Several Occaſions.

Written by a Lady. Anne Counteſs of Winchelsea

Two cherubs holding palm branches and laurels, looking towards lower-left of page.

Printed for J. B. and Sold by Benj. Tooke at
the Middle-Temple-Gate, William Taylor in
Pater-Noſter-Row, and James Round in
Exchange-Alley, Cornhil. 17131713.

A1v omitted A2r

The Bookseller To the Reader.

The Town having already done Juſtice to the Ode on the Spleen, and ſome few Pieces in this Volume, when ſcattered in other Miſcellanies: I think it will be ſufficient (now that Permiſſion is at laſt obtained for the Printing this Collection) to acquaint the Reader, that they are of the ſame Hand; which I doubt not will render this Miſcellany an acceptable Preſent to the Publick.

A2 The A2v


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B1r 1

Miſcellany Poems.

Mercury and the Elephant.

A Prefatory Fable.

As Merc’ry travell’d thro’ a Wood,

(Whoſe Errands are more Fleet than Good)

An Elephant before him lay,

That much encumber’d had the Way:

The Meſſenger, who’s ſtill in haſte,

Wou’d fain have bow’d, and ſo have past;

When up aroſe th’ unweildy Brute,

And wou’d repeat a late Diſpute,

B In B1v 2

In which (he ſaid) he’d gain’d the Prize

From a wild Boar of monſtrous Size:

But Fame (quoth he) with all her Tongues,

Who Lawyers, Ladies, Soldiers wrongs,

Has, to my Diſadvantage, told

An action throughly Bright and Bold;

Has ſaid, that I foul Play had us’d,

And with my Weight th’ Oppoſer bruis’d;

Had laid my Trunk about his Brawn;

Before his Tuſhes cou’d be drawn;

Had ſtunn’d him with a hideous Roar,

And twenty-thouſand Scandals more:

But I defy the Talk of Men,

Or Voice of Brutes in ev’ry Den;

Th’ impartial Skies are all my Care,

And how it ſtands Recorded there.

Amongst you Gods, pray, What is thought?

Quoth MercuryThen have you Fought!

Solicitous thus ſhou’d I be

For what’s ſaid of my Verſe and Me;

Or B2r 3

Or ſhou’d my Friends Excuſes frame,

And beg the Criticks not to blame

(Since from a Female Hand it came)

Defects in Judgment, or in Wit;

They’d but reply—Then has ſhe Writ!

Our Vanity we more betray,

In asking what the World will ſay,

Than if, in trivial Things like theſe,

We wait on the Event with eaſe;

Nor make long Prefaces, to ſhow

What Men are not concern’d to know:

For ſtill untouch’d how we ſucceed,

’Tis for themſelves, not us, they Read;

Whilst that proceeding to requite,

We own (who in the Muſe delight)

’Tis for our Selves, not them, we Write.

Betray’d by Solitude to try

Amuſements, which the Prop’rous fly;

B2 And B2v 4

And only to the Preſs repair,

To fix our ſcatter’d Papers there;

Tho’ whilst our Labours are preſerv’d,

The Printers may, indeed, be ſtarv’d.

All is Vanity.


How vain is Life! which rightly we compare

To flying Poſts, that haſte away;

To Plants, that fade with the declining Day;

To Clouds, that fail amidſt the yielding Air;

Till by Extention into that they flow,

Or, ſcatt’ring on the World below,

Are loſt and gone, ere we can ſay they were;

To Autumn-Leaves, which every Wind can chace;

To riſing Bubbles, on the Waters Face;

To fleeting Dreams, that will not ſtay,

Nor B3r 5

Nor in th’ abuſed Fancy dance,

When the returning Rays of Light,

Reſuming their alternate Right,

Break on th’ ill-order’d Scene on the fantaſtick Trance:

As weak is Man, whilſt Tenant to the Earth;

As frail and as uncertain all his Ways,

From the firſt moment of his weeping Birth,

Down to the laſt and beſt of his few reſtleſs Days;

When to the Land of Darkneſs he retires

From diſappointed Hopes, and fruſtrated Deſires;

Reaping no other Fruit of all his Pain

Beſtow’d whilſt in the vale of Tears below,

But this unhapppy Truth, at laſt to know,

That Vanity’s our Lot, and all Mankind is Vain.


If paſt the hazard of his tendreſt Years,

Neither in thoughtleſs Sleep oppreſt,

Nor poiſon’d with a tainted Breaſt,

Loos’d from the infant Bands and female Cares,

B3 A ſtu- B3v 6

A ſtudious Boy, advanc’d beyond his Age,

Waſtes the dim Lamp, and turns the reſtleſs Page;

For ſome lov’d Book prevents the riſing Day,

And on it, ſtoln aſide, beſtows the Hours of Play;

Him the obſerving Maſter do’s deſign

For ſearch of darkned Truths, and Myſteries Divine;

Bids him with unremitted Labour trace

The Riſe of Empires, and their various Fates,

The ſeveral Tyrants o’er the ſeveral States,

To Babel’s lofty Towers, and warlike Nimrod’s Race;

Bids him in Paradice the Bank ſurvey,

Where Man, new-moulded from the temper’d Clay,

(Till fir’d with Breath Divine) a helpleſs Figure lay:

Could he be led thus far ―― What were the Boaſt,

What the Reward of all the Toil it coſt,

What from that Land of ever-blooming Spring,

For our Inſtruction could he bring,

Unleſs, that having Humane Nature found

Unſeparated from its Parent Ground,

How B4r 7

(Howe’er we vaunt our Elevated Birth)

The Epicure in ſoft Array,

The lothſome Beggar, that before

His rude unhoſpitable Door,

Unpity’d but by Brutes, a broken Carcaſs lay,

Were both alike deriv’d from the ſame common Earth?

But ere the Child can to theſe Heights attain,

Ere he can in the Learned Sphere ariſe;

A guiding Star, attracting to the Skies,

A Fever, ſeizing the o’er-labour’d Brain,

Sends him, perhaps, to Death’s concealing Shade;

Where, in the Marble Tomb now ſilent laid,

He better do’s that uſeful Doctrine ſhow,

(Which all the ſad Aſſiſtants ought to know,

Who round the Grave his ſhort continuance mourn)

That first from Dust we came, and must to Dust return.


A bolder Youth, grown capable of Arms,

Bellona courts with her prevailing Charms;

B4 Loud B4v 8

Bids th’ inchanting Trumpet found,

Loud as Triumph, ſoft as Love,

Striking now the Poles above,

Then deſcending from the Skies,

Soften every falling Note;

As the harmonious Lark that ſings and flies,

When near the Earth, contracts her narrow Throat,

And warbles on the Ground:

Shews the proud Steed, impatient of the Check,

’Gainſt the loudeſt Terrors Proof,

Pawing the Valley with his ſteeled Hoof,

With Lightning arm’d his Eyes, with Thunder cloth’d his Neck;

Who on th’ advanced Foe, (the Signal giv’n)

Flies, like a ruſhing Storm by mighty Whirlwinds driv’n;

Lays open the Records of Fame,

No glorious Deed omits, no Man of mighty Name;

Their Stratagems, their Tempers ſhe’ll repeat,

From Alexander’s, (truly ſtil’d the Great

From B5r 9

From Cæſar’s on the World’s Imperial Seat,

To Turenne’s Conduct, and to Conde’s Heat.

’Tis done! and now th’ ambitious Youth diſdains

The ſafe, but harder Labours of the Gown,

The ſofter Pleaſures of the Courtly Town,

The once lov’d rural Sports, and Chaces on the Plains;

Does with the Soldier’s Life the Garb aſſume,

The gold Embroid’ries, and the graceful Plume;

Walks haughty in a Coat of Scarlet Die,

A Colour well contriv’d to cheat the Eye,

Where richer Blood, alas! may undiſtinguiſht lye.

And oh! too near that wretched Fate attends;

Hear it ye Parents, all ye weeping Friends!

Thou fonder Maid! won by thoſe gaudy Charms,

(The deſtin’d Prize of his Victorious Arms)

Now fainting Dye upon the mournful Sound,

That ſpeaks his haſty Death, and paints the fatal Wound!

Trail all your Pikes, diſpirit every Drum,

March B5v 10

March in a ſlow Proceſſion from afar,

Ye ſilent, ye dejected Men of War!

Be ſtill the Hautboys, and the Flute be dumb!

Diſplay no more, in vain, the lofty Banner;

For ſee! where on the Bier before ye lies

The pale, the fall’n, th’ untimely Sacrifice

To your miſtaken Shrine, to your falſe Idol Honour!


As Vain is Beauty, and as ſhort her Power;

Tho’ in its proud, and tranſitory Sway,

The coldeſt Hearts and wiſeſt Heads obey

That gay fantaſtick Tyrant of an Hour.

On Beauty’s Charms, (altho’ a Father’s Right,

Tho’ grave Seleucus! to thy Royal Side

By holy Vows fair Stratonice be ty’d)

With anxious Joy, with dangerous Delight,

Too often gazes thy unwary Son,

Till paſt all Hopes, expiring and undone,

A B6r 11

A ſpeaking Pulſe the ſecret Cauſe impart;

The only time, when the Phyſician’s Art

Could eaſe that lab’ring Grief, or heal a Lover’s Smart.

See Great Antonius now impatient ſtand,

Expecting, with miſtaken Pride,

On Cydnus crowded Shore, on Cydnus fatal Strand,

A Cleopatra’s coming down the Cydnus, exactly agreeing with the Deſcription of it in Plutarch. Queen, at his Tribunal to be try’d,

A Queen that arm’d in Beauty, ſhall deride

His feeble Rage, and his whole Fate command:

O’er the ſtill Waves her burniſht Galley moves,

Row’d by the Graces, whilſt officious Loves

To ſilken Cords their buſie Hands apply,

Or gathering all the gentle Gales that fly,

To their fair Miſtreſs with thoſe Spoils repair,

And from their purple Wings diſperſe the balmy Air.

Hov’ring Perfumes aſcend in od’rous Clouds,

Curl o’er the Barque, and play among the Shrouds;

Whilſt B6v 12

Whilſt gently daſhing every Silver Oar,

Guided by the Rules of Art,

With tuneful Inſtruments deſign’d

To ſoften, and ſubdue the ſtubborn Mind,

A ſtrangely pleaſing and harmonious Part

In equal Meaſures bore.

Like a new Venus on her native Sea,

In midſt of the tranſporting Scene,

(Which Pen or Pencil imitates in vain)

On a reſplendent and conſpicuous Bed,

With all the Pride of Perſia looſely ſpread,

The lovely Syrene lay.

Which but diſcern’d from the yet diſtant Shore,

Th’ amazed Emperor could hate no more;

No more a baffled Vengeance could purſue;

But yielding ſtill, ſtill as ſhe nearer drew,

When Cleopatra anchor’d in the Bay,

Where every Charm cou’d all its Force diſplay,

Like his own Statue ſtood, and gaz’d the World away.

Where B7r 13

Where ends alas! this Pageantry and State;

Where end the Triumphs of this conqu’ring Face,

Envy’d of Roman Wives, and all the Female Race?

Oh ſwift Viciſſitude of Beauty’s Fate!

Now in her Tomb withdrawn from publick Sight,

From near Captivity and Shame,

The vanquiſh’d, the abandon’d Dame

Proffers the Arm, that held another’s Right,

To the deſtructive Snake’s more juſt Embrace,

And courts deforming Death, to mend his Leaden Pace.


But Wit ſhall laſt (the vaunting Poet cries)

Th’ immortal Streams that from Parnaſſus flow,

Shall make his never-fading Lawrels grow,

Above this mouldring Earth to flouriſh in the Skies:

And B7v 14

And The two Lines with theſe Marks “ before them, are thus Tranſlated by Ben. Johnſon from Ovid. when his Body falls in Funeral Fire,

When late revolving Ages ſhall conſume

The very Pillars, that ſupport his Tomb,

His Name ſhall live, and his beſt Part aſpire.

Deluded Wretch! graſping at future Praiſe,

Now planting, with miſtaken Care,

Round thy enchanted Palace in the Air,

A Grove, which in thy Fancy time ſhall raiſe,

A Grove of ſoaring Palms, and everlaſting Bays;

Could’ſt Thou alas! to ſuch Renown arrive,

As thy Imaginations wou’d contrive;

Should numerous Cities, in a vain conteſt,

Struggle for thy famous Birth;

Should the ſole Monarch of the conquer’d Earth,

His wreathed Head upon thy Volume reſt;

Like Maro, could’ſt thou juſtly claim,

Amongſt th’ inſpired tuneful Race,

The higheſt Room, the undiſputed Place;

And after near Two Thouſand Years of Fame,

Have B8r 15

Have thy proud Work to a new People ſhown;

Th’ unequal’d Poems made their own,

In ſuch a Dreſs, in ſuch a perfect Stile

As on his Labours Dryden now beſtows,

As now from Dryden’s juſt Improvement flows,

In every poliſh’d Verſe throughout the Britiſh Iſle;

What Benefit alas! would to thee grow?

What Senſe of Pleaſure wou’dſt thou know?

What ſwelling Joy? what Pride? what Glory have,

When in the Darkneſs of the abject Grave,

Inſenſible, and Stupid laid below,

No Atom of thy Heap, no Duſt wou’d move,

For all the airy Breath that form’d thy Praiſe above?


True, ſays the Man to Luxury inclin’d;

Without the Study of uncertain Art,

Without much Labour of the Mind,

Meer uninſtructed Nature will impart,

That Life too ſwiftly flies, and leaves all good behind.

Sieze B8v 16

Sieze then, my Friends, (he cries) the preſent Hour;

The Pleaſure which to that belongs,

The Feaſts, th’ o’erflowing Bowls, the Mirth, the Songs,

The Orange-Bloom, that with ſuch Sweetneſs blows,

Anacreon’s celebrated Roſe,

The Hyacinth, with every beauteous Flower,

Which juſt this happy Moment ſhall diſcloſe,

Are out of Fortune’s reach, and all within our Power.

Such coſtly In the Life of Demetrius in Plutarch, there is a Deſcription of a Garment order’d to be made for him; wherein was expreſs’d, in precious Stones, and other coſtly Materials, the Elements as here deſcrib’d. Garments let our Slaves prepare,

As for the gay Demetrius were deſign’d;

Where a new Sun of radiant Diamonds ſhin’d,

Where the enamel’d Earth, and ſcarce-diſcerned Air,

With a tranſparent Sea were ſeen,

A Sea compoſed of the Em’rald’s Green,

And C1r 17

And with a golden Shore encompaſs’d round;

Where every Orient Shell, of wondrous ſhape was found.

The whole Creation on his Shoulders hung,

The whole creation on his Wiſh comply’d,

Did ſwiftly, for each Appetite provide,

And fed them all when Young.

No leſs, th’ Sardanapalus. Aſſyrian Prince enjoy’d,

Of Bliſs too ſoon depriv’d, but never cloy’d.

Whoſe Counſel let us ſtill purſue,

Whoſe Monument, did this Inſcription ſhew

To every Paſſenger, that trod the way,

Where, with a ſlighting In Sardanapalus’s Statue upon his Monument (as deſcribed by ſeveral Authors, and upon Medals) his right Hand is held up, with his Fingers in a Poſture as giving a Filip to the World; Hand, and ſcornful Smile

The proud Effigies, on th’ inſtructive Pile,

A great Example lay.

I, here Entomb’d, did mighty Kingdoms ſway,

Two Cities rais’d Anchialus and Tarſus. in one prodigious Day:

C Go C1v 18

Thou wand’ring Traveller, no longer gaze,

No longer dwell upon this uſeleſs Place;

Go Feed, and Drink, in Sports conſume thy Life;

For all that elſe we gain’s not worth a Moment’s Strife.

Thus! talks the Fool, whom no Reſtraint can bound,

When now the Glaſs has gone a frequent round;

When ſoaring Fancy lightly ſwims,

Fancy, that keeps above, and dances o’er the Brims;

Whilſt weighty Reaſon ſinks, and in the bottom’s drown’d:

Adds to his Own, an artificial Fire,

Doubling ev’ry hot Deſire,

Till th’ auxiliary Spirits, in a Flame,

The Stomach’s Magazine defy,

That ſtanding Pool, that helpleſs Moiſture nigh

Thro’ every Vital part impetuous fly,

And quite conſume the Frame;

When to the Under-world deſpis’d he goes,

A pamper’d Carcaſe on the Worms beſtows,

Who C2r 19

Who rioting on the unuſual Chear,

As good a Life enjoy, as he could boaſt of here.


