ballaſt, Storms did ruin me.

That blaſt of Hell, rude ſpiteful Pop’ler breath,

Tore all my Sails and threaten’d ſudden Death;

There was no caſting Anchor in this Storm,

That was but Ruin in another Form:

For hope was all the lading I could boast,

Thus was I moſt inevitably loſt.

Left F2r 67

Left to the Mercy of the faithleſs Winds,

My tatter’d Bark no friendly ſhelter finds;

Till ſome kind Star dear S—y mark’d out thee,

For her repairer and ſecurity.

’Tis true, thou couldſt not fit her out again,

With Maſts and Tackling for the mighty Main;

But as a Pleaſure-Boat in thy ſmooth Streams,

(Happy defect that keeps from ſuch extreams,)

Where no rough Winds but a ſafe Oar commands,

And if I please at each bleſs’d Shade ſhe Lands.

There on a verdant Bank I ſet me down,

Contemn perſuit of Paſſion and Renown:

At all my former daring Follies ſmile,

And bleſs the Storms that blow’d me to this Iſle;

The Fortunate to me, and doth contain,

Thoſe ſolid Joys, I elſewhere ſought in vain.

But ah! the Fates again do ſummon me,

To the loath’d Ocean Popularity;

Guard me ye Gods with this one Bliſs alone,

Tho’ I am ſeen, yet let me not be known.

F2 The F2v 68

The Gratitude.

My injur’d Love, thy Anthems ceaſe awhile,

And hear my Vows with an accepting Smile.

By thee I ſwear, by thee as ſacred now,

I’ll pay thee all the Paſſion that I owe.

Forgive, that I ſo negligent did prove,

Was ſuch a careleſs Debtor to thy Love:

As ſome wild Gallant who profuſely ſpends

That on his Frolicks, which ſhould pay his Friends;

Yet gives good Words, is complaiſant and kind,

And with ſmall Preſents ſhews his thankful Mind.

So did I manage my vaſt ſtock of Love,

Did neither juſt, nor yet ungrateful prove;

Heaven knows, to pay thee all I had begun,

But the neglected Score too far had run.

Fatal Delay, for now the dreadful Sum,

I with kind Horror offer at thy Tomb

What’er I ow’d thy Life, I’ll pay thy Duſt,

Bring all th’ Arrears of Paſſion, and be Juſt;

Accept it now, altho alas too late,

And pity this ſad Preſſure of my Fate.

Thou F3r 69

Thou wer’t ſo pleas’d with what thou hadſt below,

’Twould raiſe thy Bliſs could’ſt thou my Paſſion know,

That’s great and laſting as thy Joys are now.

Not the leaſt Thought ſhall to ought elſe be given,

I offer all to thee, and what retains thee, Heaven.

Tho’ at thy Death no ſable Scenes of State,

Nor ſolemn Pageantry did gild thy Fate;

No pompous Griefs of a Mechanick Throng

Of hir’d Mourners uſher’d thee along;

Nor gaudy Scutchion daub’d thy early Herſe,

Yet ’twas adorn’d with thy Clarinda’s Verſe:

One moment’s Grief of mine is of more Coſt,

Than a Majeſtick thirty Days can boaſt.

Thoſe pageant Sorrows on the Dead beſtow’d

But touch the Fancy of the gazing Croud,

Where ſcarce one Tear in earneſt is allow’d.

Amidſt a thouſand torturing Pangs I live,

Too well I know, both who and how to grieve.

It is more Honour to be mourn’d by me

Than all their ſtately dark Solemnity,

Whoſe Riches purchaſe a forc’d Obſequey.

Tho’ on thy Grave no Statue I erect,

Yet the ſmooth Stone ſhall with my Tears be deck’d.

F3 No, F3v 70

No, take a Tomb more fitting thy Deſert,

Yes, I’ll inſhrine thee in my generous Heart.

So far for thee a Niobe I’m grown,

That now ’tis fitting for that Uſe alone.

No Monument more glorious or ſafe,

Grac’d with a vital crimſon Epitaph.

My bleeding Heart ſhall this Inſcription give,

Not here you Lie, but here for ever Live.

On my wedding Day

Abandon’d Day, why doſt thou now appear?

Thou muſt no more thy wonted Glories wear;

Oh! Rend thy ſelf out of the circling Year.

With me thou’rt ſtript of all thy pompous Pride,

Art now no feſtival Cauſe, I no Bride:

In thee no more muſt the glad Muſick ſound,

Nor pleaſing Healths in chearful Bowls go round,

But with ſad Cypreſs dreſs’d, not Mirtle crown’d;

Ne’er grac’d again with joyful Pageantry:

The once glad Youth that did so honour thee

Is now no more; with him thy Triumph’s loſt,

He always own’d thee worthy of his Boaſt.

Such F4r 71

Such Adorations he ſtill thought thy due,

I learn’d at laſt to celebrate thee too;

Tho’ it was long e’re I could be content,

To yield you more than formal Complement;

If my firſt Offering had been Free Will,

I then perhaps might have enjoy’d thee ſtill:

But now thou’rt kept like the firſt myſtick Day,

When my reluctant Soul did Fate obey,

And trembling Tongue with the ſad Rites comply’d,

With timerous Hand th’ amazing Knot I ty’d,

While Vows and Duty check’d the doubting Bride.

At length my reconcil’d and conquer’d Heart,

When ’twas almoſt too late own’d thy Deſert,

And wiſhes thou waſt ſtill, not that thou never wer’t,

Wiſhes thee ſtill that celebrated Day,

I lately kept with ſympathizing Joy.

But Ah! thou now canſt be no more to me,

Than the ſad Relick of Solemnity;

To my griev’d Soul may’ſt thou no more appear,

Be blotted out of Fate’s ſtrict Calender.

May the Sun’s Rays ne’er be to thee allow’d,

But let him double every thick wrought Cloud,

And wrap himſelf in a retiring Shroud;

F4 Let F4v 72

Let unmixt Darkneſs ſhade the gloomy Air,

Till all our ſable Horizon appear,

Diſmale as I, black as the Weeds I wear;

With me thy abdicated State deplore,

And be like me, that’s by thy ſelf no more.

The Fatality.

Come all ye grand Predeſtinarians now,

Your Doctrine to the Height I will allow:

I who with utmoſt Force reſiſt my Fate,

But am to Ills alone predeſtinate;

In vain I ſtrive th’ immutable Decree,

Has paſs’d on my unlucky Deſtiny.

With Sighs and Tears I did at firſt begin,

To conquer Fate as others would their Sin;

Each Path I trod I went with Caution on,

But every Step doth lead to be undone:

And when a threatening Storm was in my View,

I from it (wiſely as I thought) withdrew;

But whilſt the approaching Ills with Fear I ſhun,

Into ſome other certain Harms I run;

So when ſome mighty Grief did preſs my Soul,

I would th’ uneaſy tyranny controul;

(Like F5r 73

(Like a diſtracted Man that will not bear,

Thoſe Fetters which Diſcretion makes him wear,

But frets and raves, and breaks the friendly Chain,

Which did from greater Injuries reſtrain;

He’ll not be bar’d a dangerous Liberty,

Tho’ he to Outrages and Miſchief fly.)

Thus I from one Miſfortune force my Way,

By Means that does to greater ſtill betray;

One Sorrow ſeldom attends long on me,

I have a torturing Variety,

I change and change, yet ſtill ’tis Miſery.

A Hydra Fate my Ruin does purſue,

Cut off one ill, ſtrait, there ſprings up a new,

And they’ll ariſe ad infinitum too.

Ther’s none the myſtick Scrolls of Fate can read,

Nor ſhun the Ills by mighty Powers decreed,

Hood-wink’d by them, juſt as they guide we tread.

In vain we ſay we this or that will do,

It cannot be unleſs they’ll have it ſo;

The only Way to eaſe our Diſcontents,

Is to conclude they muſt be ſuch Events;

Such as the mighty hidden ſource of Things,

Bubbles from it’s inevitable Springs.

An F5v 74

An Ode on the Death of Mr. Dryden


As when Plebeans at a Monarch’s death,

(Which ſeems Prophan’d by Sighs from vulgar Breath;)

With ſawcy Grief pity the helpleſs Fate

Of what they fear’d, almoſt ador’d of late.

So I the meaneſt that did e’er aſpire,

To own herſelf of the Muſes Empire;

Who ſcarcely can my Tribute pay,

To acknowledge their Imperial ſway.

With arrogant, yet conſcious Grief, preſume,

To shed a Tear on their Vice-gerents awful Tomb:

Ah! who’d have thought that ſeeming deathleſs Man,

With every Art and Grace indow’d;

Should have a Life, but of the uſual Span,

And ſhrink into a common Shroud.

But his unnequall’d worth can never dy,

Nothing can e’er his matchleſs Laurels blaſt,

Tho’ Albion’s ſelf ſhould be deſtroy’d and waſt;

And in forgotten Ruins lie.