But hold my Muſe! thy farther Flight reſtrain,

Exhauſt not thy declining Force,

Nor in a long, purſu’d, and breathleſs Courſe,

Attempt, with ſlacken’d ſpeed, to run

Through ev’ry Vanity beneath the Sun,

Left thy o’erweary’d Reader, ſhould complain,

That of all Vanities beſide,

Which thine, or his Experience e’er have try’d,

Thou art, too tedious Muſe, moſt frivolous and vain:

Yet, tell the Man, of an aſpiring Thought,

Of an ambitious, reſtleſs Mind,

That can no Eaſe, no Satisfaction find,

Till neighb’ring States are to Subjection brought,

Till Univerſal Awe, enſlav’d Mankind is taught;

C2 That, C2v 20

That, ſhould he lead an Army to the Field,

For whoſe ſtill neceſſary Uſe,

Th’ extended Earth cou’d not enough produce,

Nor Rivers to their Thirſt a full Contentment yield;

Yet, muſt their dark Reverſe of Fate

Roll round, within that Courſe of Years,

Within the ſhort, the ſwift, and fleeting Date

Preſcrib’d by Xerxes, Xerxes reviewing his moſt numerous Army, wept upon the Reflection that within 100 Years not One of them would be left Alive. when his falling Tears

Bewail’d thoſe Numbers, which his Sword employ’d,

And falſe, Hyena-like, lamented and deſtroy’d.

Tell him, that does ſome ſtately Building raiſe,

A Windſor, or Verſailles erect,

And thorough all Poſterity expect,

With its unſhaken Baſe, a firm unſhaken Praiſe;

Tell him, Judea’s Temple is no more,

Upon whoſe Splendour; Thouſands heretofore

Spent C3r 21

Spent the aſtoniſh’d Hours, forgetful to Adore:

Tell him, into the Earth agen is hurl’d,

That moſt ſtupendious Wonder of the World,

Juſtly preſiding o’er the boaſted Seven,

By humane Art and Induſtry deſign’d,

This! the rich Draught of the Immortal Mind,

The Architect of Heaven.

Remember then, to fix thy Aim on High,

Project, and build on t’other ſide the Sky,

For, after all thy vain Expence below,

Thou canſt no Fame, no laſting Pleaſure know;

No Good, that ſhall not thy Embraces fly,

Or thou from that be in a Moment caught,

Thy Spirit to new Claims, new Int’reſts brought,

Whilſt unconcern’d thy ſecret Aſhes lye,

Or ſtray about the Globe, O Man ordain’d to Dye!

C3 The C3v 22

The Prevalence of Cuſtom.

A Female, to a Drunkard marry’d,

When all her other Arts miſcarry’d,

Had yet one Stratagem to prove him,

And from good Fellowſhip remove him;

Finding him overcome with Tipple,

And weak, as Infant at the Nipple,

She to a Vault tranſports the Lumber,

And there expects his breaking Slumber.

A Table ſhe with Meat provided,

And rob’d in Black, ſtood juſt beſide it;

Seen only, by one glim’ring Taper,

That blewly burnt thro’ miſty Vapor.

At length he wakes, his Wine digeſted,

And of her Phantomſhip requeſted,

To learn the Name of that cloſe Dwelling,

And what offends his Sight and Smelling;

And C4r 23

And of what Land ſhe was the Creature,

With outſpread Hair, and ghaſtly Feature?

Mortal, quoth ſhe, (to Darkneſs hurry’d)

Know, that thou art both Dead and Bury’d;

Conveyed, laſt Night, from noiſie Tavern,

To this thy ſtill, and dreary Cavern.

What ſtrikes thy Noſe, ſprings from the Shatters

Of Bodies kill’d with Cordial Waters,

Stronger than other Scents and quicker,

As urg’d by more ſpirituous Liquor.

My ſelf attend on the Deceas’d,

When all their Earthly Train’s releas’d;

And in this Place of endleſs Quiet,

My Bus’neſs is, to find them Diet;

To ſhew all ſorts of Meats, and Salades,

Till I’m acquainted with their Palates;

But that once known, then leſs ſuffices.

Quoth he (and on his Crupper riſes)

Thou Guardian of theſe lower Regions,

Thou Providor for countleſs Legions

C4 Thou C4v 24

Thou dark, but charitable Crony,

Far kinder than my Tiſiphony,

Who of our Victuals thus art Thinking,

If thou haſt Care too of our Drinking,

A Bumper fetch: Quoth ſhe, a Halter,

Since nothing leſs thy Tone can alter,

Or break this Habit thou’ſt been getting,

To keep thy Throat in conſtant wetting.

The Muſſulman’s Dream of the Vizier and Dervis.

Where is that World, to which the Fancy flies,

When Sleep excludes the Preſent from our Eyes;

Whoſe Map no Voyager cou’d e’er deſign,

Nor to Deſcription its wild Parts confine?

Yet C5r 25

Yet ſuch a Land of Dreams We muſt allow,

Who nightly trace it, tho’ we know not how:

Unfetter’d by the Days obtruded Rules,

We All enjoy that Paradiſe of Fools;

And find a Sorrow, in reſuming Senſe,

Which breaks ſome free Delight, and ſnatches us from thence.

Thus! in a Dream, a Muſſulman was ſhown

A Vizir, whom he formerly had known,

When at the Port he bore deputed Sway,

And made the Nations with a Nod obey.

Now all ſerene, and ſplendid was his Brow,

Whilſt ready Waiters to his Orders bow;

His Reſidence, an artful Garden ſeem’d,

Adorn’d with all, that pleaſant he eſteem’d;

Full of Reward, his glorious Lot appear’d,

As with the Sight, our Dreamer’s Mind was chear’d;

But turning, next he ſaw a dreadful Sight,

Which fill’d his Soul with Wonder and Affright,

Purſu’d C5v 26

Purſu’d by Fiends, a wretched Dervis fled

Through ſcorching Plains, which to wide Diſtance ſpread;

Whilſt every Torture, gloomy Poets paint,

Was there prepar’d for the reputed Saint.

Amaz’d at this, the ſleeping Turk enquires,

Why He that liv’d above, in ſoft Attires,

Now roll’d in Bliſs, while t’other roll’d in Fires?

We’re taught the Suff’rings of this Future State,

Th’ Exceſs of Courts is likelieſt to create;

Whilſt ſolitary Cells, o’ergrown with Shade,

The readieſt way to Paradiſe is made.

True, quoth the Phantom (which he dream’d reply’d)

The lonely Path is ſtill the ſureſt Guide,

Nor is it by theſe Inſtances deny’d.

For, know my Friend, whatever Fame report,

The Vizier to Retirements wou’d reſort,

Th’ ambitious Dervis wou’d frequent the Court.

The C6r 27

The Shepherd Piping to the Fiſhes.

A Shepherd ſeeking with his Laſs,

To ſhun the Heat of Day;

Was ſeated on the ſhadow’d Graſs,

Near which a flowing Stream did paſs,

And Fiſh within it play.

To Phillis he an Angle gave,

And bid her toſs the Line;

For ſure, quoth he, each Fiſh muſt have,

Who do’s not ſeek to be thy Slave,

A harder Heart than mine.

Aſſemble here you watry Race,

Tranſportedly he cries;

And if, when you behold her Face,

You e’er deſire to quit the Place,

You ſee not with my Eyes.

But you, perhaps, are by the Ear,

More eaſie to be caught;

If C6v 28

If ſo, I have my Bagpipe here,

The only Muſick that’s not dear,

Nor in great Cities bought.

So ſprightly was the Tune he choſe,

And often did repeat;

That Phillis, tho’ not up ſhe roſe,

Kept time with every thrilling Cloſe,

And jigg’d upon her Seat.

But not a Fiſh wou’d nearer draw,

No Harmony or Charms,

Their frozen Blood, it ſeems, cou’d thaw,

Nor all they heard, nor all they ſaw,

Cou’d woo them to ſuch Terms.

The angry Shepherd in a Pett,

Gives o’er his wheedling Arts,

And from his Shoulder throws the Net,

Reſolv’d he wou’d a Supper get

By Force, if not by Parts.

Thus ſtated Laws are always beſt

To rule the vulgar Throng,

Who C7r 29

Who grow more Stubborn when Careſt,

Or with ſoft Rhetorick addreſt,

If taking Meaſures wrong.

Love, Death, and Reputation.

Reputation, Love, and Death,

(The Laſt all Bones, the Firſt all Breath,

The Midd’ſt compos’d of reſtleſs Fire)

From each other wou’d Retire;

Thro’ the World reſolv’d to ſtray,

Every One a ſeveral Way;

Exerciſing, as they went,

Each ſuch Power, as Fate had lent;

Which, if it united were,

Wretched Mortals cou’d not bear:

But as parting Friends do ſhow,

To what Place they mean to go,

Correſpondence to engage,

Nominate their utmoſt Stage;

Death C7v 30

Death declar’d, he wou’d be found

Near the Fatal Trumpet’s ſound;

Or where Peſtilences reign,

And Quacks the greater Plagues maintain;

Shaking ſtill his ſandy Glaſs,

And mowing Human Fleſh, like Graſs.

Love, as next his Leave he took,

Caſt on both ſo ſweet a Look,

As their Tempers near diſarm’d,

One relax’d, and t’other warm’d;

Shades for his Retreat he choſe,

Rural Plains, and ſoft Repoſe;

Where no Dowry e’er was paid,

Where no Jointure e’er was made;

No Ill Tongue the Nymph perplex’d,

Where no Forms the Shepherd vex’d;

Where Himſelf ſhou’d be the Care,

Of the Fond and of the Fair:

Where that was, they ſoon ſhou’d know,

Au Revoir! then turn’d to Go.

Repu- C8r 31

Reputation made a Pauſe,

Suiting her ſeverer Laws;

Second Thoughts, and Third ſhe us’d,

Weighing Conſequences mus’d;

When, at length to both ſhe cry’d:

You Two ſafely may Divide,

To th’ Antipodes may fall,

And re-aſcend th’ encompaſt Ball;

Certain ſtill to meet agen

In the Breaſts of tortur’d Men;

Who by One (too far) betray’d,

Call in t’other to their Aid:

Whilſt I Tender, Coy, and Nice,

Rais’d and ruin’d in a Trice,

Either fix with thoſe I grace;

Or abandoning the Place,

No Return my Nature bears,

From green Youth, or hoary Hairs;

If thro’ Guilt, or Chance, I ſever,

I once Parting, Part for ever.

There’s C8v 32

There’s No To-Morrow,

A Fable imitated from Sir Roger L’Eſtrange.

Two long had Lov’d, and now the Nymph deſir’d,

The Cloak of Wedlock, as the Caſe requir’d;

Urg’d that, the Day he wrought her to this Sorrow,

He Vow’d, that he wou’d marry her To-Morrow.

Agen he Swears, to ſhun the preſent Storm,

That he, To-Morrow, will that Vow perform.

The Morrows in their due Succeſſions came;

Impatient ſtill on Each, the pregnant Dame

Urg’d him to keep his Word, and ſtill he ſwore the ſame.

When tir’d at length, and meaning no Redreſs,

But yet the Lye not caring to confeſs,

He for his Oath this Salvo choſe to borrow,

That he was Free, ſince there was no To-Morrow;

For when it comes in Place to be employ’d,

’Tis then To-Day; To-Morrow’s ne’er enjoy’d.

The D1r 33

The Tale’s a Jeſt, the Moral is a Truth;

To-Morrow and To-Morrow, cheat our Youth:

In riper Age, To-Morrow ſtill we cry,

Not thinking, that the preſent Day we Dye;

Unpractis’d all the Good we had Deſign’d;

There’s No To-Morrow to a Willing Mind.

The Petition for an Abſolute Retreat.

Inſcribed to the Right Honble

Catharine Counteſs of Thanet, mention’d in the Poem under the Name of Arminda.

Give me O indulgent Fate!

Give me yet, before I Dye,

A ſweet, but abſolute Retreat,

’Mongſt Paths ſo loſt, and Trees ſo high,

D That D1v 34

That the World may ne’er invade,

Through ſuch Windings and ſuch ſhade,

My unſhaken Liberty.

No Intruders thither come!

Who viſit, but to be from home;

None who their vain Moments paſs,

Only ſtudious of their Glaſs,

News, that charm to liſtning Ears;

That falſe Alarm to Hopes and Fears;

That common Theme for every Fop,

From the Stateſman to the Shop,

In thoſe Coverts ne’er be ſpread,

Of who’s Deceas’d, or who’s to Wed,

Be no Tidings thither brought,

But Silent, as a Midnight Thought,

Where the World may ne’er invade,

Be thoſe Windings, and that Shade:

Courteous D2r 35

Courteous Fate! afford me there

A Table ſpread without my Care,

With what the neighb’ring Fields impart,

Whoſe Cleanlineſs be all it’s Art,

When, of old, the Calf was dreſt,

(Tho’ to make an Angel’s Feaſt)

In the plain, unſtudied Sauce

Nor Treufle, nor Morillia was;

Nor cou’d the mighty Patriarch’s Board

One far-fetch’d Ortolane afford.

Courteous Fate, then give me there

Only plain, and wholeſome Fare.

Fruits indeed (wou’d Heaven beſtow)

All, that did in Eden grow,

All, but the Forbidden Tree,

Wou’d be coveted by me;

Grapes, with Juice ſo crouded up,

As breaking thro’ the native Cup;

D2 Figs D2v 36

Figs (yet growing) candy’d o’er,

By the Sun’s attracting Pow’r;

Cherries, with the downy Peach,

All within my eaſie Reach;

Whilſt creeping near the humble Ground,

Shou’d the Strawberry be found

Springing whereſoe’er I ſtray’d,

Thro’ thoſe Windings and that Shade.

For my Garments; let them be

What may with the Time agree;

Warm, when Phœbus does retire,

And is ill-ſupply’d by Fire:

But when he renews the Year,

And verdant all the Fields appear;

Beauty every thing reſumes,

Birds have dropt their Winter-Plumes;

When the Lilly full diſplay’d’

Stands in purer White array’d,

Than D3r 37

Than that Veſt, which heretofore

The Luxurious Joſephus ſays, that every Monday Solomon went to the Houſe of Lebanon in an open Chariot, cloath’d in a Robe moſt dazling White, which makes that Alluſion not improper, and may give us Grounds to believe that the Lilly mention’d by our Saviour (compar’d to Solomon in his Glory) might really be the common white Lilly, altho’ the Commentators ſeem in doubt what Flowers are truly meant by the Lillies, as thinking the plain Lilly not gay enough for the Compariſon; whereas this Garment is noted by Joſephus to be wonderfully Beautiful tho’ only White; nor can any Flower, I believe, have a greater Luſtre than the common White Lilly. Monarch wore,

When from Salem’s Gates he drove,

To the ſoft Retreat of Love,

Lebanon’s all burniſh’d Houſe,

And the dear Egyptian Spouſe.

Cloath me light, and freſh as May:

In the Fountains let me view

All my Habit cheap and new;

Such as, when ſweet Zephyrs fly,

With their Motions may comply;

Gently waving, to expreſs

Unaffected Careleſneſs:

D3 No D3v 38

No Perfumes have there a Part,

Borrow’d from the Chymiſts Art;

But ſuch as riſe from flow’ry Beds,

Or the falling Jaſmin Sheds!

’Twas the Odour of the Field,

Eſau’s rural Coat did yield,

That inſpir’d his Father’s Pray’r,

For Bleſſings of the Earth and Air:

Of Gums, or Pouders had it ſmelt;

The Supplanter, then unfelt,

Eaſily had been deſcry’d,

For One that did in Tents abide;

For ſome beauteous Handmaids Joy,

And his Mother’s darling Boy.

Let me then no Fragrance wear,

But what the Winds from Gardens bear,

In ſuch kind, ſurprizing Gales,

As gather’d from Theſe Circumſtances are related by Plutarch in the Life of Sylla. Fidentia’s Vales,

All the Flowers that in them grew;

Which intermixing, as they flew,

In D4r 39

In wreathen Garlands dropt agen,

On Lucullus, and his Men;

Who, chear’d by the victorious Sight,

Trebl’d Numbers put to Flight.

Let me, when I muſt be fine,

In ſuch natural Colours ſhine;

Wove, and painted by the Sun,

Whoſe reſplendent Rays to ſhun,

When they do too fiercely beat,

Let me find ſome cloſe Retreat,

Where they have no Paſſage made,

Thro’ thoſe Windings, and that Shade.

Give me there (ſince Heaven has ſhown

It was not Good to be alone)

A Partner ſuited to my Mind,

Solitary, pleas’d and kind;

Who, partially, may ſomething ſee

Preferr’d to all the World in me;

D4 Slighting, D4v 40

Slighting, by my humble Side,

Fame and Splendor, Wealth and Pride

When but Two the Earth poſſeſt,

’Twas their happieſt Days, and beſt;

They by Bus’neſs, nor by Wars,

They by no Domeſtick Cares,

From each other e’er were drawn,

But in ſome Grove, or flow’ry Lawn,

Spent the ſwiftly flying Time,

Spent their own, and Nature’s Prime,

In Love; that only Paſſion given

To perfect Man, whilſt Friends with Heaven.

Rage, and Jealouſie, and Hate,

Tranſports of his fallen State,

(When by Satan’s Wiles betray’d)

Fly thoſe Windings, and that Shade!

Thus from Crouds, and Noiſe remov’d,

Let each Moment be improv’d;

Every D5r 41

Every Object ſtill produce,

Thoughts of Pleaſure, and of Uſe:

When ſome River ſlides away,

To encreaſe the boundleſs Sea;

Think we then, how Time do’s haſte,

To grow Eternity at laſt,

By the Willows, on the Banks,

Gather’d into ſocial Ranks,

Playing with the gentle Winds,

Strait the Boughs, and ſmooth the Rinds,

Moiſt each Fibre, and each Top,

Wearing a luxurious Crop,

Let the time of Youth be ſhown,

The time alas! too ſoon outgrown;

Whilſt a lonely ſtubborn Oak,

Which no Breezes can provoke,

No leſs Guſts perſuade to move,

Than thoſe, which in a Whirlwind drove,

Spoil’d the old Fraternal Feaſt,

And left alive but one poor Gueſt;

Rivell’d D5v 42

Rivell’d the diſtorted Trunk,

Sapleſs Limbs all bent, and ſhrunk,

Sadly does the Time preſage,

Of our too near approaching Age.

When a helpleſs Vine is found,

Unſupported on the Ground,

Careleſs all the Branches ſpread,

Subject to each haughty Tread,

Bearing neither Leaves, nor Fruit,

Living only in the Root;

Back reflecting let me ſay,

So the ſad Ardelia lay;

Blaſted by a Storm of Fate,

Felt, thro’ all the Britiſh State;

Fall’n, neglected, loſt, forgot,

Dark Oblivion all her Lot;

Faded till Arminda’s Love,

(Guided by the Pow’rs above)

Warm’d anew her drooping Heart,

And Life diffus’d thro’ every Part;

Mixing D6r 43

Mixing Words, in wiſe Diſcourſe,

Of ſuch Weight and wond’rous Force,

As could all her Sorrows charm,

And tranſitory Ills diſarm;

Chearing the delightful Day,

When diſpos’d to be more Gay,

With Wit, from an unmeaſured Store,

To Woman ne’er allow’d before.

What Nature, or refining Art,

All that Fortune cou’d impart,

Heaven did to Arminda ſend;

Then gave her for Ardelia’s Friend:

To her Cares the Cordial drop,

Which elſe had overflow’d the Cup.

So, when once the Son of Jeſs,

Every Anguiſh did oppreſs,

Hunted by all kinds of Ills,

Like a Partridge on the Hills;

Trains were laid to catch his Life,

Baited with a Royal Wife,

From D6v 44

From his Houſe, and Country torn,

Made a Heathen Prince’s Scorn;

Fate, to anſwer all theſe Harms,

Threw a Friend into his Arms.

Friendſhip ſtill has been deſign’d,

The Support of Human-kind;

The ſafe Delight, the uſeful Bliſs,

The next World’s Happineſs, and this.

Give then, O indulgent Fate!

Give a Friend in that Retreat

(Tho’ withdrawn from all the reſt)

Still a Clue, to reach my Breaſt.

Let a Friend be ſtill convey’d

Thro’ thoſe Windings, and that Shade!

Where, may I remain ſecure,

Waſte, in humble Joys and pure,

A Life, that can no Envy yield;

Want of Affluence my Shield.

Thus D7r 45

Thus, had The Deſcription of this Cave, is exactly taken from Plutarch in the Life of Craſſus. Craſſus been content,

When from Marius Rage he went,

With the Seat that Fortune gave,

The commodious ample Cave,

Form’d, in a divided Rock,

By ſome mighty Earthquake’s Shock,

Into Rooms of every Size,

Fair, as Art cou’d e’er deviſe,

Leaving, in the marble Roof,

(’Gainſt all Storms and Tempeſts proof)

Only Paſſage for the Light,

To refreſh the chearful Sight,

Whilſt Three Sharers in his Fate,

On th’ Eſcape with Joy dilate,

Beds of Moſs their Bodies bore,

Canopy’d with Ivy o’er;

Riſing Springs, that round them play’d,

O’er the native Pavement ſtray’d;

When D7v 46

When the Hour arriv’d to Dine,

Various Meats, and ſprightly Wine,

On ſome neighb’ring Cliff they ſpy’d;

Every Day a-new ſupply’d

By a Friend’s entruſted Care;

Had He ſtill contin’d there,

Made that lonely wond’rous Cave

Both his Palace, and his Grave;

Peace and Reſt he might have found,

(Peace and Reſt are under Ground)

Nor have been in that Retreat,

Fam’d for a Proverbial Fate;

In purſuit of Wealth been caught,

And puniſh’d with a golden Draught.

Nor had Sertorius. He, who Crowds cou’d blind,

Whiſpr’ring with a ſnowy Hind,

Made ’em think that from above,

(Like the great Impoſtor’s Dove)

Tydings to his Ears ſhe brought,

Rules by which he march’d and fought,

After D8r 47

After Spain he had o’er-run,

Cities ſack’d, and Battles won,

Drove Rome’s Conſuls from the Field,

Made her darling Pompey yield,

At a fatal, treacherous Feaſt,

Felt a Dagger in his Breaſt;

Had he his once-pleaſing Thought

Of Solitude to Practice brought;

Had no wild Ambition ſway’d;

In thoſe Iſlands had he ſtay’d,

Juſtly call’d the Seats of Reſt,

Truly The Canary Iſlands, call’d by the Ancients the Fortunate Iſlands, and taken by ſome of the Poets for Elyſium. Fortunate, and Bleſt,

By the ancient Poets giv’n

As their beſt diſcover’d Heav’n.

Let me then, indulgent Fate!

Let me ſtill, in my Retreat,

From all roving Thoughts be freed,

Or Aims, that may Contention breed;

Nor D8v 48

Nor be my Endeavours led

By Goods, that periſh with the Dead!

Fitly might the Life of Man

Be indeed eſteem’d a Span,

If the preſent Moment were

Of Delight his only Share;

If no other Joys he knew

Than what round about him grew:

But as thoſe, who Stars wou’d trace

From a ſubterranean Place,

Through ſome Engine lift their Eyes

To the outward, glorious Skies;

So th’ immortal Spirit may,

When deſcended to our Clay,

From a rightly govern’d Frame

View the Height, from whence ſhe came;

To her Paradiſe be caught,

And Things unutterable taught.

Give me then, in that Retreat,

Give me, O indulgent Fate!

For E1r 49

For all Pleaſures left behind,

Contemplations of the Mind.

Let the Fair, the Gay, the Vain

Courtſhip and Applauſe obtain;

Let th’ Ambitious rule the Earth;

Let the giddy Fool have Mirth;

Give the Epicure his Diſh,

Ev’ry one their ſev’ral Wiſh;

Whilſt my Tranſports I employ

On that more extenſive Joy,

When all Heaven ſhall be ſurvey’d

From thoſe Windings and that Shade.

Jupiter and the Farmer.

When Poets gave their God in Crete a Birth,

Then Jupiter held Traffick with the Earth,

And had a Farm to Lett: the Fine was high,

For much the Treas’ry wanted a Supply,

By Danae’s wealthy Show’r exhauſted quite, and dry.

E But E1v 50

But Merc’ry, who as Steward kept the Court,

So rack’d the Rent, that all who made Reſort

Unſatisfy’d return’d, nor could agree

To uſe the Lands, or pay his ſecret Fee;

’Till one poor Clown (thought ſubt’ler than the reſt,

Thro’ various Projects rolling in his Breaſt)

Conſents to take it, if at his Deſire

All Weathers tow’rds his Harveſt may conſpire;

The Froſt to kill the Worm, the brooding Snow,

The filling Rains may come, and Phœbus glow.

The Terms accepted, ſign’d and ſeal’d the Leaſe,

His Neighbours Grounds afford their due Encreaſe

The Care of Heav’n; the owner’s Cares may ceaſe.

Whilſt the new Tenant, anxious in his Mind,

Now asks a Show’r, now craves a ruſtling Wind

To raiſe what That had lodg’d, that he the Sheaves may bind.

The Sun, th’ o’er-ſhadowing Clouds, the moiſtning Dews

He with ſuch Contrariety does chuſe;

So E2r 51

So often and ſo oddly ſhifts the Scene,

Whilſt others Load, he ſcarce has what to Glean.

O Jupiter! with Famine pinch’d he cries,

No more will I direct th’ unerring Skies;

No more my Subſtance on a Project lay,

No more a ſullen Doubt I will betray,

Let me but live to Reap, do Thou appoint the way.

The Deciſion of Fortune.

A Fable.

Fortune well-Pictur’d on a rolling Globe,

With waving Locks, and thin tranſparent Robe,

A Man beholding, to his Neighbour cry’d,

Whoe’er would catch this Dame, muſt ſwiftly ride.

Mark, how ſhe ſeems to Fly, and with her bears,

All that is worth a buſie Mortal’s Cares:

E2 The E2v 52

The gilded Air about her Statue ſhines,

As if the Earth had lent it all her Mines;

At random Here a Diadem ſhe flings,

And There a ſcarlet Hat with dangling Strings,

And to ten Thouſand Fools ten Thouſand glorious Things.

Shall I then ſtay at Home, Dull and Content

With Quarter-Days, and hard extorted Rent?

No, I’ll to Horſe, to Sea, to utmoſt Iſles,

But I’ll encounter her propitious Smiles:

Whilſt you in ſlothful Eaſe may chuſe to Sleep,

And ſcarce the few Paternal Acres keep.

Farewel, reply’d his Friend, may you advance,

And grow the Darling of this Lady Chance:

Whilſt I indeed, not courting of her Grace,

Shall dwell content, in this my Native Place,

Hoping I ſtill ſhall for your Friend be known:

But if too big for ſuch Acquaintance grown,

E3r 53

I ſhan’t be ſuch a fond miſtaken Sot,

To think Remembrance ſhou’d become my Lot;

When you Exalted, have your ſelf Forgot.

Nor me Ambitious ever ſhall you find,

Or hunting Fortune, who, they ſay, is Blind:

But if her Want of Sight ſhou’d make her Stray,

She ſhou’d be Welcome, if ſhe came this Way.

’Tis very like (the Undertaker cry’d)

That ſhe her Steps to theſe loſt Paths ſhou’d guide:

But I loſe Time, whilſt I ſuch Thoughts deride.

Away he goes, with Expectation chear’d,

But when his Courſe he round the World had ſteer’d,

And much had borne, and much had hop’d and fear’d,

Yet cou’d not be inform’d where he might find

This fickle Miſtreſs of all Human-kind:

He quits at length the Chace of flying Game,

And back as to his Neighbor’s Houſe he came,

He there encounters the uncertain Dame;

E3 Who E3v 54

Who lighting from her gaudy Coach in haſte,

To him her eager Speeches thus addreſt.

Fortune behold, who has been long purſu’d,

Whilſt all the Men, that have my Splendors view’d,

Madly enamour’d, have ſuch Flatt’ries forg’d,

And with ſuch Lies their vain Pretenſions urg’d,

That Hither I am fled to ſhun their Suits,

And by free Choice conclude their vain Diſputes;

Whilſt I the Owner of this Manſion bleſs,

And he unſeeking Fortune ſhall poſſeſs.

Tho’ rightly charg’d as ſomething Dark of Sight,

Yet Merit, when ’tis found, is my Delight;

To Knaves and Fools, when I’ve ſome Grace allow’d,

’Thas been like ſcattering Money in a Croud,

To make me Sport, as I beheld them ſtrive,

And ſome obſerv’d (thro’ Age) but Half-alive;

Scrambling amongſt the Vigorous and Young,

One proves his Sword, and one his wheedling Tongue,

All ſtriving to obtain me right or wrong:

Whilſt E4r 55

Whilſt Crowns, and Croſiers in the Conteſt hurl’d,

Shew’d me a Farce in the contending World.

Thou wert deluded, whilſt with Ship, or Steed,

And by laborious Toil, and endleſs Pains,

Didſt ſell thy Quiet for my doubtful Gains:

Whilſt He alone my real Fav’rite riſes,

Who every Thing to its juſt Value prizes,

And neither courts, nor yet my Gifts deſpiſes.

The Braſs-Pot, and Stone-Jugg.

A Fable.

A Brazen Pot, by ſcouring vext,

With Beef and Pudding ſtill perplext,

Reſolv’d t’ attempt a nobler Life,

Urging the Jugg to ſhare the Strife:

E4 Bro- E4v 56

Brother, quoth he, (Love to endear)

Why ſhou’d We Two continue here,

To ſerve and cook ſuch homely Cheer?

Who tho’ we move with awkward pace,

Your ſtony Bowels, and my Face,

Abroad can’t miſs of Wealth and Place.

Then let us inſtantly be going,

And ſee what in the World is Doing.

The bloated Jugg, ſupine and lazy,

Who made no Wiſh, but to be eaſy,

Nor, like it’s Owner, e’er did think

Of ought, but to be fill’d with Drink;

Yet ſomething mov’d by this fine Story,

And frothing higher with Vain-glory,

Reply’d, he never wanted Metal,

But had not Sides, like ſturdy Kettle,

That in a Croud cou’d ſhove and buſtle,

And to Preferment bear the Juſtle;

When the firſt Knock would break His Meaſures,

And ſtop his Riſe to Place and Treaſures.

Sure E5r 57

Sure (quoth the Pot)

thy Scull is thicker,

Than ever was thy muddieſt Liquor:

Go I not with thee, for thy Guard,

To take off Blows, and Dangers ward?

And haſt thou never heard, that Cully

Is borne thro’ all by daring Bully?

Your ſelf (reply’d the Drink-conveigher)

May be my Ruin and Betrayer:

A Superiority you boaſt,

And dreſs the Meat, I but the Toaſt:

Than mine your Conſtitution’s ſtronger,

And in Fatigues can hold out longer;

And ſhou’d one Bang from you be taken,

I into Nothing ſhoud be ſhaken.

A d’autre cry’d the Pot in ſcorn,

Doſt think, there’s ſuch a Villain born,

That, when he proffers Aid and Shelter,

Will rudely fall to Helter-Skelter?

No more, but follow to the Road,

Where Each now drags his pond’rous Load,

And E5v 58

And up the Hill were almoſt clamber’d,

When (may it ever be remember’d!)

Down rolls the Jugg, and after rattles

The moſt perfidious of all Kettles;

At every Molehill gives a Jump,

Nor reſts, till by obdurate Thump,

The Pot of Stone, to ſhivers broken,

Sends each miſguided Fool a Token:

To ſhow them, by this fatal Teſt,

That Equal Company is beſt,

Where none Oppreſs, nor are Oppreſt.

Fanſcomb Barn.

In Imitation of Milton.

In Fanſcomb Barn (who knows not Fanſcomb Barn?)

Seated between the ſides of riſing Hills,

Whoſe airy Tops o’er-look the Gallick Seas,

Whilſt, E6r 59

Whilſt, gentle Stower, thy Waters near them flow,

To beautify the Seats that crown thy Banks.

――In this Retreat Fanſcomb-Barn, near Wye in Kent, is a privileg’d Retreat for Beggars.

Through Ages paſs’d conſign’d for Harbour meet

And Place of ſweet Repoſe to Wand’rers poor

The weary Strolepedon felt that Eaſe,

Which many a dangerous Borough had deny’d

To him, and his Budgeta lov’d Compeer;

Nor Food was wanting to the happy Pair,

Who with meek Aſpect, and precarious Tone

Well ſuited to their Hunger and Degree,

Had mov’d the Hearts of hoſpitable Dames,

To furniſh ſuch Repaſt as Nature crav’d.