The F6r 75

The ecchoing Trump of Fame his Glories will rereherſe,

To all the wondering Univerſe,

Till it Joyn ſound with the Tremendious laſt.


Sure Poets are not made of common Earth,

Or he at leaſt may boaſt a nobler Birth;

Each Atom with ſoft Numbers was inſpir’d,

And flowing Fancy with one laſting Rapture fir’d:

Altho’ the mighty Secret’s not diſclos’d,

He ſurely was like Thebes with artful Tunes compos’d

The Voices of the ſweet melodious Nine,

In Conſort joyn’d Apollo’s forming Lyre,

Did thouſand pureſt particles Inſpire;

With tuneful Meaſures harmony Divine.

At the ſacred commanding Sound,

With Animation paſſing vulgar Souls,

The knowing willing Atoms came,

None the creative Strains controuls;

But by energy of Ayrs Divine compound,

The almoſt omniſcient Frame.

And F6v 6776

And for a Soul which ſcarce was wanting here,

In all the pre-exiſting Magazine,

Not one was ſeen;

Worthy in thy alloted Glories to appear.

No great Apollo’s ſelf, with his own Rays,

(For nothing leſs could the bright Form improve,)

Infus’d celeſtial Sapience from above;

To qualify thee for immortal Bays.


Apollo once before a ſacred Structure bleſt,

Where all the Inquiſitive World did come,

For an ambiguous Doom;

And ſplendid Pomp amaz’d the curious Gueſt

Yet with leſs Glory did at Delphos ſhine,

When floors of Marble, roofs of Gold,

Did his oraculous God-head hold;

Then in thy living Shrine,

There fetter’d with a ſacerdotal Yoke,

Uncheckt in thee, the God has always ſpoke.

In thee no leſs Magnificent appears,

Nor with leſs Splender did his Power exert,

Then when above a Soveraign ſway he bears;

In Learning Poetry, and every Godlike Art.

But F7r 77

But oh! the Deity is ſilenc’d now,

No more celeſtial Cadence from thy Tongue will flow,

And all the leſſer Fanes with Grief expire,

All gaſping ly,

With fainting Groans deplore,

Great Dryden is no more;

And with declining Fire

Sing their own Requiem in thy Obſequie.

Farewel to Inſpiration now,

All ſacred extacies of Wit,

The ſofter Excellence,

Of melting Words and rapturing Sence,

Ye will no more with Divine Sweetneſs flow;

But Poetry ſubmit

To the bold Enthuſiaſtick Rage

Of a deſerted and malicious Age.


Only the Pythagorean Faith we doubt,

Elſe if thy great Soul ſhould tranſmigrated be,

It might be parcell’d out

And ſtock each Age with Laureats till Eternity.

Ah! F7v 78

Ah! Where is thy harmonious Spirit now?

Teaching ſofter Numbers to the Sphears,

Or makes ſome Star with greater Luſtre glow,

Or roameſt in the extended Space thy long Eternity of Years.

No, toth’ ſacred ſofter Shades thou’rt gone,

The Souls of Poets needs muſt thither fly;

(I’m ſure they Lovers live how e’er they die)

But thou ſo many Laurels here haſt won,

As plants a new Elizium of thy own.

Triumphant ſit beneath th’ immortal Shade,

Of ever blooming Wreaths which leſs than thoſe will fade,

That are below for ſofteſt Lovers made.

Therefore the Mantuan Swain need not retreat,

But keep his antient Regal Seat;

Which elſe at thy Approach he would reſign,

For well he knows Wit’s ſacred Throne is thine:

See he with Thanks ſalutes thy skilful Hand,

Which ſo ſucceſsfully has taught;

His long fram’d Works the Language of our Land,

With Art in every Line, and Grace in every Thought.

None their intrinſiek Value can deny,

The well plac’d Pride of antient Rome,

Poliſh’d by thee is now our Boaſt become;

Sparkling with all the Glories of true Poetry;

Receives from all a juſt and happier Doom.

Orpheus F8r 79

Orpheus and all the tuneful Poets there,

With Joys new dated celebrate thy Fame,

In an eternal ſoft celeſtial Air;

For all the Honours thou haſt done the ſo long ſlighted Name.


And we whom thou haſt left behind,

Are all employ’d about thee too;

Altho thy Worth too great a Theme we find,

At leaſt our Gratitude in Grief we ſhow.

Our beſt Encomiums but prophane thy Name,

Unleſs ſucceſsful Congreves artful Line;

That only Rival of ſo great a Fame,

Can Juſtice do to thine.

My well meant Trophy bluſhing I muſt rear,

Unkind Melpomene affords no Aid,

Tho’ I ſo often beg’d and pray’d,

My ſofter Voice ſhe would not hear.

Amongſt the mighty Men ſhe’s buſie now,

Tis they I find beſt charm immortal Females too;

Tho’ ſhe’ll not teach how I ſhall Numbers keep,

My Admiration in Heroick’s dreſs,

Or in a ſofter Ode my Griefs expreſs,

Tis my own Fault being Woman, if I fail to weep.

Since this great Man inſatiate Fate obey’d,

How is Wit’s Empire leſſen’d and decay’d?

it F8v 80

It ſcarce a Province now appears,

Come then let’s joyn our Tears;

Ceaſe not till an Ocean flow

Twine round the Muſes Plat, till it an Iſland grow,

There let’s poſſeſs her conſtant Joys,

Spite, Poverty and Noiſe.

Tho’ bounded ſafe with a Caſtalian Sea,

They ne’er muſt hope their Iſles the Fortunate will be.

The Advice


Peace, buſie Soul, let diſtant Things alone,

Only the preſent Time’s thy own;

Leave to the Gods what ſhall hereafter be,

Forbear the Search of dark Futurity.

If thou’lt at once more than one Minute live,

Thou muſt deſign or dread or grieve;

In turning back Remembrance repreſents;

Black Images of Diſcontent.

What G1r 81

What happen’d to torment a Year ago,

Altho’ it really ceaſes to do ſo?

If thou will’t ruminate, ’tis ſtill A Woe.

Thus what is paſt will always preſent be,

And in Idea ever torture thee;

On Pleaſures too if we reflect,

They have the ſame unkind Effect;

We are as angry they are pasſt,

As at thoſe Griefs which we compel to laſt:

But tell me, partial Soul, ah tell me why?

Things of ſuch Contrariety,

In thy Revolves ſhould be the ſame to thee.


One deep obliterating Draught of Lethe take,

Blot all the torturing Records out;

Yet then thou’lt not be bleſs’d I doubt,

But nice Inquiries make.

Yes, the forbidden Book of Fate,

Thou needs muſt pry into with curious Eyes,

By’ts unintelligible Lines thy Action ſtate,

Where nothing’s plain unleſs the Curle of being Wiſe.

Now Form great threatning Monſters in thy Brain,

Then rack thy Skill to have the Phantoms ſlain;

G In G1v 82

In the ſafe preſent Scene thou wilt not reſt,

But in remoter Things be bleſs’d.

This or that diſtant Joy propoſe,

And much of Life extravagantly loſe,

In Search of what Fate will elſewhere diſpoſe.

Thy Plots and Forecaſts thou conceiv’ſt in vain,

Links of th’ inevitable Chain;

Short-ſighted Soul thou canſt not ſee,

What ſhall to Morrow be,

Yet wilt indulge thy fruitleſs Curioſity

So ſome unlucky Engineer

Does all the fit Materials compound,

That are in Art or Nature found;

Will glorious Fire-Works prepare.

(Fancies he ſees his various Comets riſe,

Outſhine and mount up to their radiant likeneſs in the Skys;)

Thinks they will ſatisfie his Pride and Coſt,

But ah! he hopes in vain.

For almoſt finiſh’d ere he is aware,

A Spark by chance lights in the Train,

And all with one afrighting Blaze is inconfuſion loſt.


Since thou, my Soul, muſt grieve or bafl’d be,

For once be rul’d by me;

No more reflect,

No more with ſtudious Care project,

Nor look beyond thy preſent Deſtiny.

I G2r 83

I charge thee ne’er contrive no more,

Thou’lt fare no better than thou didſt before;

With Ixion’s miſtaken Joys prepare,

Thy fond Embrace for the deluſive Air;

So often fool’d ne’er hope to win at laſt,

Thy future Doom’s ſtamp’d with thy Paſt.

Then Fate doth ſeem with her own Hand,

To lead to the ſelf-promis’d Land;

Yet e’er our weary’d Steps reach the long wiſh’d for Ground,

Storms and Darkneſs doth ſurround,

And the gay Proſpect can no more be found.

Tho’ we by chance (a mighty Chance indeed,)

Should to our ſelves propoſe what is decreed:

Yet to my Coſt this Truth I’ve learn’d,

With paſſive Eaſe we ſhould be unconcern’d:

For Fate of our Deſigns no Uſe will make,

But her own myſterious Methods take.