Whilſt more to pleaſe the ſwarthy Bowl appear

Replete with Liquor, globulous to ſight,

And threat’ning Inundation o’er the Brim;

Yet, ere it to the longing Lips was rais’d

Of him who held it at its due Deſert,

And more than all entreated Bounty priz’d,

Into the ſtrong Profundity he throws

The E6v 60

The floating Healths of Females, blith and young,

Who there had rendezvouz’d in paſt Delight,

And to ſtol’n Plenty added clamorous Mirth,

With Song and Dance, and every jovial Prank

Befitting buxom Crew, untied by Forms:

Whilſt kind Budgeta nam’d ſuch ſturdy Youths,

As next into her tender Thoughts revolv’d,

And now were ſtraggling Eaſt, and Weſt, and South,

Hoof-beating, and at large, as Chance directs,

Still ſhifting Paths, left Men (tho’ ſtil’d of Peace)

Should urge their calmer Thoughts to Iron War,

Or force them to promote coercive Laws,

Beating that Hemp which oft entraps their Lives

Or into Cordage pleated, or amaſs’d,

Deprives unruly Fleſh of tempting Skin.

Thus kind Remembrance brought the Abſent near

And haſten’d the Return of either’s Pledge:

Brown were the Toaſts, but not unſav’ry found

To Fancies clear’d by Exerciſe and Air,

Which the ſpirituous Nectar ſtill improves,

And E7r 61

And gliding now thro’ ev’ry cheriſh’d Vein,

New Warmth diffus’d, new Cogitations bred,

With Self-conceit of Perſon, and of Parts.

When Strolepedon (late diſtorted Wight,

Limb-wanting to the View, and all miſ-ſhap’d)

Permits a pinion’d Arm to fill the Sleeve,

Erſt pendant, void, and waving with the Wind,

The Timber-Leg obſequiouſly withdraws,

And gives to that of Bone Precedence due.

Thus undiſguis’d that Form again he wears,

Which Damſel fond had drawn from houſhold Toils,

And ſtrict Beheſts of Parents, old and ſcorn’d;

Whilſt farther yet his Intellects confeſs

The bouzy Spell dilated and inhans’d,

Ripe for Deſcription, and ſett Turns of Speech,

Which to Conjugal Spouſe were thus addreſt.

My Wife (acknowledg’d ſuch thro’ maunding Tribes,

As long as mutual Love, the only Law,

Of E7v 62

Of Hedge or Barn, can bind our eaſy Faiths)

Be thou obſervant of thy Husband’s Voice,

Sole Auditor of Flights and Figures bold;

Know, that the Valley which we hence deſcry

Richly adorn’d, is Fanſcomb-Bottom call’d:

But whether from theſe Walls it takes the Name,

Or they from that, let Antiquaries tell,

And Men, well-read in Stories obſolete,

Whilſt ſuch Denomination either claims,

As ſpeaks Affinity contiguous ――

Thence let thy ſcatter’d Sight, and oft-griev’d Smell

Engulf the Sweets, and Colours free diſpos’d

To Flowers promiſcuous, and redundant Plants

And (if the drouzy Vapour will admit,

Which from the Bowl ſoon triumphs o’er thy Lidds,

And Thee the weaker Veſſel ſtill denotes)

With Looks erect obſerve the verdant Slope

Of graceful Hills, fertile in Buſh and Brake,

Whoſe Height attain’d, th’ expatiated Downs

Shall E8r 63

Shall wider Scenes diſplay of rural Glee;

Where banner’d Lords, and fair eſcutcheon’d Knights,

With gentle Squires, and the Staff-griping Clown,

Purſue the trembling Prey impetuous;

Which yet eſcaping, when the Night returns,

And downy Beds enfold their careleſs Limbs,

More wakeful Trundle (Knapſack-bearing Cur)

Follows the Scent untrac’d by nobler Hounds,

And brings to us the Fruit of all their Toil.

Thus ſung the Bard, whom potent Liquor rais’d,

Nor ſo contented, wiſh’d ſublimer Aid.

Ye Wits! (he cry’d) ye Poets! (Loiterers vain,

Who like to us, in Idleneſs and Want

Conſume fantaſtick Hours) hither repair,

And tell to liſt’ning Mendicants the Cauſe

Of Wonders, here obſerv’d but not diſcuſs’d:

(2).Where, E8v 64

Where, the White Sparrow Fanſcomb-Barn is famous for Breeding White Sparrows and White Mice. never ſoil’d her Plumes,

Nor the dull Ruſſet cloaths the Snowy Mouſe.

To Helicon you might the Spring compare,

That flows near Pickerſdane Pickerſdane, is a Point of Wye-Downs, where there is an excellent Spring, much frequented by the Scholars of the FreeSchool at Wye; who meet there, to drink the Water with Sugar; which has been an ancient Cuſtom, and a great Diverſion to them. renowned Stream,

Which, for Diſport and Play, the Youths frequent,

Who, train’d in Learned School of ancient Wye,

Firſt at this Fount ſuck in the Muſes Lore,

When mixt with Product of the Indian Cane,

They drink delicious Draughts, and part inſpir’d,

Fit for the Banks of Iſis, or of Cham,

(For Cham and Iſis to the Bard were known,

A Servitor, when young in College-Hall,

Tho’ vagrant Liberty he early choſe,

Who yet, when Drunk, retain’d Poetick Phraſe.)

Nor ſhou’d (quoth he) that Well, A very deep Well, within a little Wood near Fanſcomb-Barn. o’erhung with Shade,

Amidſt thoſe neighb’ring Trees of dateleſs growth,

Be left unfathom’d by your nicer Skill

Who F1r 65

Who thence cou’d extricate a thouſand Charms,

Or to oblivious Lethe might convert

The ſtagnant Waters of the ſleepy Pool.

But moſt unhappy was that Morphean Sound

For lull’d Budgeta, who had long deſir’d

Diſmiſſion fair from Tales, not throughly ſcann’d,

Thinking her Love a Sympathy confeſt,

When the Word Sleepy parted from his Lips,

Sunk affable and eaſy to that Reſt,

Which Straw affords to Minds, unvex’d with Cares.

Explanatory Notes.

Fanſcomb-Barn, near Wye in Kent, is a privileg’d Retreat for Beggars. Fanſcomb-Barn is famous for Breeding White Sparrows and White Mice. Pickerſdane, is a Point of Wye-Downs, where there is an excellent Spring, much frequented by the Scholars of the FreeSchool at Wye; who meet there, to drink the Water with Sugar; which has been an ancient Cuſtom, and a great Diverſion to them. A very deep Well, within a little Wood near Fanſcomb-Barn.
F A De- F1v 66

A Deſcription of One of the Pieces of Tapiſtry at Long-Leat, made after the famous Cartons of Raphael;

in which, Elymas the Sorcerer is miraculouſly ſtruck Blind by St. Paul before Sergius Paulus, the Proconſul of Aſia.

Inſcribed to the HonbleHonourable Henry Thynne, under the Name of Theanor.

Thus Tapiſtry of old, the Walls adorn’d,

Ere nobleſt Dames the artful Shuttle ſcorn’d:

Arachne, then, with Pallas did conteſt,

And ſcarce th’ Immortal Work was judg’d the Beſt

Nor valorous Actions, then, in Books were ſought;

But all the Fame, that from the Field was brought,

Employ’d the Loom, where the kind Conſort wrought:

Whilſt ſharing in the Toil, ſhe ſhar’d the Fame,

And with the Heroes mixt her interwoven Name.

No longer, Females to ſuch Praiſe aſpire,

And ſeldom now We rightly do admire.

So F2r 67

So much, All Arts are by the Men engroſs’d,

And Our few Talents unimprov’d or croſs’d;

Even I, who on this Subject wou’d compoſe,

Which the fam’d Urbin for his Pencil choſe,

(And here, in tinctur’d Wool we now behold

Correctly follow’d in each Shade, and Fold)

Shou’d prudently from the Attempt withdraw,

But inclination proves the ſtronger Law:

And tho’ the Cenſures of the World purſue

Theſe hardy Flights, whilſt his Deſigns I view;

My burden’d Thoughts, which labour for a Vent,

Urge me t’explain in Verſe, what by each Face is meant.

Of Sergius firſt, upon his lofty Seat,

With due Regard our Obſervations treat;

Who, whilſt he thence on Elymas looks down,

Contracts his penſive Brow into a Frown,

With Looks inquiſitive he ſeeks the Cauſe

Why Nature acts not ſtill by Natures Laws.

F2 ’Twas F2v 68

’Twas but a Moment, ſince the Sorcerer’s Sight

Receiv’d the Day, and blaz’d infernal Light:

Untouch’d, the Optiques in a Moment fail’d,

Their fierce Illumination quench’d, or veil’d;

Throughout th’ Extention of his ample Sway,

No Fact, like this, the Roman cou’d ſurvey,

Who, with ſpread Hands, invites Mankind to gaze,

And ſympathize in the profound Amaze.

To ſhare his Wonder every one combines,

By diff’rent Aſpects ſhewn, and diff’rent Signs.

A comely Figure, near the Conſul plac’d,

With ſerious Mildneſs and Inſtruction grac’d,

To Others ſeems imparting what he ſaw,

And ſhews the Wretch with reverential Awe:

Whilſt a more eager Perſon next we find,

Viewing the Wizard with a Sceptick’s Mind;

Who his fixt Eyes ſo near him do’s apply,

We think, enliv’ning Beams might from them fly,

To F3r 69

To re-inkindle, by ſo juſt an Aim,

The radial Sparks, but lately check’d and tame,

As Tapers new put-out will catch approaching Flame.

But dire Surprize th’ Enquiry do’s ſucceed,

Whilſt full Conviction in his Face we read,

And He, who quesſtion’d, now deplores the Deed.

To ſacred Paul a younger Figure guides,

With ſeeming Warmth, which ſtill in Youth preſides;

And pointing forward, Elder Men directs,

In Him, to note the Cauſe of theſe Effects;

Upon whoſe Brow do’s evidently ſhine

Deputed Pow’r, t’ inflict the Wrath Divine;

Whilſt ſad and ſolemn, ſuited to their Years,

Each venerable Countenance appears,

Where, yet we ſee Aſtoniſhment reveal’d,

Tho’ by the Aged often ’tis conceal’d;

F3 Who F3v 70

Who the Emotions of their Souls diſguize,

Left by admiring they ſhou’d ſeem leſs Wiſe.

But to thy Portrait, Elymas, we come

Whoſe Blindneſs almoſt ſtrikes the Poet dumb;

And whilſt She vainly to Deſcribe thee ſeeks,

The Pen but traces, where the Pencil ſpeaks.

Of Darkneſs to be felt, our Scriptures write,

Thou Darken’d ſeem’ſt, as thou woud’ſt feel the Light;

And with projected Limbs, betray’ſt a Dread,

Of unſeen Miſchiefs, levell’d at thy Head.

Thro’ all thy Frame ſuch Stupefaction reigns,

As Night it ſelf were ſunk into thy Veins:

Nor by the Eyes alone thy Loſs we find,

Each Lineament helps to proclaim thee Blind.

An artful Dimneſs far diffus’d we grant,

And failing ſeem all Parts through One important Want.

Oh! F4r 71

Oh! mighty Raphael, juſtly ſure renown’d!

Since in thy Works ſuch Excellence is found;

No Wonder, if with Nature Thou’rt at ſtrife,

Who thus can paint the Negatives of Life;

And Deprivation more expreſſive make,

Than the moſt perfect Draughts, which Others take.

Whilſt to this Chiefeſt Figure of the Piece,

All that ſurround it, Heightnings do encreaſe:

In ſome, Amazement by Extreams is ſhewn,

Who viewing his clos’d Lids, extend their Own.

Nor can, by that, enough their Thoughts expreſs,

Which op’ning Mouths ſeem ready to confeſs.

Thus ſtand the Lictors gazing on a Deed,

Which do’s all humane Chaſtiſements exceed;

Enfeebl’d ſeem their Inſtruments of ſmart,

When keener Words can ſwifter Ills impart,

Thou, Barnabas, though Laſt, not leaſt our Care,

Seem’ſt equally employ’d in Praiſe, and Prayer,

F4 Acknow- F4v 72

Acknowledging th’ Omnipotent Decree,

Yet ſoft Compaſſion in thy Face we ſee:

Whilſt lifted Hands implore a kind Relief,

Tho’ no Impatience animates thy Grief;

But mild Suſpence and Charity benign,

Do all th’ exceſſes of thy Looks confine.

Thus far, our ſlow Imagination goes:

Wou’d the more skill’d Theanor his diſcloſe;

Expand the Scene, and open to our Sight

What to his nicer Judgment gives Delight;

Whoſe ſoaring Mind do’s to Perfections climb,

Nor owns a Reliſh, but for Things ſublime:

Then, wou’d the Piece freſh Beauties ſtill preſent,

Nor Length of Time wou’d leave the Eye content:

As Moments, Hours; as Hours the Days wou’d ſeem

Obſerving here, taught to obſerve by Him

The F5r 73

The Poor Man’s Lamb:

Or, Nathan’s Parable to David after the Murder of Uriah, and his Marriage with Bathſheba.

Turn’d into Verſe and Paraphras’d.

Now ſpent the alter’d King, in am’rous Cares,

The Hours of ſacred Hymns and ſolemn Pray’rs:

In vain the Altar waits his ſlow returns,

Where unattended Incenſe faintly burns:

In vain the whiſp’ring Prieſts their Fears expreſs,

And of the Change a thouſand Cauſes gueſs.

Heedleſs of all their Cenſures He retires,

And in his Palace feeds his ſecret Fires;

Impatient, till from Rabbah Tydings tell,

That near thoſe Walls the poor Uriah fell,

Led F5v 74

Led to the Onſet by a Choſen Few,

Who at the treacherous Signal, ſoon withdrew;

Nor to his Reſcue e’er return’d again,

Till by fierce Ammon’s Sword they ſaw the Victim ſlain.

’Tis paſs’d, ’tis done! the holy Marriage-Knot,

Too ſtrong to be unty’d, at laſt is cut.

And now to Bathſheba the King declares,

That with his Heart, the Kingdom too is hers;

That Iſrael’s Throne, and longing Monarch’s Arms

Are to be fill’d but with her widow’d Charms,

Nor muſt the Days of formal Tears exceed,

To croſs the Living, and abuſe the Dead.

This ſhe denies; and ſigns of Grief are worn;

But mourns no more than may her Face adorn,

Give to thoſe Eyes, which Love and Empire fir’d,

A melting Softneſs more to be deſir’d;

Till the fixt Time, tho’ hard to be endur’d,

Was paſs’d, and a ſad Conſort’s Name procur’d:

When F6r 75

When, with the Pomp that ſuits a Prince’s Thought,

By Paſſion ſway’d, and glorious Woman taught,

A Queen ſhe’s made, than Michal ſeated higher,

Whilſt light unuſual Airs prophane the hallow’d Lyre.

Where art thou Nathan? where’s that Spirit now,

Giv’n to brave Vice, tho’ on a Prince’s Brow?

In what low Cave, or on what Deſert Coaſt,

Now Virtue wants it, is thy Preſence loſt?

But lo! he comes, the Rev’rend Bard appears,

Defil’d with Duſt his awful ſilver Hairs,

And his rough Garment, wet with falling Tears.

The King this mark’d, and conſcious wou’d have fled,

The healing Balm which for his Wounds was ſhed:

Till the more wary Prieſt the Serpents Art,

Join’d to the Dove-like Temper of his Heart,

And thus retards the Prince juſt ready now to part.

Hear F6v 76

Hear me, the Cauſe betwixt two Neighbours hear,

Thou, who for Juſtice doſt the Sceptre bear:

Help the Oppreſt, nor let me weep alone

For him, that calls for Succour from the Throne.

Good Princes for Protection are Ador’d,

And Greater by the Shield, than by the Sword.

This clears the Doubt, and now no more he fears

The Cauſe his Own, and therefore ſtays and hears:

When thus the Prophet:――

――In a flow’ry Plain

A King-like Man does in full Plenty reign;

Caſts round his Eyes, in vain, to reach the Bound,

Which Jordan’s Flood ſets to his fertile Ground:

Countleſs his Flocks, whilſt Lebanon contains

A Herd as large, kept by his numerous Swains,

That fill with morning Bellowings the cool Air,

And to the Cedar’s ſhade at ſcorching Noon repair.

Near to this Wood a lowly Cottage ſtands,

Built by the humble Owner’s painful Hands;

Fenc’d F7r 77

Fenc’d by a Stubble-roof, from Rain and Heat,

Secur’d without, within all Plain and Neat.

A Field of ſmall Extent ſurrounds the Place,

In which One ſingle Ewe did ſport and graze:

This his whole Stock, till in full time there came,

To bleſs his utmoſt Hopes, a ſnowy Lamb;

Which, leſt the Seaſon yet too Cold might prove,

And Northern Blaſts annoy it from the Grove,

Or tow’ring Fowl on the weak Prey might ſieze,

(For with his Store his Fears muſt too increaſe)

He brings it Home, and lays it by his Side,

At once his Wealth, his Pleaſure and his Pride;

Still bars the Door, by Labour call’d away,

And, when returning at the Cloſe of Day,

With One ſmall Meſs himſelf, and that ſuſtains,

And half his Diſh it ſhares, and half his ſlender Gains.

When to the great Man’s Table now there comes

A Lord as great, follow’d by hungry Grooms:

For F7v 78

For theſe muſt be provided ſundry Meats,

The Beſt for Some, for Others coarſer Cates.

One Servant, diligent above the reſt

To help his Maſter to contrive the Feaſt,

Extols the Lamb was nouriſh’d with ſuch Care,

So fed, ſo lodg’d, it muſt be Princely Fare;

And having this, my Lord his own may ſpare.

In haſte he ſends, led by no Law, but Will,

Not to entreat, or purchaſe, but to Kill.

The Meſſenger’s arrived; the harmleſs Spoil,

Unus’d to fly, runs Bleating to the Toil:

Whilſt for the Innocent the Owner fear’d,

And, ſure wou’d move, cou’d Poverty be heard.

Oh ſpare (he cries) the Product of my Cares,

My Stock’s Encreaſe, the Bleſſing on my Pray’rs;

My growing Hope, and Treaſure of my Life!

More was he ſpeaking, when the murd’ring Knife

Shew’d him, his Suit, tho’ juſt, muſt be deny’d,

And the white Fleece in its own Scarlet dy’d;

Whilſt F8r 79

Whilſt the poor helpleſs Wretch ſtands weeping by,

And lifts his Hands for Juſtice to the Sky.

Which he ſhall find, th’ incenſed King replies,

When for the proud Offence th’ Oppreſſor dies.

O Nathan! by the Holy Name I ſwear,

Our Land ſuch Wrongs unpuniſh’d ſhall not bear

If, with the Fault, th’ Offender thou declare.

To whom the Prophet, cloſing with the Time,

Thou art the Man replies, and thine th’ ill-natur’d Crime.

Nor think, againſt thy Place, or State, I err;

A Pow’r above thee does this Charge prefer;

Urg’d by whoſe Spirit, hither am I brought

T’ expoſtulate his Goodneſs, and thy Fault;

To lead thee back to thoſe forgotten Years,

In Labour ſpent, and lowly Ruſtick Cares,

When in the Wilderneſs thy Flocks but few,

Thou didſt the Shepherd’s ſimple Art purſue

Thro’ cruſting Froſts, and penetrating Dew:

Till F8v 80

Till wondring Jeſſe ſaw ſix Brothers paſt,

And Thou Elected, Thou the Leaſt and Laſt;

A Sceptre to thy Rural Hand convey’d,

And in thy Boſom Royal Beauties laid;

A lovely Princeſs made thy Prize that Day,

When on the ſhaken Ground the Giant lay

Stupid in Death, beyond the Reach of Cries

That bore thy ſhouted Fame to liſt’ning Skies,

And drove the flying Foe as faſt away,

As winds, of old, Locuſts to Egypt’s Sea.

Thy Heart with Love, thy Temples with Renown,

Th’ All-giving Hand of Heav’n did largely crown,

Whilſt yet thy Cheek was ſpread with youthful Down.

What more cou’d craving Man of God implore?

Or what for favour’d Man cou’d God do more?

Yet cou’d not Theſe, nor Iſrael’s Throne, ſuffice

Intemp’rate Wiſhes, drawn thro’ wand’ring Eyes.

One G1r 81

One Beauty (not thy own) and ſeen by chance,

Melts down the Work of Grace with an alluring Glance;

Chaſes the Spirit, fed by ſacred Art,

And blots the Title After God’s Own Heart;

Black Murder breeds to level at his Head,

Who boaſts ſo fair a Part’ner of his Bed,

No longer muſt poſſeſs thoſe envy’d Charms,

The ſingle Treaſure of his Houſe, and Arms:

Giving, by this thy Fall, cauſe to Blaſpheme

To all the Heathen the Almighty Name.

For which the Sword ſhall ſtill thy Race purſue,

And, in revolted Iſrael’s ſcornful View,

Thy captiv’d Wives ſhall be in Triumph led

Unto a bold Uſurper’s ſhameful Bed;

Who from thy Bowels ſprung ſhall ſeize thy Throne,

And ſcourge thee by a Sin beyond thy own.

G Thou G1v 82

Thou haſt thy Fault in ſecret Darkneſs done;

But this the World ſhall ſee before the Noonday’s Sun.

Enough! the King, enough! the Saint replies,

And pours his ſwift Repentance from his Eyes;

Falls on the Ground, and tears the Nuptial Veſt,

By which his Crime’s Completion was expreſt:

Then with a Sigh blaſting to Carnal Love,

Drawn deep as Hell, and piercing Heaven, above

Let Me (he cries) let Me attend his Rod,

For I have ſinn’d, for I have loſt my God.

Hold! (ſays the Prophet) of that Speech beware,

God ne’er was loſt, unleſs by Man’s Deſpair.

The Wound that is thus willingly reveal’d,

Th’ Almighty is as willing ſhou’d be heal’d.

Thus waſh’d in Tears, thy Soul as fair does ſhow

As the firſt Fleece, which on the Lamb does grow,

Or on the Mountain’s top the lately fallen Snow.

Yet G2r 83

Yet to the World that Juſtice may appear

Acting her Part impartial, and ſevere,

The Offspring of thy Sin ſhall ſoon reſign

That Life, for which thou muſt not once repine;

But with ſubmiſſive Grief his Fate deplore,

And bleſs the Hand, that does inflict no more.

Shall I then pay but Part, and owe the Whole?

My Body’s Fruit, for my offending Soul?

Shall I no more endure (the King demands)

And ’ſcape thus lightly his offended Hands?

Oh! let him All reſume, my Crown, my Fame;

Reduce me to the Nothing, whence I came;

Call back his Favours, faſter than he gave;

And, if but Pardon’d, ſtrip me to my Grave:

Since (tho’ he ſeems to Loſe) He ſurely Wins,

Who gives but earthly Comforts for his Sins.

G2 Part G2v 84

Part of the Fifth Scene in the Second Act of Athalia, a Tragedy, written in French by Monſieur Racine.

Enter, as in the Temple of Jeruſalem, Athalia, Mathan, Abner.


Why, to our Wonder, in this Place is ſeen,

Thus diſcompos’d, and alter’d, Juda’s Queen?

May we demand, what Terrors ſeize your Breaſt,

Or, why your Steps are to this Houſe addreſt,

Where your unguarded Perſon ſtands expos’d

To ſecret Foes, within its Walls inclos’d?

Can it be thought that you remit that Hate?


No more! but Both obſerve what I relate:

Not, that I mean (recalling Times of Blood)

To make you Judges of the Paths I trod,

When to the empty’d Throne I boldly roſe,

Treating all Intercepters as my Foes.

’Twas G3r 85

’Twas Heav’ns Decree, that I ſhould thus ſucceed,

Whoſe following Favour juſtifies the Deed,

Extending my unlimited Command

From Sea to Sea o’er the obedient Land:

Whilſt your Jeruſalem all Peace enjoys,

Nor now th’ encroaching Philiſtine destroys,

Nor wandring Arab his Pavilion ſpreads,

Near Jordan’s Banks, nor waſtes his flow’ry Meads.

The great Aſſyrian, Terror of your Kings,

Who bought his Friendſhip with their holieſt Things,

Yields that a Siſter, of his pow’rful Race,

Should ſway theſe Realms, and dignify the Place.

Nor need we add the late inſulting Foe,

The furious Jehu does this Sceptre know,

And ſinks beneath the Load of conſcious Fears,

When in Samaria he my Actions hears.

Diſtreſt by Foes, which I’ve againſt him rais’d,

He ſees me unmoleſted, fix’d, and pleas’d;

G3 At G3v 86

At leaſt, till now thus glorious was my State;

But ſomething’s threatned from relaxing Fate,

And the laſt Night, which ſhou’d have brought me Reſt,

Has all theſe great Ideas diſpoſſeſt.

A Dream, a Viſion, an apparent View

Of what, methinks, does ſtill my Steps purſue,

Hangs on my penſive Heart, and bears it down

More than the weight of an objected Crown,

My Mother (be the Name with Rev’rence ſpoke!)

Ere chearful Day thro’ horrid Shades had broke,

Approach’d my Bed, magnificent her Dreſs,

Her Shape, her Air did Jeſabel confeſs:

Nor ſeem’d her Face to have refus’d that Art,

Which, in deſpight of Age, does Youth impart,

And which ſhe practis’d, ſcorning to decay,

Or to be vanquiſh’d ev’n in Nature’s way.

Thus all array’d, in ſuch defying Pride

As when th’ injurious Conqu’ror ſhe deſcry’d,

And did in height of Pow’r for ill-got Pow’r deride.

To G4r 87

To me ſhe ſpake, theſe Accents to me came:

Thou worthy Daughter of my ſoaring Fame,

Tho’ with a more tranſcendent Spirit fill’d,

Tho’ ſtruggling Pow’rs attempt thy Life to ſhield,

The Hebrew’s God (Oh, tremble at the ſound!)

Shall Thee and Them, and all their Rights confound.

A pitying Groan concludes, no Word of Aid.

My Arms I thought to throw about the Shade

Of that lov’d Parent, but my troubled Sight

No more directed them to aim aright,

Nor ought preſented, but a heap of Bones,

For which fierce Dogs contented on the Stones,

With Flakes of mangled Fleſh, that quiv’ring ſtill

Proclaim’d the Freſhneſs of the ſuffer’d Ill;

Diſtain’d with Blood the Pavement, and the Wall,

Appear’d as in that memorable Fall ――


Oh! juſt avenging Heaven! ―― aſide.


Sure, Dreams like theſe, are for Prevention given.
G4 The G4v 88

The Spleen.

A Pindarick Poem.

What art thou, Spleen, which ev’ry thing doſt ape?

Thou Proteus to abus’d Mankind,

Who never yet thy real Cauſe cou’d find,

Or fix thee to remain in one continued Shape.

Still varying thy perplexing Form,

Now a Dead Sea thou’lt repreſent,

A Calm of ſtupid Diſcontent,

Then, daſhing on the Rocks wilt rage into a Storm.

Trembling ſometimes thou doſt appear,

Diſſolv’d into a Panick Fear;

On Sleep intruding doſt thy Shadows ſpread,

Thy gloomy Terrours round the ſilent Bed,

And croud with boading Dreams the Melancholy Head:

Or, when the Midnight Hour is told,

And drooping Lids thou ſtill doſt waking hold,

Thy G5r 89

Thy fond Deluſions cheat the Eyes,

Before them antick Spectres dance,

Unuſual Fires their pointed Heads advance,

And airy Phantoms riſe.

Such was the monſtrous Viſion ſeen,

When Brutus (now beneath his Cares oppreſt,

And all Rome’s Fortunes rolling in his Breaſt,

Before Philippi’s lateſt Field,

Before his Fate did to Octavius lead)

Was vanquiſh’d by the Spleen.

Falſly, the Mortal Part we blame

Of our depreſt, and pond’rous Frame,

Which, till the Firſt degrading Sin

Let thee, its dull Attendant, in,

Still with the Other did comply,

Nor clogg’d the Active Soul, diſpos’d to fly,

And range the Manſions of it’s native Sky.

Nor, G5v 90

Nor, whilſt in his own Heaven he dwelt,

Whilſt Man his Paradice poſſeſt,

His fertile Garden in the fragrant Eaſt,

And all united Odours ſmelt,

No armed Sweets, until thy Reign,

Cou’d ſhock the Senſe, or in the Face

A fluſht, unhandſom Colour place.

Now the Jonquille o’ercomes the feeble Brain;

We faint beneath the Aromatick Pain,

Till ſome offenſive Scent thy Pow’rs appeaſe,

And Pleaſure we reſign for ſhort, and nauſeous Eaſe.

In ev’ry One thou doſt poſſeſs,

New are thy Motions, and thy Dreſs:

Now in ſome Grove a liſt’ning Friend

Thy falſe Suggeſtions muſt attend,

Thy whiſper’d Griefs, thy fancy’d Sorrows hear,

Breath’d in a Sigh, and witneſs’d by a Tear;

Whilſt G6r 91

Whilſt in the light, and vulgar Croud,

Thy Slaves, more clamorous and loud,

By Laughters unprovok’d, thy Influence too confeſs.

In the Imperious Wiſe thou Vapours art,

Which from o’erheated Paſſions riſe

In Clouds to the attractive Brain,

Until deſcending thence again,

Thro’ the o’er-caſt, and ſhow’ring Eyes,

Upon her Husband’s ſoften’d Heart,

He the diſputed Point muſt yield,

Something reſign of the conteſted Field;

Till Lordly Man, born to Imperial Sway,

Compounds for Peace, to make that Right away,

And Woman, arm’d with Spleen, do’s ſervilely Obey.

The Fool, to imitate the Wits,

Complains of thy pretended Fits,

And Dulneſs, born with him, wou’d lay

Upon thy accidental Sway;

Becauſe, G6v 92

Becauſe, ſometimes, thou doſt preſume

Into the ableſt Heads to come:

That, often, Men of Thoughts refin’d,

Impatient of unequal Sence,

Such ſlow Returns, where they ſo much diſpenſe,

Retiring from the Croud, are to thy Shades inclin’d.

O’er me alas! thou doſt too much prevail:

I feel thy Force, whilſt I againſt thee rail;

I feel my Verſe decay, and my crampt Numbers fail.

Thro’ thy black Jaundice I all Objects ſee,

As Dark, and Terrible as Thee,

My lines decry’d, and my Employment thought

An uſeleſs Folly, or preſumptuous Fault:

Whilſt in the Muſes Paths I ſtray,

Whilſt in their Groves, and by their ſecret Springs

My Hand delights to trace unuſual Things,

And deviates from the known, and common way;

Nor will in fading Silks compoſe

Faintly th’ inimitable Roſe,

Fill G7r 93

Fill up an ill-drawn Bird, or paint on Glaſs

The Sov’reign’s blurr’d and undiſtinguiſh’d Face,

The threatning Angel, and the ſpeaking Aſs.

Patron thou art to ev’ry groſs Abuſe,

The ſullen Husband’s feign’d Excuſe,

When the ill Humour with his Wife he ſpends,

And bears recruited Wit, and Spirits to his Friends.

The Son of Bacchus pleads thy Pow’r,

As to the Glaſs he ſtill repairs,

Pretends but to remove thy Cares,

Snatch from thy Shades one gay, and ſmiling Hour,

And drown thy Kingdom in a purple Show’r.

When the Coquette, whom ev’ry Fool admires,

Wou’d in Variety be Fair,

And, changing haſtily the Scene

From Light, Impertinent, and Vain,

Aſſumes a ſoft, a melancholy Air,

And G7v 94

And of her Eyes rebates the wand’ring Fires,

The careleſs Poſture, and the Head reclin’d,

The thoughtful, and compoſed Face,

Proclaiming the withdrawn, the abſent Mind,

Allows the Fop more liberty to gaze,

Who gently for the tender Cauſe inquires;

The Cauſe, indeed, is a Defect in Senſe,

Yet is the Spleen alledg’d, and ſtill the dull Pretence.

But theſe are thy fantaſtick Harms,

The Tricks of thy pernicious Stage,

Which do the weaker Sort engage;

Worſe are the dire Effects of thy more pow’rful Charms.

By Thee Religion, all we know,

That ſhou’d enlighten here below,

Is veil’d in Darkneſs, and perplext

With anxious Doubts, with endleſs Scruples vext,

And ſome Reſtraint imply’d from each perverted Text.

Whilſt G8r 95

Whilſt Touch not, Taſte not, what is freely giv’n,

Is but thy niggard Voice, diſgracing bounteous Heav’n

From Speech reſtrain’d, by thy Deceits abus’d,

To Deſarts baniſh’d, or in Cells reclus’d,

Miſtaken Vot’ries to the Pow’rs Divine,

Whilſt they a purer Sacrifice deſign,

Do but the Spleen obey, and worſhip at thy Shrine.