Then why do we perplex our ſelves in vain,

For what we know not how to get, or whether we muſt gain?


Then live to Day, deſign nor fear no more,

Nor grieve upon a former Score:

What was once is gone,

And that which we expect may ne’er come on.

Thoſe who on Yeſterdays and Morrows live,

Neglect what Heaven does really give;

G2 Which G2v 84

Which only is the preſent Day,

And that in fleeting Moments poſts away;

Let me enjoy each Minute then,

Not ſtarve to Day, to feaſt I know not when;

Since the full Glaſs at the inviting Lip,

From the too cautious Hand may ſlip

Give me ye Gods my Bleſſings now,

On th’ expecting Man your future Gifts beſtow.

They who the preſent Hour neglect,

Becauſe an other better they expect:

Uſeful Eſtates do paſs away,

For future Pay;

Are always Creditors to Fate,

And ſhe too often pays too late;

There’s none but Fools procraſtinate.

To Thyrſis, on his Paſtoral on Mr. Creech

Come all ye tender Nymphs and ſighing Swains,

Hear how our Thyrſis, Daphnis death complains

In Notes more ſweet he doth his Sorrows tell,

Than the harmonious mournful Philomel.

With G3r 85

With his ſad Airs let all our Griefs combine,

And ſighing Eccho in the Conſort joyn;

Till o’er the pittying Plains the Tidings ſpread,

Pans Darling Daphnis to Eliziums fled:

Daphnis the tunefull’ſt Youth we knew among,

The ſoftening Swains till gentle Thyrſis Sung.

Thyrſis, whoſe Muſe of all our blooming Grove,

Beſt pities Lovers and beſt Sings of Love;

Soft are thy Lines as the firſt tender Fire,

That warms the Breaſt e’ere it commence Deſire:

Thy moving Numbers all our Paſſions ſhare,

Sigh, Languiſh, Weep, Juſt what we read we are.

By the ſoft Magick rais’d to Extacy,

With Daphnis love, and with him too wedy;

Had he addreſt but in thy melting Strain,

(And he could do it, ſure if any Swain.)

The Nymphs in ſpite of her preſuming Charms,

With Joy had yeilded to his wiſhing Arms.

Impatient Youth, that Death itſelf could bear,

Rather than ſcorns of the neglecting Fair:

But thus we fondly Rave to miſs the Joy,

Love natural as Life, does Life deſtroy.

To Wit alone Paſſion does fatal prove,

Fools may be lew’d but know not how to Love;

G3 Since G3v 86

Since it in learn’d Breaſts ſuch Woes create,

Thyrſis taking warning by great Daphnis Fate:

But to your Charms Caution does needleſs ſeem,

Fear leſs Love, on you need not dye like him.

For oh! what Nymph could e’er ſo ſtupid prove,

As not to melt if Thyrſis Name but Love?

What pity ’twas the learn’d Daphnis dy’d,

The ſlighted Victim of a Virgins Pride.

Had’ſt thou been ſilent, it more Tears had coſt,

Now half our Grief’s in Admiration loſt;

So well you Mourn the Shepherd’s amorous Fate,

In ſuch ſoft ſtrains his ſad fond Fall relate.

Pan would himſelf quit Immortality,

To be in Death ſo ſweetly Sung by thee.

Delia to Phraartes on his Playing Cæſar Borgia.

If Cæſar from his Stygian Coaſt could come,

To ſee you Play, he’d bleſs his former Doom;

Pleas’d with the promis’d Glories which he loſt,

And in your Form, confeſs the greater Boaſt,

Had G4r 87

Had been bleſs’d but with your ſoft Addreſs,

His Love had never known ſuch ill Succeſs;

That Godlike Mein and that ſeraphick Voice,

Would have compell’d nice Bellamira’s choice.

Had half your Charms in the true Borgia been,

We ne’er his mourning Tragedy had ſeen.

You’r ſo Divine, that Heavens peculiar care,

Would ſo much Gallantry and Sweetneſs ſpare.

In vain Hiſtorians and Poets too,

To ſuch brave Men celeſtial Honous do,

They ne’er ſeem Gods, till perſonated by you.

A rugged Virtue and the chance of War,

Did bleſs their Hero’s with that Character;

The Antiquated Shade the Poets ſeize,

And tune the Soul to what a pitch they pleaſe:

With artful Notes they grace each noble Line,

But your ſoft touch gives it an air Divine.

What pains they take for Praiſe while you with eaſe,

Tranſport with that which they ſcarce hop’d could pleaſe?

Th’ Imperial Cæſar when with Fortune bleſs’d,

In all their gay triumphant ſplendor dreſt,

And more than Royal State thro’ Rome they rode,

(Both prais’d and fear’d and thought almoſt a God,

G4 When G4v 88

When fetter’d Kings did grace the Victory,)

Mid’ſt all their dazling Pomp look’d leſs than thee.

If Gods their Glories would expoſe to view,

To joy Mankind they’d look and ſpeak like you.

To Clarona drawing Alexis’s Picture and preſenting it to me.

The curious noble Preſent which you make,

I with ſurprize and conſcious Bluſhes take.

Why was the gay Alexis made your choice,

Has he my private or my publick Voice?

My nicer Temper cannot that allow,

Tho’ you have gone the way to make him ſo;

Some other Friend would equal Thanks command,

Tho’ he was fitteſt for your skilful Hand:

As the beſt Poets who’s Art Rivals thine,

Should always chooſe a Subject that’s Divine.

I muſt confeſs th’ obligingneſs of Fate,

To let you ſee him tho’ he never ſate;

A fair Idea form’d in your great Mind,

You ventur’d on, and ’twas as you deſign’d:

’Twas G5r 89

’Twas the gay Youth in all his conquering Charms,

As might ſeduce a Daphne to his Arms.

His Smiles, his Eyes, his Air each lovely Grace,

All that our Sex can wiſh in any Face;

It was exactly him, and yet ’twas more,

And Art which none did e’er expreſs before:

Should Nature ſtrive for Oſtentation ſake,

And would another bright Alexis make,

’Twould be leſs like than what is done by thee,

She’d bluſhing throw her long us’d Pencil ſee;

Nay, you bleſt Painters this advantage give,

Beyond what is allow’d to thoſe that live.

With ſublimated Art you Time ſubdue,

Draw Charms to’th’ Life and make them laſting too.

Now fam’d Apelles from thy Throne look down,

And ſee a female Hand outdo thy own.

The Piece which unaccompliſh’d was by thee,

The juſt Deſpair of long Poſterity,

By her may with advantage finiſht be.

The mighty Task can only be her Right,

Who ſo exactly draws at caſual ſight:

I with proud Joy the lovely Preſent take,

Both for Alexis and Clarona’s ſake.

My two beſt Friends, Illuſtrious now appear,

A pleaſing Form drawn by a Hand ſo fair;

Charm’d G5v 90

Charm’d by your Art, I generouſly conſent,

To own ’tis my Delight as well as Ornament.

A Song.

A thouſand Gay obliging Youths,

I unconcern’d can ſee,

But when Exalis doth appear;

He ſhakes my Conſtancy.

In ſpite of all my Proud Reſolves,

I ſoften at his Charms,

And almoſt wiſh my ſelf to be;

In his regardleſs Arms.

Some milder Power, reverſe my Fate,

He’s doom’d to Love elſewhere,

I beg my Paſſion you’d Tranſlate;

I would not rob his Fair.

Let him perſue his fond Amour,

Grant I may pity thoſe,

Who ſigh for me and make him kind;

Unto the Nymph he’s choſe.

Erato G6r 91

Erato the Amorous Muſe on the Death of John Dryden, Eſq;

In the wiſht Cloſe of Evening’s welcome gloom,

My longing ſteps reacht an inviting Bloom;

Whoſe untrod Paths the ſadning Cypreſs grac’t,

And in ſmall Plats were ſofter Myrtles plac’t.

The lofty Cedars with extended Arms,

Twine to keep off the force of rougheſt Storms;

And numerous tow’ring Arbourets they made,

The ſolemn Glory of the pleaſing Shade:

On verdant Moſs, Nature’s rich cloth of State,

By a clear thrilling Stream ſupine I fate:

Upon my Hand my thoughtful Head reclin’d,

Sad ſoft Ideas entertain’d my Mind,

And I to ſing ſome Lovers fate inclin’d;

But ſtrait Erato, whom I did invoke,

Forbid my Choice, her Speech abruptly broke,

At laſt in Sighs the Interdiction ſpoke.

Ye ſhall no more write tender moving Strains,

To pleaſe the Nymphs and melt the wiſhing Swains,

But to the World my Sorrows you ſhall tell,

How I have griev’d ſince the loſt Heroe fell,

My darling Dryden whom I lov’d ſo well.

He G6v 92

He who has done ſuch Glories to my Name,

Immortal as my ſelf has made my Fame;

Watchful as Lovers I firſt ſaw his Fate

With raging Sounds Parnaſſus loſs relate.