In vain to chaſe thee ev’ry Art we try,

In vain all Remedies apply,

In vain the Indian Leaf infuſe,

Or the parch’d Eaſtern Berry bruiſe;

Some paſs, in vain, thoſe Bounds, and nobler Liquors uſe.

Now Harmony, in vain, we bring,

Inſpire the Flute, and touch the String.

From Harmony no help is had;

Muſick but ſoothes thee, if too ſweetly ſad,

And if too light, but turns thee gayly Mad.

Tho’ G8v 96

Tho’ the Phyſicians greateſt Gains,

Altho’ his growing Wealth he ſees

Daily encreas’d by Ladies Fees,

Yet doſt thou baffle all his ſtudious Pains.

Not skilful Lower thy Source cou’d find,

Or thro’ the well-diſſected Body trace

The ſecret, the myſterious ways,

By which thou doſt ſurprize, and prey upon the Mind.

Tho’ in the Search, too deep for Humane Thought,

With unſucceſsful Toil he wrought,

’Till thinking Thee to’ve catch’d, Himſelf by thee was caught,

Retain’d thy Pris’ner, thy acknowledg’d Slave,

And ſunk beneath thy Chain to a lamented Grave.

An H1r 97

An Epistle from Alexander to Hephæſtion in his Sickneſs.

With ſuch a Pulſe, with ſuch diſorder’d Veins,

Such lab’ring Breath, as thy Diſeaſe conſtrains;

With failing Eyes, that ſcarce the Light endure,

(So long unclos’d, they’ve watch’d thy doubtful Cure)

To his Hephæſtion Alexander writes,

To ſoothe thy Days, and wing thy ſleepleſs Nights.

I ſend thee Love: Oh! that I could impart,

As well my vital Spirits to thy Heart!

That, when the fierce Diſtemper thine wou’d quell,

They might renew the Fight, and the cold Foe repel.

As on Arbela’s Plains we turn’d the Day,

When Perſians through our Troops had mow’d their way,

When the rough Scythians on the Plunder run,

And barb’rous Shouts proclaim’d the Conqueſt won,

H ’Till H1v 98

’Till o’er my Head (to ſtop the ſwift Deſpair)

The Bird of Jove fans the ſupporting Air,

Above my Plume does his broad Wings diſplay,

And follows whereſoe’er I force my way:

Whilſt Ariſtander, in his Robe of White,

Shews to the wav’ring Hoſt th’ auſpicious Sight;

New Courage it inſpires in ev’ry Breaſt,

And wins at once the Empire of the Eaſt.

Cou’d He, but now, ſome kind Preſage afford,

That Health might be again to Thee reſtor’d;

Thou to my Wiſhes, to my fond Embrace;

Thy Looks the ſame, the ſame Majeſtick Grace,

That round thee ſhone, when we together went

To chear the Royal Captives in their Tent,

Where Syſigambis, proſtrate on the Floor,

Did Alexander in thy Form adore;

Above great Æſculapius ſhou’d he ſtand,

Or made immortal by Appeles Hand.

But no reviving Hope his Art allows,

And ſuch cold Damps invade my anxious Brows,

As, H2r 99

As, when in Cydnus plung’d, I dar’d the Flood

T’ o’er-match the Boilings of my youthful Blood.

But Philip to my Aid repair’d in haſte;

And whilſt the proffer’d Draught I boldly taſte,

As boldly He the dangerous Paper views,

Which of hid Treaſons does his Fame accuſe.

More thy Phyſician’s Life on Thine depends,

And what he gives, his Own preſerves, or ends.

If thou expir’ſt beneath his fruitleſs Care,

To Rhadamanthus ſhall the Wretch repair,

And give ſtrict Anſwer for his Errors there.

Near thy Pavilion liſt’ning Princes wait,

Seeking from thine to learn their Monarch’s State.

Submitting Kings, that poſt from Day to Day,

To keep thoſe Crowns, which at my Feet they lay,

Forget th’ ambitious Subject of their Speed,

And here arriv’d, only Thy Dangers heed.

The Beauties of the Clime, now Thou’rt away,

Droop, and retire, as if their God of Day

H2 No H2v 100

No more upon their early Pray’rs wou’d ſhine,

Or take their Incenſe, at his late Decline.

Thy Pariſatis whom I fear to name,

Left to thy Heat it add redoubl’d Flame;

Thy lovely Wife, thy Pariſatis weeps,

And in her Grief a ſolemn Silence keeps.

Stretch’d in her Tent, upon the Floor ſhe lies,

So pale her Looks, ſo motionleſs her Eyes,

As when they gave thee leave at firſt to gaze

Upon the Charms of her unguarded Face;

When the two beauteous Siſters lowly knelt,

And ſu’d to thoſe, who more than Pity felt.

To chear her now Statira vainly proves,

And at thy Name alone ſhe ſighs, and moves.

But why theſe ſingle Griefs ſhou’d I expoſe?

The World no Mirth, no War, no Bus’neſs knows,

But, huſh’d with Sorrow, ſtands, to favour thy Repoſe.

Ev’n H3r 101

Ev’n I my boaſted Title now reſign,

Not Ammon’s Son, nor born of Race Divine,

But Mortal all, oppreſs’d with reſtleſs Fears,

Wild with my Cares, and Womaniſh in Tears.

Tho’ Tears, before, I for old Clytus ſhed,

And wept more Drops, than the old Hero bled;

Ev’n now, methinks, I ſee him on the Ground,

Now my dire Arms the wretched Corpſe ſurround,

Now the fled Soul I wooe, now rave upon the Wound.

Yet He, for whom this mighty Grief did ſpring,

Not Alexander valu’d, but the King.

Then think, how much that Paſſion muſt tranſcend,

Which not a Subject raiſes but a Friend;

An equal Partner in the vanquiſh’d Earth,

A Brother, not impos’d upon my Birth,

Too weak a Tye unequal Thoughts to bind,

But by the gen’rous Motions of the Mind.

H3 My H3v 102

My Love to thee for Empire was the Teſt,

Since him, who from Mankind cou’d chuſe the beſt,

The Gods thought only fit for Monarch o’er the reſt.

Live then, my Friend; but if that muſt not be,

Nor Fate will with my boundleſs Mind agree,

Affording, at one time, the World and Thee;

To the moſt Worthy I’ll that Sway reſign,

And in Elyſium keep Hyphæſtion mine.

The following Lines occaſion’d by the Marriage of Edward Herbert Eſquire, and Mrs. Elizabeth Herbert.

Cupid one day ask’d his Mother,

When ſhe meant that he ſhou’d Wed?

You’re too Young, my Boy, ſhe ſaid:

Nor has Nature made another

Fit to match with Cupid’s Bed.

Cupid H4r 103

Cupid then her Sight directed

To a lately Wedded Pair;

Where Himſelf the Match effected;

They as Youthful, they as Fair.

Having by Example carry’d

This firſt Point in the Diſpute;

Worseley next he ſaid’s not Marry’d:

Her’s with Cupid’s Charms may ſuit.

La Paſſion Vaincue.

Done into Engliſh with Liberty.

On the Banks of the Severn a deſperate Maid

(Whom ſome Shepherd, neglecting his Vows, had betray’d,)

Stood reſolving to baniſh all Senſe of the Pain,

And purſue, thro’ her Death, a Revenge on the Swain.

Since the Gods, and my Paſſion, at once he defies;

Since his Vanity lives, whilſt my Character dies;

H4 No H4v 104

No more (did ſhe ſay) will I trifle with Fate,

But commit to the Waves both my Love and my Hate.

And now to comply with that furious Deſire,

Juſt ready to plunge, and alone to expire,

Some Reflections on Death, and its Terrors untry’d,

Some Scorn for the Shepherd, ſome Flaſhings of Pride

At length pull’d her back, and ſhe cry’d, Why this Strife,

Since the Swains are ſo Many, and I’ve but One Life?

The Owl Deſcribing her Young Ones.

Why was that baleful Creature made,

Which ſeeks our Quiet to invade,

And ſcreams ill Omens through the Shade?

’Twas, ſure, for every Mortals good,

When, by wrong painting of her Brood,

She doom’d them for the Eagle’s Food:

Who H5r 105

Who proffer’d Safety to her Tribe,

Wou’d ſhe but ſhew them or deſcribe,

And ſerving him, his Favour bribe.

When thus ſhe did his Highneſs tell:

In Looks my Young do all excel,

Nor Nightingales can ſing ſo well.

You’d joy to ſee the pretty Souls,

With wadling Steps and frowzy Poles,

Come creeping from their ſecret Holes.

But I ne’er let them take the Air,

The Fortunate-hunters do ſo ſtare;

And Heireſſes indeed they are.

This ancient Yew three hundred Years,

Has been poſſeſs’d by Lineal Heirs:

The Males extinct, now All is theirs.

I hope I’ve done their Beauties right,

Whoſe Eyes outſhine the Stars by Night;

Their Muffs and Tippets too are White.

The H5v 106

The King of Cedars veil’d his Power,

And ſwore he’d faſt ev’n from that Hour,

Ere he’d ſuch Lady Birds devour.

Th’ Agreement ſeal’d, on either part,

The Owl now promis’d, from her Heart,

All his Night-Dangers to divert;

As Centinel to ſtand and whoop,

If ſingle Fowl, or Shoal, or Troop

Should at his Palace aim or ſtoop.

But home, one Evening without Meat,

The Eagle comes, and takes his Seat,

Where they did theſe Conditions treat.

The Mother-Owl was prol’d away,

To ſeek abroad for needful Prey,

And forth the Miſſes came to play.

What’s here! the hungry Monarch cry’d,

When near him living Fleſh he ſpy’d,

With which he hop’d to be ſupply’d.

But H6r 107

But recollecting, ’twas the Place,

Where he’d ſo lately promis’d Grace

To an enchanting, beauteous Race;

He paus’d a while, and kept his Maw,

With ſober Temperance, in awe,

Till all their Lineaments he ſaw.

What are theſe Things, and of what Sex,

At length he cry’d, with Vultur’s Becks,

And Shoulders higher than their Necks?

Theſe wear no Palatines, nor Muffs,

Italian Silks, or Doyley Stuffs,

But motley Callicoes, and Ruffs.

Nor Brightneſs in their Eyes is ſeen,

But through the Film a dusky Green,

And like old Margery is their Mien.

Then for my Supper they’re deſign’d,

Nor can be of that lovely Kind,

To whom my Pity was inclin’d.

No H6v 108

No more Delays; as ſoon as ſpoke,

The Plumes are ſtripp’d, the Griſles broke,

And near the Feeder was to choak.

When now return’d the grizly Dame,

(Whoſe Family was out of Frame)

Againſt League-Breakers does exclaim.

How! quoth the Lord of ſoaring Fowls,

(Whilſt horribly ſhe wails and howls)

Were then your Progeny but Owls?

I thought ſome Phœnix was their Sire,

Who did thoſe charming Looks inſpire,

That you’d prepar’d me to admire.

Upon your ſelf the Blame be laid;

My Talons you’ve to Blood betray’d,

And ly’d in every Word you ſaid.

Faces or Books, beyond their Worth extoll’d,

Are cenſur’d moſt, and thus to pieces pull’d.

The H7r 109

The Philoſopher, the Young Man, and his Statue.

A Fond Athenian Mother brought

A Sculptor to indulge her Thought,

And carve her Only Son;

Who to ſuch ſtrange perfection wrought,

That every Eye the Statue caught,

Nor ought was left undone.

A youthful Smile adorn’d the Face,

The poliſh gave that Smile a Grace;

And through the Marble reigns

(Which well the Artiſt’s Skill cou’d trace,

And in their due Poſitions place)

A Thread of purple Veins.

The Paraſites about it came,

(Whoſe Praiſes were too large to name)

And to each other ſaid;

The Man ſo well had reach’d his Aim,

Th’ Original cou’d o’er it claim

Only a native Red.

Mean H7v 110

Mean while a Sage, amidſt the Croud,

Thus, with a Precept wiſe and loud,

Check’d the Vain-glorious Boy;

By telling him, who now grew proud,

That tho’ with Beauty ’twas endow’d,

The Figure was a Toy:

Of no Advantage to the State,

’Twou’d neither combate, nor debate,

But idly ſtand alone;

Bids him beware, whilſt Men create

In Stone thus his Reſemblance great,

He proves not like the Stone.

The Hog, the Sheep, and Goat, carrying to a Fair.

Who does not wiſh, ever to judge aright,

And, in the Courſe of Life’s Affairs,

To have a quick, and far extended Sight,

Tho H8r 111

Tho’ it too often multiplies his Cares?

And who has greater Senſe, but greater Sorrow ſhares?

This felt the Swine, now carrying to the Knife;

And whilſt the Lamb and ſilent Goat

In the ſame fatal Cart lay void of Strife,

He widely ſtretches his foreboding Throat,

Deaf’ning the eaſy Crew with his outragious Note.

The angry Driver chides th’ unruly Beaſt,

And bids him all this Noiſe forbear;

Nor be more loud, nor clamorous than the reſt,

Who with him travel’d to the neighb’ring Fair,

And quickly ſhou’d arrive, and be unfetter’d there.

This, quoth the Swine, I do believe, is true,

And ſee we’re very near the Town;

Whilſt theſe poor Fools of ſhort, and bounded View,

Think H8v 112

Think ’twill be well, when you have ſet them down,

And eas’d One of her Milk, the Other of her Gown.

But all the dreadful Butchers in a Row,

To my far-ſearching Thoughts appear,

Who know indeed, we to the Shambles go,

Whilſt I, whom none but Belzebub wou’d ſhear,

Nor but his Dam wou’d milk, muſt for my Carcaſe fear.

But tell me then, will it prevent thy Fate?

The rude unpitying Farmer cries;

If not, the Wretch who taſtes his Suff’rings late,

Not He, who thro’ th’ unhappy Future prys,

Muſt of the Two be held moſt Fortunate and Wiſe.

The I1r 113

The Shepherd and the Calm.

Soothing his Paſſions with a warb’ling Sound,

A Shepherd-Swain lay ſtretch’d upon the Ground;

Whilſt all were mov’d, who their Attention lent,

Or with the Harmony in Chorus went,

To ſomething leſs than Joy, yet more than dull Content.

(Between which two Extreams true Pleaſure lies,

O’er-run by Fools, unreach’d-at by the Wiſe)

But yet, a fatal Proſpect to the Sea

Wou’d often draw his greedy Sight away.

He ſaw the Barques unlading on the Shore,

And gueſs’d their Wealth, then ſcorn’d his little Store,

Then wou’d that Little loſe, or elſe wou’d make it more

To Merchandize converted is the Fold,

The Bag, the Bottle, and the Hurdles ſold;

The Dog was chang’d away, the pretty Skell

Whom he had fed, and taught, and lov’d ſo well.

I In I1v 114

In vain the Phillis wept, which heretofore

Receiv’d his Preſents, and his Garlands wore.

Falſe and upbraided, he forſakes the Downs,

Nor courts her Smiles, nor fears the Ocean’s Frowns.

For ſmooth it lay, as if one ſingle Wave

Made all the Sea, nor Winds that Sea cou’d heave;

Which blew no more than might his Sails ſupply:

Clear was the Air below, and Phœbus laugh’d on high.

With this Advent’rer ev’ry thing combines,

And Gold to Gold his happy Voyage joins;

But not ſo proſp’rous was the next Eſſay,

For rugged Blaſts encounter’d on the way,

Scarce cou’d the Men eſcape, the Deep had all their Prey.

Our broken Merchant in the Wreck was thrown

Upon thoſe Lands, which once had been his own;

Where other Flocks now paſtur’d on the Graſs,

And other Corydons had woo’d his Laſs.

A Servant, for ſmall Profits, there he turns,

Yet thrives again, and leſs and leſs he mourns;

Re- I2r 115

Re-purchaſes in time th’ abandon’d Sheep,

Which ſad Experience taught him now to keep.

When from that very Bank, one Halcyon Day,

On which he lean’d, when tempted to the Sea,

He notes a Calm; the Winds and Waves were ſtill,

And promis’d what the Winds nor Waves fulfill,

A ſettl’d Quiet, and Conveyance ſure,

To him that Wealth, by Traffick, wou’d procure.

But the rough part the Shepherd now performs,

Reviles the Cheat, and at the Flatt’ry ſtorms.

Ev’n thus (quoth he) you ſeem’d all Reſt and Eaſe,

You ſleeping Tempeſts, you untroubl’d Seas,

That ne’er to be forgot, that luckleſs Hour,

In which I put my Fortunes in your Pow’r;

Quitting my ſlender, but ſecure Eſtate,

My undiſturb’d Repoſe, my ſweet Retreat,

For Treaſures which you raviſh’d in a Day,

But ſwept my Folly, with my Goods, away.

Then ſmile no more, nor theſe falſe Shews employ,

Thou momentary Calm, thou fleeting Joy;

I2 No I2v 116

No more on me ſhall theſe fair Signs prevail,

Some other Novice may be won to Sail,

Give me a certain Fate in the obſcureſt Vale.

The Lord and the Bramble.

To view his ſtately Walks and Groves,

A Man of Pow’r and Place

Was haſt’ning on; but as he roves,

His Foe the ſlighted Bramble proves,

And ſtops his eager Pace.

That Shrub was qualify’d to Bite;

And now there went a Tale,

That this injurious partial Wight

Had bid his Gard’ner rid it quite,

And throw it o’er the Pail.

Often the Bry’r had wiſh’d to ſpeak,

That this might not be done;

But from the Abject and the Weak,

Who no important Figure make,

What Stateſman does not run?

But I3r 117

But clinging now about his Waſte,

Ere he had time to fly,

My Lord (quoth he) for all your haſte,

I’ll know why I muſt be diſplac’d,

And ’mongſt the Rubbiſh lie.

Muſt none but buffle-headed Trees

Within your Ground be ſeen?

Or tap’ring Yews here court the Breeze,

That, like ſome Beaux whom Time does freeze,

At once look Old and Green?

I ſnarl, ’tis true, and ſometimes ſcratch

A tender-footed Squire;

Who does a rugged Tartar catch,

When me he thinks to over-match,

And jeers for my Attire.

I3 As I3v 118

As to Yourſelf, who ’gainſt me fret,

E’en give this Project o’er:

For know, where’er my Root is ſet,

Theſe rambling Twigs will Paſſage get,

And vex you more and more.

No Wants, no Threatnings, nor the Jail

Will curb an angry Wit:

Then think not to chaſtiſe, or rail;

Appeaſe the Man, if you’d prevail,

Who ſome ſharp Satire writ.

The Cautious Lovers.

Silvia, let’s from the Croud retire;

For, What to you and me

(Who but each other do deſire)

Is all that here we ſee?

Apart I4r 119

Apart we’ll live, tho’ not alone;

For, who alone can call

Thoſe, who in Deſarts live with One,

If in that One they’ve All?

The World a vaſt Meander is,

Where Hearts confus’dly ſtray;

Where Few do hit, whilſt Thouſands miſs

The happy mutual Way:

Where Hands are by ſtern Parents ty’d,

Who oft, in Cupid’s Scorn,

Do for the widow’d State provide,

Before that Love is born:

Where ſome too ſoon themſelves miſplace;

Then in Another find

The only Temper, Wit, or Face,

That cou’d affect their Mind.

I4 Others 14v 120

Others (but oh! avert that Fate!)

A well-choſe Object change:

Fly, Silvia, fly, ere ’tis too late;

Fall’n Nature’s prone to range.

And, tho’ in heat of Love we ſwear

More than perform we can;

No Goddeſs You, but Woman are,

And I no more than Man.

Th’ impatient Silvia heard thus long;

Then with a Smile reply’d:

Thoſe Bands cou’d ne’er be very ſtrong,

Which Accidents divide.

Who e’er was mov’d yet to go down,

By ſuch o’er-cautious Fear;

Or for one Lover left the Town,

Who might have Numbers here?

Your I5r 121

Your Heart, ’tis true, is worth them all,

And ſtill preferr’d the firſt;

But ſince confeſs’d ſo apt to fall,

’Tis good to fear the worſt.

In ancient Hiſtory we meet

A flying Nymph betray’d;

Who, had ſhe kept in fruitful Crete,

New Conqueſt might have made.

And ſure, as on the Beach ſhe ſtood,

To view the parting Sails;

She curs’d her ſelf, more than the Flood,

Or the conſpiring Gales.

Falſe Theſeus, ſince thy Vows are broke,

May following Nymphs beware:

Methinks I hear how thus ſhe ſpoke,

And will not truſt too far.

In I5v 122

In Love, in Play, in Trade, in War

They beſt themſelves acquit,

Who, tho’ their Int’reſts ſhipwreckt are,

Keep unreprov’d their Wit.

To Death.

O King of Terrors, whoſe unbounded Sway

All that have Life, muſt certainly Obey;

The King, the Prieſt, the Prophet, all are Thine,

Nor wou’d ev’n God (in Fleſh) thy Stroke decline.

My Name is on thy Roll, and ſure I muſt

Encreaſe thy gloomy Kingdom in the Duſt.

My Soul at this no Apprehenſion feels,

But trembles at thy Swords, thy Racks, thy Wheels;

Thy ſcorching Fevers, which diſtract the Senſe,

And ſnatch us raving, unprepar’d from hence;

At thy contagious Darts, that wound the Heads

Of weeping Friends, who wait at dying Beds.

Spare theſe, and let thy Time be when it will;

My Bus’neſs is to Dye, and Thine to kill.

Gently I6r 123

Gently thy fatal Sceptre on me lay,

And take to thy cold Arms, inſenſibly, thy Prey.

Adam Pos’d.

Cou’d our Firſt Father, at his toilſome Plough,

Thorns in his Path, and Labour on his Brow,

Cloath’d only in a rude, unpoliſh’d Skin,

Cou’d he a vain Fantaſtick Nymph have ſeen,

In all her Airs, in all her antick Graces,

Her various Faſhions, and more various Faces;

How had it pos’d that Skill, which late aſſign’d

Juſt Appellations to Each ſeveral Kind!

A right Idea of the Sight to frame;

T’have guesſt from what New Element ſhe came;

T’have hit the wav’ring Form, or giv’n this Things a Name.

The I6v 124

The Houſe of Socrates.

For Socrates a Houſe was built,

Of but inferiour Size;

Not highly Arch’d, nor Carv’d, nor Gilt;

The Man, ’tis ſaid, was Wiſe.

But Mob deſpis’d the little Cell,

That ſtruck them with no Fear;

Whilſt Others thought, there ſhould not dwell

So great a Perſon there.

How ſhou’d a due Recourſe be made

To One, ſo much Admir’d?

Where ſhou’d the ſpacious Cloth be laid,

Or where the Gueſts retir’d?

Believe me, quoth the liſt’ning Sage,

’Twas not to ſave the Charge;

That in this over-building Age,

My Houſe was not more large.

But I7r 125

But this for faithful Friends, and kind,

Was only meant by me;

Who fear that what too ſtreight you find,

Muſt yet contracted be.

The Equipage.

Written Originally in French by L’Abbé Reigner.

Since the Road of Life’s ſo ill;

I, to paſs it, uſe this Skill,

My frail Carriage driving home

To its lateſt Stage, the Tomb.

Juſtice firſt, in Harneſs ſtrong,

Marches ſtedfaſtly along:

Charity, to ſmooth the Pace,

Fills the next adjoining Trace:

Independance leads the Way,

Whom no heavy Curb do’s ſway;

Truth I7v 126

Truth an equal Part ſuſtains,

All indulg’d the looſen’d Reins:

In the Box ſits vig’rous Health,

Shunning miry Paths of Wealth:

Gaiety with eaſy Smiles,

Ev’ry harſher Step beguiles;

Whilſt of Nature, or of Fate

Only This I wou’d intreat:

The Equipage might not decay,

Till the worn Carriage drops away.

The Young Rat and his Dam, the Cock and the Cat.

No Cautions of a Matron, Old and Sage,

Young Rattlehead to Prudence cou’d engage;

But forth the Offspring of her Bed wou’d go,

Nor reaſon gave, but that he wou’d do ſo.

Much Counſel was, at parting, thrown away,

Ev’n all, that Mother-Rat to Son cou’d ſay;

Who I8r 127

Who follow’d him with utmoſt reach of Sight,

Then, loſt in Tears, and in abandon’d Plight,

Turn’d to her mournful Cell, and bid the World Good-night.

But Fortune, kinder than her boding Thought,

In little time the Vagrant homewards brought,

Rais’d in his Mind, and mended in his Dreſs,

Who the Bel-air did every way confeſs,

Had learnt to flow’r his Wigg, nor bruſht away

The falling Meal, that on his Shoulders lay;

And from a Nutſhell, wimbl’d by a Worm,

Took Snuff, and cou’d the Government reform.

The Mother, weeping from Maternal Love,

To ſee him thus prodigiouſly improve,

Expected mighty Changes too, within,

And Wiſdom to avoid the Cat, and Gin.

Whom did you chiefly note, Sweetheart, quoth ſhe,

Of all the Strangers you abroad did ſee?

Who grac’d you moſt, or did your Fancy take?

The younger Rat then curs’d a noisy Rake,

That barr’d the beſt Acquaintance he cou’d make;

And I8v 128

And ſcar’d him ſo, he trembl’d ev’ry Part;

Nor to deſcribe him, ſcarce cou’d have the Heart.

High on his Feet (quoth he) himſelf he bore,

And terribly, in his own Language, ſwore;

A feather’d Arm came out from either Side,

Which loud he clapp’d, and Combatants defy’d,

And to each Leg a Bayonette was ty’d:

And certainly his Head with Wounds was ſore;

For That, and both his Cheeks a Sanguine Colour wore.

Near Him there lay the Creature I admir’d,

And for a Friend by Sympathy deſir’d:

His Make, like Ours, as far as Tail and Feet,

With Coat of Furr in parallel do meet;

Yet ſeeming of a more exalted Race,

Tho’ humble Meekneſs beautify’d his Face:

A purring Sound compos’d his gentle Mind,

Whilſt frequent Slumbers did his Eye-lids bind;

Whoſe ſoft, contracted Paw lay calmly ſtill,

As if unus’d to prejudice, or kill.

I K1r 129

I paus’d a while, to meditate a Speech,

And now was ſtepping juſt within his reach;

When that rude Clown began his hect’ring Cry,

And made me for my Life, and from th’ Attempt to fly.

Indeed ’twas Time, the ſhiv’ring Beldam ſaid,

To ſcour the Plain, and be of Life afraid.

Thou baſe, degen’rate Seed of injur’d Rats,

Thou verieſt Fool (ſhe cry’d) of all my Brats;

Woud’ſt thou have ſhaken Hands with hoſtile Cats,

And doſt not yet thine Own, and Country’s Foe,

At this expence of Time, and Travel know?

Alas! that ſwearing, ſtaring, bullying Thing,

That tore his Throat, and bluſter’d with his Wing,

Was but ſome paltry, Dunghill, Craven Cock,

Who ſerves the early Houſhold for a Clock.

And We his Oats, and Barley often ſteal,

Nor fear, he ſhou’d revenge the pilfer’d Meal:

Whilſt that demure, and ſeeming harmleſs Puſs

Herſelf, and mewing Chits regales with Us.

K If K1v 130

If then, of uſeful Senſe thou’ſt gain’d no more,

Than ere thou’dſt paſt the Threſhold of my Door;

Be here, my Son, content to Dreſs and Dine,

Steeping the Liſt of Beauties in thy Wine,

And neighb’ring Vermin with falſe Gloſs outſhine.

Amongſt Mankind a Thouſand Fops we ſee,

Who in their Rambles learn no more than Thee;

Croſs o’er the Alpes, and make the Tour of France,

To learn a paltry Song, or antick Dance;

Bringing their Noddles, and Valizes pack’d

With Myſteries, from Shops and Taylors wreck’d:

But what may prejudice their Native Land;

Whoſe Troops are raiſing, or whoſe Fleet is mann’d,

Ne’er moves their Thoughts, nor do they underſtand.

Thou, my dear Rattlehead, and ſuch as Theſe

Might keep at home, and brood on Sloth and Eaſe:

Whilſt K2r 131

Whilſt Others, more adapted to the Age,

May vig’rouſly in Warlike Feats engage,

And live on foreign Spoils, or dying thin the Stage.

The Wit and the Beau.

Strephon, whoſe Perſon ev’ry Grace

Was careful to adorn;

Thought, by the Beauties of his Face,

In Silvia’s Love to find a place,

And wonder’d at her Scorn.

With Bows, and Smiles he did his Part;

But Oh! ’twas all in vain:

A Youth leſs Fine, a Youth of Art

Had talk’d himſelf into her Heart,

And wou’d not out again.

K2 Strephon K2v 132

Strephon with change of Habits preſs’d,

And urg’d her to admire;

His Love alone the Other dreſs’d,

As Verſe, or Proſe became it beſt,

And mov’d her ſoft Deſire.

This found, his courtſhip Strephon ends,

Or makes it to his Glaſs;

There, in himſelf now ſeeks amends,

Convinc’d, that where a Wit pretends,

A Beau is but an Aſs.

The Executor.

A Greedy Heir long waited to fulfill,

As his Executor, a Kinſman’s Will;

And to himſelf his Age repeated o’er,

To his Infirmities ſtill adding more;

And nicely kept th’ Account of the expected Store:

When K3r 133

When Death, at laſt, to either gave Releaſe,

Making One’s Pains, the Other’s Longings ceaſe;

Who to the Grave muſt decently convey,

Ere he Poſſeſſion takes the kindred Clay,

Which in a Coach was plac’d, wherein he rides,

And ſo no Hearſe, or following Train provides;

Rejecting Ruſſel, who wou’d make the Charge

Of one dull tedious Day, ſo vaſtly Large.

When, at his Death, the humble Man declar’d,

He wiſh’d thus privately to be Interr’d.

And now, the Luggage moves in ſolemn State,

And what it wants in Number, gains in Weight.

The happy Heir can ſcarce contain his Joy,

Whilſt ſundry Muſings do his Thoughts employ,

How he ſhall act, now Every thing’s his Own,

Where his Revenge, or Favour ſhall be ſhown;

Then recollecting, draws a counterfeited Groan.

The Avenues, and Gardens ſhall be chang’d,

Already he the Furniture has rang’d.

K3 To K3v 134

To ranſack ſecret Draw’rs his Phancy flies,

Nor can th’ appearing Wealth his Mind ſuffice.

Thus he an Age runs o’er betwixt the Porch

Of his Friend’s Houſe, and the adjacent Church:

Whilſt the ſlow Driver, who no reck’ning kept

Of what was left, indulging Nature, ſlept;

Till on a Bank, ſo high, the Wheel was borne

That in a Moment All muſt overturn:

Whilſt the rich Heir now finds the giving Dead

Leſs weighty in his Gold, than in his Lead;

Which falling juſt on his contriving Breaſt,

Expell’d the Soul, leaving the Corpſe to reſt

In the ſame Grave, intended for his Friend.

Then why ſhou’d We our Days in Wiſhes ſpend,

Which, ere we ſee fulfill’d, are often at an End?

Cupid K4r 135

Cupid and Folly.

Imitated from the French.

Cupid, ere depriv’d of Sight,

Young and apt for all Delight,

Met with Folly on the way,

As Idle, and as fond of Play.

In gay Sports the time they paſs;

Now run, now wreſtle on the Graſs;

Their painted Wings then nimbly ply,

And ev’ry way for Maſt’ry try:

’Till a Conteſt do’s ariſe,

Who has won th’ appointed Prize.

Gentle Love refers the Caſe

To the next, that comes in Place;

Truſting to his flatt’ring Wiles,

And ſoftens the Diſpute with Smiles,

But Folly, who no Temper knows,

Words purſues with hotter Blows:

’Till the Eyes of Love were loſt,

Which has ſuch Pain to Mortals coſt.

K4 Venus K4v 136

Venus hears his mournful Crys,

And repeats ’em, in the Skys,

To Jupiter in Council ſet,

With Peers for the Occaſion met;

In her Arms the Boy ſhe bears,

Bathing him in falling Tears;

And whilſt his want of Eyes is ſhown,

Secures the Judges by her Own.

Folly to the Board muſt come,

And hear the Tryal and the Doom;

Which Cytherea loudly prays

May be as heavy as the Caſe:

Which, when All was juſtly weigh’d,

Cupid’s Wings now uſeleſs made,

That a Staff, his Feet muſt guide,

Which wou’d ſtill be apt to ſlide;

This Decree at laſt was read,

That Love by Folly ſhou’d be lead.

For K5r 137

For the Better.

Imitated from Sir Roger L’Eſtrange.

A Quack, to no true Skill in Phyſick bred,

With frequent Viſits curs’d his Patient’s Bed;

Enquiring, how he did his Broths digeſt,

How chim’d his Pulſe, and how he took his Reſt:

If ſhudd’ring Cold by Burning was purſu’d,

And at what time the Aguiſh Fit renew’d.