Call’d all my Siſters with my frantick Cries,

And every God to Join in th’ Obſequies,

With Tears made Helycon brackiſh as the Seas.

Like a deſerted Maid in Wild Deſpair,

I tore my Myrtle Wreath and flowing Hair,

My Mantle rent and ſhatter’d in the Air;

Then in looſe Cypriſs vail’d my uſeleſs Charms,

Sight till I turn’d our Æther into Storms.

No more I’ll wanton on our Mountains brow,

Nor curious Pains upon my Locks beſtow;

In amorous Folds my Roſey Mantle twine,

And ſooth ſoft Languiſhments in airs Divine:

But careleſs throw me in ſome dusky Shade,

Which Willows, Cypreſs, Yew has awful made,

There to my Votreſs Eccho I’ll complain,

Whoſe Complaiſance reverberates again,

My piercing Groans thro’ every Wood and Plain.

Thus I and ſhe in an Eternal round,

Will my celeſtial Griefs for Dryden’s Death reſound.

Dryden, who with ſuch Ardour did invoke,

That I thro’ him my greateſt Raptures ſpoke.

Whiſ- G7r 93

Whiſper’d a thouſand tender melting Things,

Till he writ Lays moving as Orpheus ſtrings.

Oft I for Ink did radiant Nectar bring,

And gave him Quills from infant Cupid’s Wing:

Whoſe gentle force did as Victorious prove,

As if they’d been th’ immortal Shafts of Love.

Warm’d every Breaſt with a ſurprizing Fire,

And in the niceſt tendereſt Thoughts inſpire;

Such Luſtre ſtill grac’t his magnetick Line,

It was both Irreſiſtleſs and Divine.

With what celeſtial Cadence doth he tell,

The priſtine Joys of Love, e’er Mankind fell;

When in the blooming Grove the firſt kind Pair,

With amorous Sighs fan’d the ambroſial Air:

Smiling on flowry Banks ſupinely laid,

The ardent Youth preſt the unbluſhing Maid.

In his ſoft Lines ſuch Extacies they Boaſt,

To hear their loves Rivals the Bliſs they loſt;

When Cleopatra’s Paſſion he adorns,

How Nobly Anthony the Empire ſcorns:

Diſſolv’d in her kind Arms tranſported lay,

For Love’s ſoft Joy, gave the rough Crown away.

Such Realms of Bliſs the Hero there poſſeſt,

Sighing fond Vows on her returning Breaſt;

Who G7v 94

Who reads their Languiſhments their Paſſions feel,

Intranc’t in Joys too exquiſite to tell.

When an inceſtuous Flame his Theme has been,

He almoſt charms us to forgive the Sin.

My favourite Ovid’s ſtrains I did improve,

And thaught my Dryden tenderer Arts of Love;

Such Arts had our addreſſiing Phæbus known,

Daphne, tho’ coy, had not Unconquer’d flown,

But brought the Hero forth, and not their Crown.

He ſo advanc’d whatever I beſtow’d,

I was Love’s Muſe, but he himſelf the God.

Delia to Phraartes on his miſtake of three Ladies writing to him.

Say, noble Youth, thou Glory of the Stage,

Gay ſoft Delight of the admiring Age;

What would’ſt thou give thou didſt thy Delia know,

Or that the Nymph who writ the Billet Deauoux,

Could have oblig’d you with Heroicks too?

To purchaſe your Eſteem they all agreed,

And tho’ one Scroul, ’twas a Tripartite Deed.

Me- G8r 95

Methinks in you I royal Paris ſee,

Like him employ’d ill ſuiting your Degree;

In his Diſguiſe he rural Conqueſts won,

But you brave Youth have greater Wonders done;

Your Power by neither Sex can be withſtood,

Your own are all oblig’d and ours ſubdu’d

Wit Fortune, Beauty for your Voice conteſt,

Each with your Approbation would be bleſt;

For the charm’d Nymphs deſire as much to pleaſe,

As did the three contending Goddeſſes,

That bleſs’d young Paris in the mirtle Grove,

With the nice Choice of Grandure Wit and Love.

They would appear all eager of Succeſs,

But are more cautious, cauſe their Charms leſs,

Beſides they are reſolv’d they’ll not undreſs:

They’ve only yet their myſtick Charms diſplay’d,

And entertain’d you in a Maſquerade;

But beg you would not take the Niceneſs ill,

For they reſolve to wear their Vizards ſtill;

May the ſoft Riddle never be explain’d,

Leſt the neglected bluſh to be diſdain’d;

Should they divide their Charms would be too ſmall,

Were they Cleſtial; You would merit all.

Yes, lovely Youth, thoſe mightier Charms if thine,

Deſerve not only what, but all that is divine:

E’re nature form’d you, ſhe in you deſign’d

Per- G8v 96

Perfection far beyond all human Kind:

But ſcorn’d Material from her common Store,

Travers’d her pregnant Univerſe all ’ore;

Pick’d up each ſofter Atome as ſhe went;

Took too thoſe bright ones next the Firmament.

Thus richly furniſh’d ſhe the Work began,

And joy’d to find it would be more than Man;

With utmoſt Care did every Charm encreaſe,

And e’re ſhe would compleat the Beauteous Piece,

Dip’d her nice Pencil in the liquid Light,

Varniſh’d the whole, till Gods themſelves leſs bright,

Each Deity deceiv’d with what was done,

Beſtow’d ſome Gift and thought you was his own:

So liberally they gave; in you we ſee,

All their Perfections in Epitome.

No Wonder our weak Sex is charm’d to love

That Form which might the pleaſing Object prove

Of all the wiſhing Female Court above:

Tis they alone muſt for your Heart contend,

Your triple Nymph no farther doth pretend,

Than to adore the Glories they commend;

They are reſolv’d they will remain intire,

Not run the Hazard of dilated Fire;

To other Swains their ſingle Power might move,

And they neglecting charm to more than Love.

They H1r 97

They know your Worth; ſo the deſerving three

Will joyn, and be one Delia to thee;

Let one Idea fill thy grateful Breaſt,

Think they are ſo, in that Miſtake they’re bleſt.

To Marina

Plague to thy Husband, ſcandal to thy Sex,

Whoſe wearying Tongue does every Ear perplex;

Falſe to thy own falſe Soul, thou doſt declare,

How Luſt and Pride do Reign and Revel there,

Tell the World too, how nicely Chaft you are.

This dull compulſive Virtues own’d; for who,

With one ſo odious would have ought to do?

But this Misfortune you too oft condole,

Whilſt looſeſt Thoughts debauch your willing Soul

Thy beſt Diſcourſe is but meer Ribaldry,

Telling how fond all that e’er ſee you, be:

And loving all thy ſelf, think’ſt all in Love with thee.

With pious Heart thou ſtudieſt Vanity,

And talk’ſt obſcene by rules of Modeſty.

H Thus H1v 98

Thus Sins nick-nam’d ſpeak the infernal Saint,

Whoſe ſhining Robes are tawdry Cloaths and Paint:

Extravagance and Cheats you mark for Wit,

Thou abſtract of Contention, Fraud and Spite.

If Socrates could have made choiſe of thee,

Thou would’ſt have baffled his Philoſophy,

And turn’d his Patience to a Lunacy.

The reſtleſs Waters of the raging Sea,

Are a ſerene and halcion Stream to thee:

They keep their Banks and ſometimes can be ſtill,

Thou art all Tempeſt, know’ſt no bounds in Ill.

Pride, Luſt, Contention, reign and yet repine,

Veſuvius Noiſe and Flame has leſs of Hell than thine.

Euterpe: The Lyrick Muſe, On the Death of John Dryden, Eſq;

An Ode.


Isoft Euterpe, ſweeteſt of the Nine,

The moſt Inſpiring, and moſt Divine,

By my own Lyre rais’d to extatick Joy

Full H2r 99

Full of kind Influence expecting ſate,

When tuneful Dryden would my Aid implore,

Who with gay Tranſports did my Gifts employ,

And meaneſt Thoughts above my Notes did ſoar.

But ſtrait a diſmal, and unwelcome Sound,

Fill’d all th’ Æthereal Courts around,

Great Dryden is no more.

But like the common things in mortal State,

Loſt in th’ impartial Gulf of an inevitable Fate,

At the dread News Grief all my Luſtre veil’d,

I broke my harmonious Harp and Lute,

Threw by my ſoftning ever-charming Flute,

Not the leaſt glympſe of Joy appears,

No radiant Nymphs about my Pallace wait,

Nor drink I any Nectar but my Tears.


I with profoundeſt Cauſe, and Sorrow mourn,

Over my Dryden’s ſacred Urn:

He was my greateſt Glory, only boaſt,

Through him I let ungreatful Mankind know,

What mighty Wonders I could do,

But now, like him, to the inferior World I’m loſt.

H2 I taught H2v 100

I taught Him all the ſofter Airs of Love,

And Anthems ſo divine; he’ll find the ſame above.

With an auſpicious Pride I did diſpenſe

My mighty Favours, when He did implore,

From my pregnant unexhauſted Store,

Of tuneful Fancies, and harmonious Senſe.

When I with gentle Fire have warm’d the Breaſt,

The Soul with pleaſing Raptures bles’t,

The ſacred Flame in ev’ry part does ſhine.

The Product, like the Source, is all divine,

Poetry’s not th’ effect of Art, or Wine, or Love,

Tho’ They ſometimes the Gift improve,

Nor is the warmth that Poets Breaſts inſpire,

Vinum Dæmonum, but Celeſtial Fire.

A God-like Ray enlightning from above;

As decent Meaſures, regular Motions be

Through all the tuneful Univerſe,

And ſpeak in all a glorious Harmony,

Ev’n ſo the myſtick Numbers of melodious Verſe,

Are of th’ intellectual World the ſacred Symmetry.

Dryden H3r 101


Dryden I choſe of all the tuneful Throng,

His Soul with Ardour fill’d fit for immortal Song;

Learn’d him all Lyrick Arts of Poetry,

Such as might with Celeſtial Notes agree

Which his Induſtry did improve,

In Celebrations, Elegies and Love,

And ev’ry Theme which his commanding Pen would try

With ſtrength of Judgment, and profoundeſt Senſe,

With ſparkling Wit, gay Fancy, Eloquence,

His Verſe did all abound:

In him alone was found

The much deſir’d, aim’d at Excellence.

In ev’ry Line magnificent or ſweet,

Like Ovid ſoft, or elſe like Virgil great.

Orpheus magnetick Harp leſs Pow’r cou’d boaſt,

All Rage, unleſs in Love when e’er he ſung was loſt.

Above ’em all he rais’d his matchleſ Lays,

Glory of Britain, and Wits Empire too,

Which tho’ the Subjects are but Few,

H3 Did H3v 102

Did juſtly wreath him with deſerved Bays:

The verdant Diadem which Laureats Crown,

Ne’er look’d ſo freſh as when he put it on,

Then like his Lines with Godlike-luſtre ſhone.


With a Superior and victorious Grace

The ſacred Place,

He did almoſt unenvy’d aſſume,

I, pleas’d to ſee the Branches ſpread

O’re his triumphant Head,

From th’ Helicon Spring

Did Water bring,

Sprinkled them oft that they might ever bloom.

But, oh! they cou’d not ſtand the Rage,

Of an ill-natur’d and Lethargick Age,

Who ſpight of Wit wou’d ſtupidly be Wiſe,

All noble Raptures, Extaſies deſpiſe,

And only Plodders after Senſe will Prize.

They from his meritorious Brow

Th’ exalted Laurel tear,

Which none but he could juſtly wear,

And He muſt ſuffer Abdication too.

With H4r 103


With Him they did ſuppreſs all lofty flights of Poetry.

All melting Airs, and rapt’ring Harmony,

But this Revenge, let Mankind take from me.

If any dare on Dryden’s Death to Write,

Not to expreſs their Grief, but ſhew their Wit,

I the ambitious Purpoſe will Reverſe,

Deny my Aid,

And ſo ſhall each inſpiring Maid.

Reſolving ungrateful Man that could contemn

Such noble Excellence in Him.

Shall never more the Bleſſing know,

We’ll ne’r again our Influence beſtow.

Tho’ ’tis pretended to adorn his Herſe.

(Unleſs the generous Montague implore,

Then in him ſhall all our Glories ſhine as heretofore.)

But to expreſs our own immortal Love,

We’ll Solemnize Great Dryden’s Obſequies above,

Our Grief ſuch Emphaſis ſhall bear,

As no Corporeal Organs can declare,

And one Eternal Sigh ſpread thro’ the Extended Air.

H4 Terp- H4v 104

Terpſichore: A Lyrick Muſe, On the Death of John Dryden, Eſq; extempore.

Just as the Gods were liſtening to my Strains,

And thouſand Loves danc’d o’re the Æthereal Plains;

With my own radiant Hair my Harp I ſtrung,

And in glad Conſort all my Siſters Sung;

An univerſal Harmony above,

Inſpir’d us all with Gaiety and Love.

A horrid Sound daſh’d our immortal Mirth,

Waſted by Sighs, from the unlucky Earth.

(Who’d think celeſtial Forms ſhould Sorrows know,

Or ſympathize with ſad Events below?

But by our great immortal Selves we do.

For when the loud unwelcome Meſſage ſpread,

With diſmal Accents tuneful, Dryden’s dead,

All our gay Joys in haſt affrighted fled.

A ſullen Gloom ſeiz’d all the Gods around,

My feeble Hand no more the Lyre could ſound:

And all the ſoft young Loves with drooping Wings,

Liſp’t their Concern, and my neglected Strings;

Trem- H5r 105

Trembl’d themſelves into a mournful Air,

Then Sight and Huſht into a ſad Deſpair.

There let them ever unregarded lye,

Apollo’s too, do’s ceaſe its Harmony.

He with us ſacred Nymphs profuſely Mourns,

With us the leaſt deſire of Reſpite ſcorns;

Intire eternal Grief our Beings ſeize

For him who beſt could us and Mankind pleaſe.

Great Dryden, in whoſe vaſt capacious Mind,

Our utmoſt Pow’r did fit Reception find;

Which Favours he did generouſly diſpenſe,

Joy’d the glad World with his amazing Senſe,

And like us too diffus’d his Influence;

His Genius would ſuch Inſpiration bear,

That his Illuſtrious Lines did not appear

As if our Product, but our Selves were there.

Mourn ye forſaken Worlds, you’l ne’re again

Be bleſt with ſo Divine, ſo great a Swain.

In you no more let tuneful Mirth be found,

The very Spheres ſhall ceaſe their wonted Sound,

And every Orb ſtop its harmonious round:

All Nature huſh as if intranc’t ſhe lay,

Sunk in old Chaos e’er the inlight’ing Ray

Of Heaven awak’d her in the firſt-born Day.

With H5v 106

With ſuch ſtill Horrour let’s our ſorrows bear,

Leſt Sighs in time, harmonious ſhould appear.

If e’er to write again is Man’s intent,

(Uncall’d on let us ſilently lament,)

And take his Works, for an Eternal Preſident,

The Platonick

Prepoſterous Fate, let me accuſe thee now,

(What means this Mirtle on the Cypreſs bough;)

Ah! why thus treacherouſly in Friendſhip dreſt,

Haſt thou to Love, betray’d my unweary Breaſt?

Amintor’s lateſt Breath did recommend,

Me to the care of his once deareſt Friend;

We the kind fatal Orders did perſue,

And for his ſake I ſtrove to Love him too:

Methoughts Amintor did his Thanks Proclaim,

Look’d down and ſmil’d, and authoriz’d my Flame.

Bid me my greateſt Favours there beſtow,

Where he lov’d beſt (excepting me) below;

But my ill Fate, th’ obedient purpoſe croſt,

Duty was ſoon in Inclination loſt;

For H6r 107

For oh! I find the generous Probation,

Has now commenc’d an unſuſpected Paſſion.

I would my Friendſhip to the height improve,

Which unawars did ſublimate to Love;

So ſome well meaning Votaries in Religion,

Run their Devotion up to Superſtition:

But from the utmoſt Error I’ll be free,

And not degenerate to Idollatry.

Confeſs the kind Platonick at the moſt,

And make my Paſſion not my Bluſh, but Boaſt:

I do not wiſh him in theſe careleſs Arms,

Let me but gaze at diſtance on his Charms;

To view that ſoftning Air, that Voice to hear,

Is all the Bliſs my temperate Soul wou’d ſhare.

But then be ever preſent ever kind,

Joy to my Eyes and Pleaſure to my Mind.

I ſhall be bleſt if you’ll allow but this,

Shou’d you be kinder, t’ would abate my Bliſs:

My elevated Flame needs no ſupply,

But the nice ſubtil Fewel of the Eye:

In Contemplation all my Pleaſure lies,

My Joys are pure Ideal Extacies:

The Lip or Hand are not enough refin’d,

With Looks and Smiles let me regale my Mind

’Tis all my ſofteſt Wiſhes e’er deſign’d.

Love H6v 108

Love like the ſacred Tree which Eden grac’t,

To entertain the ſight is only plac’t;

Safely we gaze, but if we venter on,

To touch and taſt, we bluſh and are undone.

The Emulation.

Say Tyrant Cuſtom, why muſt we obey,

The impoſitions of thy haughty Sway;

From the firſt dawn of Life, unto the Grave,

Poor Womankind’s in every State, a Slave.

The Nurſe, the Miſtreſs, Parent and the Swain,

For love ſhe muſt, there’s none eſcape that Pain;

Then comes the laſt, the fatal Slavery,

The Husband with inſulting Tyranny

Can have ill Manners juſtify’d by Law;

For Men all join to keep the Wife in awe.

Moſes who firſt our Freedom did rebuke,

Was Marry’d when he writ the Pentateuch;

They’re Wiſe to keep us Slaves, for well they know,

If we were looſe, we ſoon ſhould make them, ſo.

We yeild like vanquiſh’d Kings whom Fetters bind,

When chance of War is to Uſurpers kind;

Sub- H7r 109

Submit in Form; but they’d our Thoughts controul,

And lay reſtraints on the impaſſive Soul:

They fear we ſhould excel their ſluggiſh Parts,

Should we attempt the Sciences and Arts.

Pretend they were deſign’d for them alone,

So keep us Fools to raiſe their own Renown;

Thus Prieſts of old their Grandeur to maintain,

Cry’d vulgar Eyes would ſacred Laws Prophane.

So kept the Myſteries behind a Screen,

There Homage and the Name were loſt had they been ſeen:

But in this bleſſed Age, ſuch Freedom’s given,

That every Man explains the Will of Heaven;

And ſhall we Women now ſit tamely by,

Make no excurſions in Philoſophy,

Or grace our Thoughts in tuneful Poetry?

We will our Rights in Learning’s World maintain,

Wits Empire, now, ſhall know a Female Reign;

Come all ye Fair, the great Attempt improve,

Divinely imitate the Realms above:

There’s ten celeſtial Females govern Wit,

And but two Gods that dare pretend to it;

And ſhall theſe finite Males reverſe their Rules,

No, we’ll be Wits, and then Men muſt be Fools.

To H7v 110

To Mr. Yalden, on his Temple of Fame, Extempore.

Had Gloeſter liv’d, and made his Actions ſhine,

With the united Glories of his Line,

He’d leſs Immortal been than in theſe lays of thine.

Not only Royal Tears adorn his Urn,

But you have taught the Subjects all to mourn:

Your melting Lines, make conſcious Paſſion vent

More ſolemn Griefs, than common Nature meant.

Soft are thy ſtrains as his once moving Tongue,

Fond Venus loſe was leſs divinely Sung;

Amintor, Colin, young Alexis too,

Juſtly reſign the Prize, to mightier you.

The weeping Nymphs, all throw their Cypreſs down,

With eager Hands wreath your victorious Crown;

You from whom Kings ſuch Glories do receive,

Yet to your ſelf ſuperior Honours give,

Since they but lye, where you’ll for ever live.

On H8r 111

On the Death of William III, King of England.

Ye mighty Nine, ſuſpend your ſacred Fire,

Strong Grief like Love can coldeſt Breaſts inſpire;

Nor ſhall I want Caſtilian Waters here,

For every line can Boaſt an ardent Tear.

But if the artleſs Sorrows of my Breaſt,

In numbers fail, my Sighs ſhall ſpeak the reſt;

With untun’d Lyre, and ſlacken’d Nerves I Sing,

Yet with a Pious haſt, my humble Tribute bring

Of Grief immenſe, an equal Theme of Praiſe,

But oh! what Pen can worthy Trophies raiſe.

Great William now our Annals proudeſt Boaſt,

Whoſe dawning Glories joy’d the Belgick Coaſt;

When at Seneff, he ſtem’d the impetuous Strife,

And Laurels flouriſh’d in th’ Bloom of Life.

Nor did his Triumphs end where they begin,

Heaven gave freſh Scenes to act his Glories in;

Ammon’s nor Cæſar’s Fame, muſt here contend,

The Valour had an avaricious End,

They fought to win the World, he to defend.

Britannia’s Wrongs his willing Aid demand,

He hazards all, to ſave the ſinking Land;

Not H8v 112

Not Winter Seas the generous Prince reſtrain,

Nor num’rous Hosts on Albion’s ſhining Plain:

No threat’ning Danger terrour can afford,

When Juſtice calls for his avenging Sword.

Boldly he march’d to dare th’ oppreſſing Foe,

Nor Conqueſt fear’d, when Heaven directs the Blow;

Frighted Commanders, quit their guilty Poſt,

’Tis Orange comes, they know the Field is loſt.

None dare approach the mighty Victor’s Face,

But ſuch, as ſafely ſue for his Imbrace;

With blooming Palms the regal Seat obtain’d,

He ſaves thoſe Rights his Valour had regain’d.

But ſoon Hibernia’s inſulting Foes,

Calls forth the Hero from his ſhort repoſe;

(Not thirſt of Empire, Mankind to inſlave,

Nor fights ſo much to Conquer, as to ſave:)

Led by a tenderneſs his Courage moves,

Like Mars’s Chariot, drawn by Venus Doves.

With Pride great Neptune bears the Royal freight,

Where the defenceleſs Iſles, Impatient wait,

And look from him, as Heaven their Nations fate.

Th’ undaunted Warrior like the God of Arms,

Shines thro’ the Field and every Souldier warms.

In I1r 113

In vain the Boyne would Victory delay,

Nor can its Streams their generous Heat allay;

Boldly they Plunge the bright propitious Flood,

And in the Waves like arm’d Tryton ſtood.

The amphibious Squadrons charge upon their Foes,

Nor in the Liquid Plain their ardor looſe:

But with united force the Fight perſue,

Till Laurels load the daring Monarch’s brow.

Soon as the Land was ſafe his Weapons ceaſe,

With his victorious Hand, he ſeal’d their Peace;

Mourn all ye injur’d Realms your helpleſs Cauſe,

No Sword can Succour you like kind Naſſaus,

And that’s for ever ſheath’d — no more can ſave,

That mighty Arm, lies uſeleſs in the Grave.

Come widdow’d Belgia with ſad Britain join,

Unite your Tears and ſwell the gentle Boyne;

She’ll riſe in Silver heaps at Naſſau’s Name,

With Pride her Streams are conſcious of his Fame,

And all her wondering Banks with Joy reſound the ſame.

But when your flowing Eyes declare his Death,

She will no more her ſporting Waters heave;

But I1v 114

But ſadly ſink into her mournful Cell,

In ſubteranean Murmurs haſt to tell,

At Neptune’s Court how his great Maſter fell,

Each Nerieeid ſtrait her Sea green Treſſestares,

And ſwells the Ocean with their flowing Tears:

The Trytons


To N. Tate, Eſq; on his Poem on the Queen’s Picture, Drawn by Cloſterman.

Hail mighty Poet, mighty Painter too,

Since to thy ſtrokes, his equal Lines we owe;

The ſiſter Arts, are now a Miſtery

And Painture here, has brought forth Poetry.

Th’ inſpiring Shade, ſeems life itſelf refin’d,

And all Heavens goodneſs coppy’d in her Mind;

So juſtly each performs his nicer Part,

As ſpeaks their Skill, yet Beauties without Art:

The emmulative Ink, bright as the Paint,

This ſhows the Queen and that deſcribes the Saint.

We I2r 115

We prize in others ſtill the laſting Soul,

But ye have Here, immortaliz’d the whole:

Speak great Apollo thou alone can’ſt tell,

Whether the Pencil or the Pen excell.

Brib’d by the native Ardour of my Breaſt,

My Muſe no longer will their worth conteſt:

But muſt to Tate yeild the ſuperior Crown,

Who has compleated Cloſterman’s Renown,

And his Praiſe reverberates his own.

But oh! what Trophies of immortal Fame,

Are juſtly rais’d to ſacred Anna’s Name.

Britannia knew not ſhe was half ſo bleſt,

Till the Diviner Raptures of my Breaſt,

Declar’d what elſe could ne’er have been expreſt.

Her Glory ſhines in thy Pathetick Lays,

So Colin once Sung fam’d Elizia Praiſe;

Long may thy Astræa Albion’s Scepter bear,

Whilſt ſhe the Crown may you the Laurel wear.

I2 To I2v 116

To my much valu’d Friend Moneſes.

Great Pæan now thy ſtrongeſt Rays diſpenſe,

Give Virgils Flights and Dryden’s Eloquence:

All the fam’d Bards of ſacred Poetry,

Let their bright Flames revive again in me.

Inſpire my Breaſt whilſt I his Praiſe rehearſe,

Whoſe worth deſerves thy own immortal Verſe;

I ſing Moneſes whom the Gods ordain’d,

To ſhow their Form, e’er ’twas by Sin prophan’d:

He is all Goodneſs, Mercy, Juſtice, Truth,

Has all the Charms without the vice of Youth.

Theſe are the Native Beauties of his Soul,

While every Art and Grace adorns the whole:

Obliging is his Mem, his Judgement ſtrong,

A flowing Wit directs his pleaſing Tongue;

And each inchanting Accent which we hear,

Like airs Divine Tranſport the liſt’ning Ear.

Not Orpheus Harp, not yet Amphion’s Lyre,

Could with more Sweetneſs or more force inſpire:

Oh! what Infernal Magick Mortals bind,

That his inſtructive Voice can’t move the Mind,

And calm the raging Follies of Mankind.

(The I3r 117

The paſſive Stones obey’d leſs powerful Sound,

For in their heaps was no reſiſting Atoms found;)

Not greater Pride or Joys did Ammon move,

When by the Shrine, pronounc’d the Son of Jove:

Then are the Transports my bleſt Soul attend,

That I can call the brave Moneſes Friend.

Moneſes whom Apollo has deſign’d,

With his own Arts, to Heal and Charm Mankind;

Fain would I ſtill perſue my wonderous Song,

But oh! too faſt the bright Ideas throng,

Stifl’d in Raptures e’er they reach my Tongue:

So when with greateſt Zeal we Heaven accoſt,

Our Notions all in Extacies are loſt,

We utter leaſt, where it deſerves the moſt.


I3v I4r

To theMoſt Learn’d, and Ingenious Mr. William Congreve.

This Pastoral Is Dedicated by the Author.

The I4v a1r 1

The fond Shepherdeſs. A Pastoral.

Daphne, and Larinda.

By a ſoft murmuring Stream in heat of Day,

Remote from all, the ſad Larinda lay

Beneath the ſpreading Willows gloomy Shade,

(A cool receſs by careful Nature made;)

There loſt in thought, ſoothing her amorous Pains,

Forgot her Flocks, and buſineſs of the Plains.

The Shepherds wonder’d that ſhe ſtay’d ſo long,

Each left his Pipe, and ſtopt his rural Song

Searching th’ adjacent Woods and Groves around,

Impatient all, till they Larinda found.

The careful Daphne diſtant Vallies try’d

And there with Joy the penſive Wand’rer ſpy’d:

Ran to her Arms with a tranſported Haſt

A thouſand times, the ſighing Nymph imbrac’d.

a Daphne, a1v 2


Tell me, ſaid ſhe, what makes you all neglect,

Nor now from Sun, or Wolves your Sheep protect,

But let them wander o’re th’ unbounded Plain,

Scorch’d by the one, and by the other Slain?

Tho’ you may now the greateſt numbers Boaſt

Unheeded thus your Flocks will ſoon be loſt.

Nay of your ſelf too, you are careleſs grown

Shun all the Nymphs to Muſe in Shades alone:

Your head’s not now, with Roſy Chaplets dreſt,

No fragrant Poeſy decks your penſive Breaſt,

Nor decent Ruſhes ſtrow’d beneath the Shade,

Where ſmiling once with ſporting Lambs you play’d.

The little Bird you fondly taught to Sing,

Releas’d from Cage, and truſted to its Wing:

You tore each tender Sonnet you have made,

Wiſh’d the Pipe broke, when ſighing Strephon play’d.

Ah! why thus peeviſh? Can your faithful Heart

Conceal a Grief from her, who’d bear a Part?


No kind Inquirer when with cares oppreſt,

I ſtill repoſe in yours, my weary’d Breaſt;

But a2r 3

But I have now, no Secret to reveal,

I’ve loſt ſome Lambs, as all the Plains can tell.

At the approach of laſt refreſhing Show’r,

In haſt I ran to yonder well fenc’d Bow’r;

In the kind ſhelter too long Sleeping lay,

Or Thief, or Wolf, my Darling ſtole away.


Do not evade the Truth, but be ſincere;

For long ere this, your Eyes did ſorrows wear,

Beſides, I ſaw you ere you was awake

Diſturb’d you ſlept, with eager accents ſpake,

(Oh! my Exalis will you leave me.) Then

Foulded your tender Arms, and Slept agen.

Nay, do not bluſh at the diſcover’d Truth,

Too well I know you Love that charming Youth,

Oft you together, your mixt Flocks did feed,

Delight your ſelves with his harmonious Reed.

If any Straglers, from your Folds did run;

Each, would the others ſeek, neglect their own:

Such mutual kindneſſes the Soul indear,

Exalis was your Joy, and you was all his Care.


Oh! Name him not; yes, ever ſound that Name,

For ’tis in vain to hide th’ undoing Flame.

a2 I a2v 4

I Love, nay rather the bright Youth adore,

Eccho ne’r doated on Narciſſus more;

Nor had he half of my Exalis Charms

To tempt the Nymph to his reſiſting Arms

’Mongſt all the Swains. Speak Daphne, have you ſeen

A Shape ſo fine, or ſuch a pleaſing Mein,

Fair as the Doves which o’re our Cottage flys,

Soft as their Down, and juſt ſuch lovely Eyes.

His flowing Locks in amorous Ringlets twine,

Like the Young curling Tendrils of the Vine:

Not Philomel’s ſoft Voice, like his, can move,

His ev’ry accent has an Air of Love;

All the gay Chaunters of the welcome Spring,

Like me, are huſh’d and joy’d; if he but ſpeak or Sing

A Breath as Sweet, as when the Evening Breeze

Salutes us from yon Grove of ſpicy Trees;

His lovely Smiles, ſoft Brightneſs do diſplay,

Like glowing Bluſhes of the infant Day.

When o’er the Mountain-tops the blooming Light,

Darts its Young Beams to th’ early Gazers ſight,

Like Pan himſelf, the Glory of the Woods,

While other Swains ſeem Mean, attendant Gods:

Then who ſuch mighty Charms can e’er reſiſt?

Charms like my Love, too great to be expreſt.

Daph. a3r 5


Oh fatal Power of Love, that thus can ſeize

The nice Larinda, whom no Swain could pleaſe;

But now a Slave, worſe than e’er ſigh’d for you,

You doat to Paſſion; nay, Diſtraction too.

Tell me, ſad ſoftn’d Nymph, how long your Breaſt,

Has been by theſe too mighty Griefs oppreſt?


Yes, I will tell you; my unweary’d Tongue,

Speaking of him, can ne’er think Ages long.

Daphne, you know what time the lovely Swain,

With his Bleſt Flocks, has grac’d our happy Plain:

From the firſt Hour, he did obliging prove;

(I little thought, to pay him back in Love)

He within bounds, my wandring Lambs would keep,

When I was weary, gladly Fold my Sheep

And as I reſted, in the verdant Shade,

On oaten Reeds melodious Airs he play’d.

The liſtning Shepherds not far diſtant ſtand,

Pleas’d, and yet envying that dear skilful Hand:

Not Pan’s immortal Pipe, could more Inſpire,

Or glad the Plains, than my Exalis Lyre.

a3 It a3v 6

It Joy’d all Hearts, to mine did Fatal prove,

And taught my liſtning Soul, the way to Love.

On a freſh Bank, by a clear Fountain ſide,

(Where Flora ſmil’d with gaudy vernal Pride.

Phœbus was gone, to Thetis yielding Arms,

But Luna left her Dear, Endymion’s Charms;

Smil’d o’er the Grove, ſcarce Day it ſelf more Bright,

And thro’ the Boughs, ſprinkled the Shade with Light.)

There with gay Innocence, ſupine we fate,

Hear’d injur’d Philomel her Wrongs relate,

But no forwarning Bird told my approaching Fate.

Then as I lean’d on the enamel’d Ground,

I cropt the fragrant Flowers all around;

The various Colours, artfully I plac’d,

And with them pleas’d Exalis Boſom dreſs’d.

To him a Crook and Beachen bowl I gave,

(Did with my careful Hand the laſt Ingrave,)

One ſide, with various Silvan Nymphs, I grac’d,

And on the other Pan and Flora plac’d.

Take theſe, ſaid I; for all the generous Care,

In which, ſo oft, my Flocks and I did ſhare;

And a4r 7

And when I die, Exalis take them too,

Tho’ loſt to me, they’ll Joy to be with you;

Like me, they’r wonted to your gentle Call;

I only grieve their number is ſo ſmall.

He ſmil’d to hear the tender things I ſaid,

While grateful looks his pleaſing Anſwers made;

And then half Bluſhing on his Muſick play’d,

Liſt’ning; that dear undoing Face I view’d,

To catch each Smile, which kindly was beſtow’d.

But Oh! too long, too long I gazeing ſate;

My Soul, with ſoftning Airs, prepar’d by Fate,

Took the Impreſſion of that charming Face,

Which, Smiling, darted Glory round the Place:

A thouſand Loves in amorous Fires dreſt,

With one dear look pierc’d my too ready Breaſt:

I thought Heaven’s Brightneſs in thoſe radiant Eyes,

And bluſht, and fainted at the ſoft ſurprize;

Yet hop’d the mighty Tranſport would be o’er,

And the gay Youth but pleaſe as heretofore:

But oh! you may as ſoon yon Mountain move,

As raze out the immortal Characters of Love.


Then with what caution ſhould we guard the Breaſt,

And the firſt glimmering of the Flame reſiſt?

a4 A a4v 8

A Flame, ſo fatal, that it doth Deſtroy,

In ſad Larinda, every thought of Joy:

If all kind Breaſts are with ſuch torture mov’d,

May I ne’er Love, nor ever be belov’d?

No; rather let me and my Flocks, be drove

From this freſh Paſture, and delightful Grove;

Confin’d to barren Sands and ſcorching Sun,

Where no Shades near, nor uſeful Waters run;

Fainted with wandering o’er the fiery Duſt,

Famiſh’d for Food, Parch’d up with Heat and Thirſt:

My darling Lambs around me bleat Complaints;

I void of all, that can relieve their Wants:

Yet I’d endure this piercing Scene of Woe;

Theſe utmoſt ills poor Daphne’s State can know:

Rather then Love, ſhould my gay Breaſt ſubdue,

With ſuch ſoft amorous Griefs as torture you;

Ah why, would you indulge the fond deſire.

And not at firſt Stifle the growing Fire?


At its Approach, with tender warmth were Bleſt,

The lambent Flame plays, with the ſporting Breaſt,

And give ſuch Joys, none would, or can reſiſt.

No a5r 9

No Lover yet, could e’er of Forecaſt Boaſt,

Percieve no Ruin, till they know they’r loſt:

Now with the fondeſt Flames of Love I burn,

Doom’d to the certain Curſe of no return.

When to the fickle Youth, I own’d I lov’d,

His Flocks he ſtraight to Ida’s Plains remov’d;

He ne’er returns, to ſee how mine do fare,

Nor I, nor they, are now no more his Care.

Curſe on my Love, which did itſelf diſcloſe,

By what ſhould keep, I did my Charmer loſe;

Now I no more muſt ſee his lovely Face,

Hear his inchanting Voice, his melting Lays;

Lays, which in coldeſt Breaſts would Raptures move

Make the Soul Gay, and ev’ry Pulſe beat Love.

Gods! how he’d look and Smile; how was I bleſt,

When the charm’d Youth, lean’d on my willing, Breaſt,

Spake things as ſoft, as the kind Hand he preſt?

But now all’s loſt, I rage beyond redreſs,

(He’l ne’er return, nor I e’er Love him leſs.)

Firſt, I was cautious to conceal my Flame,

Now every Breath repeats his dear Lov’d Name:

I carve, Exalis on each ſmooth bark’d Tree,

That if the mangl’d Woods could vocal be,

They’d ſurely Curſe my fond Barbarity.

Each a5v 10

Each ſigh has ſuch a tender Emphaſis,

As moves Compaſſion, in all Breaſts but his:

For all the Swains are Conſcious that I Love;

Each Tow’ring Hill, and every humble Grove;

I’ve tir’d them all, with my inceſſant Crys,

Ecchoes grown faint, repeating of my ſighs:

My Sighs, whoſe force move ev’ry Bough to Mourn,

In pitying murmurs that I’ve no return:

Oft do I run to the inviting Shade,

Where firſt his pleaſing Smiles, my Soul betray’d;

There lay me down in the dear ſacred Place,

Which kindly once, his lovely Form did Grace;

Then weep his Abſence; Rage and Rave in vain,

For oh! I ne’er muſt be ſo Bleſt again;

I try if Slumbers will afford Relief,

But as they ſooth, ſo they augment my Grief.

I claſp him then in my glad wiſhing Arms,

Gaze on his Eyes, and feaſt me with his Charms:

But when awake; I rage to find him gone,

To loſe the lovely Prize, I thought I’d won.

Search ev’ry Corner of the winding Grove;

Ask every Shade, to give me back my Love.

There ſilent all, and empty of ſuch Bliſs;

In vain I ſeek for Joys, I’m doom’d to miſs:

Too a6r 11

Too well Exalsis knows he gives delight,

But he Induſtriouſly avoids my ſight,

Tho’ Prayers, and Tears, and Gifts, and blooming Love invite.

If he abſents, to cure me ’tis in vain,

For ſtill his bright Idea doth remain,

And ev’ry moment Charms me into Pain.

Other Youths may moderate Paſſion move;

As he’s all lovely, I’m all over Love:

Loſt to all elſe, inſenſible I ſeem,

And only know I’m ſomething doats on him

If I would count my Sheep into the Fould,

Forget their number ere they half are told;

And when the Nymphs my heedleſneſs do blame,

I anſwer all, by ſighing of his Name.

Farewel, my Daphne, I muſt leave thee now,

One pitying Tear, on my ſad Fate beſtow;

Return thou Glory of the Joyful Grove,

May’ſt thou be Bleſt, for may’ſt thou never Love,

Farewel my once lov’d Flocks, my rural Store;

Larinda now will ne’er regard you more.

But wing’d with Love, to Ida’s Plains I’ll fly:

Find my Exalis out; to ſee me die.

No a6v 12

No longer on my tedious Griefs I’ll wait,

That melting Name ſo often I’ll repeat,

Till the ſoft ſound diſſolve the Knot of Fate.

Curſs’d by his Abſence, Life is tedious grown;

Now he ſhall ſee what his neglect has done.

While I can gaze, it ſhall be on his Charms,

And tho’ not live; die in thoſe lovely Arms;

But if he envying, think that Bliſs too great,

I’ll ſigh my Soul out, at his careleſs Feet;

Then let one pitying Look but Grace my Death,

I’ll Bleſs the Cauſe, with my expiring Breath.

Hear me Great Pan, Sylvanus, all ye Gods,

Whoſe ſacred Power, protects the Plains and Woods,

Hear my laſt Prayer; (to you I oft did Bow,

With Milk and Hony, made your Altars Flow.)

While my ſad Shade, mourns in the duſky Grove,

Releas’d from Life; (but not the Pains of Love.)

Bleſs my Exalis, let him know no Cares,

Increaſe his plenteous Herds, and peaceful Years:

From Fox and Wolf, preſerve his tender Lambs,

And with Twin births, enrich the fruitful Dams.

When his fair Flocks the Shearers care demands,

Luxuriant Fleeces, tire their num’rous Hands.

The a7r 13

The induſtrious Bees load their melifluous Hive,

And all his rural Wealth, beyond his Wiſhes thrive.

But above all, ye Gods, regard him moſt,

Save him from parching Sun and piercing Froſt:

Shelter him ſafe, e’er any Storm appear,

And let him be to you, as to Larinda dear.

I bounteous Gods, for plenty firſt beſpoke,

Now for his Pleaſures, Flora thee invoke:

Let my ſoft Prayers, thy vernal Glories bring,

Bleſs Ida’s Plains, with glad eternal Spring:

The Paſture gay, no hurtful Weeds be found,

But Pancies, Hyacinths, ’oreſpread the Ground;

Mirtle and Firr make every Decent mound:

Let lofty Cedars and the ſtately Pine,

With mingling Boughs in mutual Shades combine:

Then the delicious Eglantine and Roſe,

With fragrant Jeſs’mine humbler Bowers compoſe

(Where the dear Youth may oft ſupinely Reſt,

With pleaſing Dreams, in Golden ſlumbers Bleſt,)

When Heat or Thirſt, to flowing Streams invite,

Let ſporting Naiads entertain his Sight;

Birds chearful Notes, the Woods and Vallies fill,

From ſpicy Trees which odourous Gums diſtil.

A- a7v 14

Amongſt theſe Aromaticks rich Fruits plac’d,

Fair to the Sight, as thoſe Heſperian grac’d,

Which both Invite, and Pleaſe the longing Taſt.

The cluſter’d Boughs, Complaiſantly recline,

As if they Joy’d the Gatherers hand to Join,

And all the choiceſt, ſtill my Love be thine.

And when in Honour, Goddeſs, to thy Name,

The joyful Swains, in ſports their Thanks Proclaim,

Whether they Pipe, or Dance, or Sing, or Play,

May my Exalis, bear the Prize away.

From Shepherd’s Hands the welcome Garland wear,

For oh! I Grudge the Nymphs ſhou’d come ſo near )

Yet if ’twill pleaſe him beſt; then ſmiling come,

And with glad Voices ſing the Victor home;

With choiceſt Flowers ſtrow all the joyful Path,

Gay as his Looks, ſweet as his tuneful Breath.

Then ſome kind Nymph the fragrant Pavement take

His preſſing Feet, give double Odours back;

Each Roſe, Anemone, more Beauteus make:

Let them freſh Mixture with the Cypreſs have,

Then ſtrow them all on my untimely Grave.

They a8r 15

They too were Lovers once, tho’ now transform’d

May I like them, to ſome kind Plant be turn’d;

And when Exalis, next in Triumph’s led,

Make Poſeys for his Breaſt, and Garlands for his Head:

Let not the Nymph upbraid, when ſhes return’d,

My Grave is fill’d, and grac’d with what he ſcorn’d:

Leſt, he relenting, ſhould one Moment grieve,

To ſave a Sigh, I’d be condemn’d to Live:

With raging Madneſs, mourn my abſent Bliſs,

And with my Cries wound every Ear but his.

Here the Nymph fainted with exceſs of Grief,

And careful Daphne, ſtrove to give Relief.