The waining Wretch, each day become more faint,

In like proportion doubles his Complaint;

Now ſwooning Sweats he begs him to allay,

Now give his Lungs more liberty to play,

And take from empty’d Veins theſe ſcorching Heats away:

Or if he ſaw the Danger did increſe,

To warn him fair, and let him part in Peace.

My Life for yours, no Hazard in your Caſe

The Quack replies; your Voice, your Pulſe, your Face,

Good K5v 138

Good Signs afford, and what you ſeem to feel

Proceeds from Vapours, which we’ll help with Steel.

With kindled Rage, more than Diſtemper, burns

The ſuff’ring Man, who thus in haſte returns:

No more of Vapours, your belov’d Diſeaſe,

Your Ignorance’s Skreen, your What-you-pleaſe,

With which you cheat poor Females of their Lives,

Whilſt Men diſpute not, ſo it rid their Wives.

For me, I’ll ſpeak free as I’ve paid my Fees;

My Fleſh conſumes, I periſh by degrees:

And as thro’ weary Nights I count my Pains,

No reſt is left me, and no Strength remains.

All for the Better, Sir, the Quack rejoins:

Exceeding promiſing are all theſe Signs.

Falling-away, your Nurſes can confirm,

Was ne’er in Sickneſs thought a Mark of Harm.

The want of Strength is for the Better ſtill;

Since Men of Vigour Fevers ſooneſt kill.

Ev’n with this Guſt of Paſſion I am pleas’d;

For they’re moſt Patient who the moſt are ſeiz’d.

But K6r 139

But let me ſee! here’s that which all repels:

Then ſhakes, as he ſome formal Story tells,

The Treacle-water, mixt with powder’d Shells

My Stomach’s gone (what d’you infer from thence?)

Nor will with the leaſt Suſtenance diſpenſe.

The Better; for, where Appetite endures,

Meats intermingle, and no Med’cine cures.

The Stomach, you muſt know, Sir, is a Part ――

But, ſure, I feel Death’s Pangs about my Heart.

Nay then Farewel! I need no more attend

The Quack replies. A ſad approaching Friend

Queſtions the Sick, why he retires ſo faſt;

Who ſays, becauſe of Fees I’ve paid the Laſt,

And, whilſt all Symptoms tow’rds my Cure agree,

Am, for the Better, Dying as you ſee.

Verses K6v 140


Written under the King of Sweden’s Picture.

Obſerve this Piece, which to our Sight does bring

The fitteſt Poſture for the Swediſh King;

(Encompaſs’d, as we think, with Armies round,

Tho’ not expreſs’d within this narrow Bound)

Who, whilſt his warlike and extended Hand)

Directs the foremoſt Ranks to Charge or Stand,

Reverts his Face, leſt That, ſo Fair and Young,

Should call in doubt the Orders of his Tongue:

Whilſt the excited, and embolden’d Rear

Such Youth beholding, and ſuch Features there,

Devote their plainer Forms, and are aſham’d to Fear.

Thus! ev’ry Action, ev’ry Grace of thine,

O lateſt Son of Fame, Son of Guſtavus Line!

Affects thy Troops, with all that can inſpire

A blooming Sweetneſs, and a martial Fire,

Fatal K7r 141

Fatal to none, but thy invading Foe.

So Lightnings, which to all their Brightneſs ſhew,

Strike but the Man alone, who has provok’d the Blow.

A Poem for the Birth-day of the Right Honble the Lady Catharine Tufton.

Occaſion’d by ſight of ſome Verſes upon that Subject for the preceding Year, compos’d by no Eminent Hand.

Tis fit Serena ſhou’d be ſung.

High-born Serena, Fair and Young,

Shou’d be of eve’ry Muſe and Voice

The pleaſing, and applauded Choice.

But as the Meaneſt of the Show

Do Firſt in all Proceſſions go:

So, let my Steps purſue that Swain

The humbleſt of th’ inſpired Train;

Whoſe well-meant Verſe did juſt appear,

To lead on the preceding Year:

So K7v 142

So let my Pen, the next in Fame,

Now wait on fair Serena’s Name;

The ſecond Tribute gladly pay,

And hail this bleſt returning Day.

But let it not attempt to raiſe

Or rightly ſpeak Serena’s Praiſe:

Since with more eaſe we might declare

How Great her Predeceſſors were;

How Great that more diſtinguiſh’d Peer,

To whom ſhe owes her Being here;

In whom our Britain lets us ſee

What once they were, and ſtill ſhou’d be;

As, when the earlieſt Race was drown’d,

Some Patterns, from amongſt them found,

Were kept to ſhew ſucceeding Times

Their Excellence without their Crimes:

More eaſily we might expreſs

What Vertues do her Mother dreſs;

What does her Form and Mind adorn,

Of whom th’ engaging Nymph was born;

What K8r 143

What Piety, what generous Love,

Does the enlarged Boſom move

Of The Lady Coventry. Her, whoſe Fav’rite ſhe appears,

Who more than as a Niece endears.

Such full Perfections obvious lie,

And ſtrike, at firſt, a Poet’s Eye.

Deep Lines of Honour all can hit,

Or mark out a ſuperior Wit;

Conſummate Goodneſs all can ſhow,

And where ſuch Graces ſhine below:

But the more tender Strokes to trace,

T’expreſs the Promiſe of a Face,

When but the Dawnings of the Mind

We from an Air unripen’d find;

Which alt’ring, as new Moments riſe,

The Pen or Pencil’s Art defies;

When Fleſh and Blood in Youth appears,

Poliſh’d like what our Marble wears;

Freſh as that Shade of op’ning Green,

Which firſt upon our Groves is ſeen;

Enliven’d K8v 144

Enliven’d by a harmleſs Fire,

And brighten’d by each gay Deſire;

Theſe nicer Touches wou’d demand

A Cowley’s or a Waller’s Hand,

T’explain, with undiſputed Art,

What ’tis affects th’ enlighten’d Heart

When ev’ry darker Thought gives way,

Whilſt blooming Beauty we ſurvey;

To ſhew how All, that’s ſoft and ſweet,

Does in the fair Serena meet;

To tell us, with a ſure Preſage,

The Charms of her maturer Age.

When Hothfeild ſhall (as heretofore

From its far ſought and virtuous Store

It Families of great Renown

Did with illuſtrious Hymens crown)

When Hothfeild ſhall ſuch Treaſure know,

As fair Serena to beſtow:

Then ſhou’d ſome Muſe of loftier Wing

The Triumphs of that Seaſon ſing;

Deſcribe L1r 145

Deſcribe the Pains, the Hopes, the Fears

Of noble Youths, th’ ambitious Cares

Of Fathers, the long-fram’d Deſign,

To add ſuch Splendour to their Line,

Whilſt all ſhall ſtrive for ſuch a Bride

So Educated, and Ally’d.

A Tale of the Miſer, and the Poet.

Written about the Year 17091709.

AWit, tranſported with Inditing,

Unpay’d, unprais’d, yet ever Writing;

Who, for all Fights and Fav’rite Friends,

Had Poems at his Fingers Ends;

For new Events was ſtill providing;

Yet now deſirous to be riding,

He pack’d-up ev’ry Ode and Ditty,

And in Vacation left the City;

So rapt with Figures, and Alluſions,

With ſecret Paſſions, ſweet Confuſions;

L With L1v 146

With Sentences from Plays well-known,

And thouſand Couplets of his own;

That ev’n the chalky Road look’d gay,

And ſeem’d to him the Milky Way.

But Fortune, who the Ball is toſſing,

And Poets ever will be croſſing,

Miſled the Steed, which ill he guided,

Where ſeveral gloomy Paths divided.

The ſteepeſt in Deſcent he follow’d,

Enclos’d by Rocks, which Time had hollow’d;

Till, he believ’d, alive and booted,

He’d reach’d the Shades by Homer quoted.

But all, that he cou’d there diſcover,

Was, in a Pit with Thorns grown over,

Old Mammon digging, ſtraining, ſweating,

As Bags of Gold he thence was getting;

Who, when reprov’d for ſuch Dejections

By him, who liv’d on high Reflections,

Reply’d; Brave Sir, your Time is ended,

And Poetry no more befriended.

I hid L2r 147

I hid this Coin, when Charles was ſwaying;

When all was Riot, Masking, Playing;

When witty Beggars were in faſhion,

And Learning had o’er-run the Nation,

But, ſince Mankind is ſo much wiſer,

That none is valu’d like the Miſer

I draw it hence, and now theſe Sums

In proper Soil grow up to Plumbs; A Plumb is a Cant word, ſignifying a Hundred Thouſand Pound.

Which gather’d once, from that rich Minute

We rule the World, and all that’s in it.

But, quoth the Poet, can you raiſe,

As well as Plumb-trees, Groves of Bays?

Where you, which I wou’d chuſe much rather,

May Fruits of Reputation gather?

Will Men of Quality, and Spirit,

Regard you for intrinſick Merit?

And ſeek you out, before your Betters,

For Converſation, Wit, and Letters?

L2 Fool, L2v 148

Fool, quoth the Churl, who knew no Breeding;

Have theſe been Times for ſuch Proceeding?

Inſtead of Honour’d, and Rewarded,

Are you not Slighted, or Diſcarded?

What have you met with, but Diſgraces?

Your Prior cou’d not keep in Places;

And your Van Brug had found no Quarter,

But for his dabbling in the Morter.

Rowe no Advantages cou’d hit on,

Till verſe he left, to write North-Briton.

Philips, who’s by the Shilling known,

Ne’er ſaw a Shilling of his own.

Meets Philomela, Mrs. Singer, Author of ſeveral excellent Poems. in the Town

Her due Proportion of Renown?

What Pref’rence has Ardelia ſeen,

T’expel, tho’ ſhe cou’d write the Spleen?

Of Coach, or Tables, can you brag,

Or better Cloaths than Poet Rag?

Do wealthy Kindred, when they meet you,

With Kindneſs, or Diſtinction, greet you?

Or L3r 149

Or have your lately flatter’d Heroes

Enrich’d you like the Roman Maroes?

No――quoth the Man of broken Slumbers:

Yet we have Patrons for our Numbers;

There are Mecænas’s among ’em.

Quoth Mammon, pray Sir, do not wrong ’em;

But in your Cenſures uſe a Conſcience,

Nor charge Great Men with thriftleſs Nonſenſe:

Since they, as your own Poets ſing,

Now grant no Worth in any thing

But ſo much Money as ’twill bring.

Then, never more from your Endeavours

Expect Preferment, or leſs Favours.

But if you’ll ’ſcape Contempt, or worſe,

Be ſure, put Money in your Purſe;

Money! which only can relieve you

When Fame and Friendſhip will deceive you.

L3 Sir, L3v 150

Sir, (quoth the Poet humbly bowing,

And all that he had ſaid allowing)

Behold me and my airy Fancies

Subdu’d, like Giants in Romances.

I here ſubmit to your Diſcourſes;

Which ſince Experience too enforces,

I, in that ſolitary Pit,

Your Gold withdrawn, will hide my Wit:

Till Time, which haſtily advances,

And gives to all new Turns and Chances,

Again may bring it into uſe;

Roſcommons may again produce;

New Auguſtean Days revive,

When Wit ſhall pleaſe, and Poets thrive.

Till when, let thoſe converſe in private,

Who taſte what others don’t arrive at;

Yielding that Mammoniſts ſurpaſs us;

And let the Bank out-ſwell Parnaſſus.

Enquiry L4r 151

The Change.

Poor River, now thou’rt almoſt dry,

What Nymph, or Swain, will near thee lie?

Since brought, alas! to ſad Decay,

What Flocks, or Herds, will near thee ſtay?

The Swans, that ſought thee in thy Pride,

Now on new Streams forgetful ride:

And Fiſh, that in thy Boſom lay,

Chuſe in more proſp’rous Floods to play.

All leave thee, now thy Ebb appears,

To waſte thy ſad Remains in Tears;

Nor will thy mournful Murmurs heed.

Fly, wretched Stream, with all thy ſpeed,

Amongſt thoſe ſolid Rocks thy Griefs beſtow;

For Friends, like thoſe alas! thou ne’er did’ſt know,

And thou, poor Sun! that fat’ſt on high;

But late, the Splendour of the Sky;

L4 What L4v 152

What Flow’r, tho’ by thy Influence born,

Now clouds prevail, will tow’rds thee turn?

Now Darkneſs ſits upon thy Brow,

What Perſian Votary will bow?

What River will her Smiles reflect,

Now that no Beams thou can’ſt direct?

By watry Vapours overcaſt,

Who thinks upon thy Glories paſt?

If preſent Light, nor Heat we get,

Unheeded thou may’ſt riſe, and ſet.

Not all the paſt can one Adorer keep,

Fall, wretched Sun, to the more faithful Deep.

Nor do thou, lofty Structure! boaſt,

Since undermin’d by Time and Froſt:

Since thou canſt no Reception give,

In untrod Meadows thou may’ſt live.

None from his ready Road will turn,

With thee thy wretched Change to mourn.

Not the ſoft Nights, or chearful Days

Thou haſt beſtow’d, can give thee Praiſe.

No L5r 153

No luſty Tree that near thee grows,

(Tho’ it beneath thy Shelter roſe)

Will to thy Age a Staff become.

Fall, wretched Building! to thy Tomb.

Thou, and thy painted Roofs, in Ruin mixt,

Fall to the Earth, for That alone is fixt.

The ſame, poor Man, the ſame muſt be

Thy Fate, now Fortune frowns on thee.

Her Favour ev’ry one purſues,

And loſing Her, thou all muſt loſe.

No Love, ſown in thy proſp’rous Days,

Can Fruit in this cold Seaſon raiſe:

No Benefit, by thee conferr’d,

Can in this time of Storms be heard.

All from thy troubl’d Waters run;

Thy ſtooping Fabrick all Men ſhun.

All do thy clouded Looks decline,

As if thou ne’er did’ſt on them ſhine.

O L5v 154

O wretched Man! to other World’s repair;

For Faith and Gratitude are only there.

Enquiry after Peace.

A Fragment.

Peace! where art thou to be found

Where, in all the ſpacious Round,

May thy Footſteps be purſu’d?

Where may thy calm Seats be view’d?

On ſome Mountain doſt thou lie,

Serenely near the ambient Sky,

Smiling at the Clouds below,

Where rough Storms and Tempeſts grow?

Or, in ſome retired Plain,

Undiſturb’d doſt thou remain?

Where no angry Whirlwinds paſs,

Where no Floods oppreſs the Graſs.

High L6r 155

High above, or deep below,

Fain I thy Retreat wou’d know.

Fain I thee alone wou’d find,

Balm to my o’er-weary’d Mind.

Since what here the World enjoys,

Or our Paſſions moſt employs,

Peace oppoſes, or deſtroys.

Pleaſure’s a tumultuous thing,

Buſy ſtill, and ſtill on Wing;

Flying ſwift, from place to place,

Darting from each beauteous Face;

From each ſtrongly mingled Bowl

Through th’ inflam’d and reſtleſs Soul.

Sov’reign Pow’r who fondly craves,

But himſelf to Pomp enſlaves;

Stands the Envy of Mankind,

Peace, in vain, attempts to find.

Thirſt of Wealth no Quiet knows,

But near the Death-bed fiercer grows;

Wounding L6v 156

Wounding Men with ſecret Stings,

For Evils it on Others brings.

War who not diſcreetly ſhuns,

Thorough Life the Gauntlet runs.

Swords, and Pikes, and Waves, and Flames,

Each their Stroke againſt him aims.

Love (if ſuch a thing there be)

Is all Deſpair, or Extaſie.

Poetry’s the feav’riſh Fit,

Th’ o’erflowing of unbounded Wit. &c.

On the Death of the Honourable Mr. James Thynne, younger Son to the Right Honourable the Lord Viſcount Weymouth.

Farewel, lov’d Youth! ſince ’twas the Will of Heaven

So ſoon to take, what had ſo late been giv’n;

And thus our Expectations to deſtroy,

Raiſing a Grief, where we had form’d a Joy;

Who L7r 157

Who once believ’d, it was the Fates Deſign

In Him to double an Illuſtrious Line,

And in a ſecond Channel ſpread that Race

Where ev’ry Virtue ſhines, with every Grace.

But we miſtook, and ’twas not here below

That this engrafted Scion was to grow;

The Seats above requir’d him, that each Sphere

Might ſoon the Offspring of ſuch Parents ſhare.

Reſign him then to the ſupream Intent,

You, who but Fleſh to that bleſt Spirit lent.

Again diſrob’d, let him to Bliſs retire,

And only bear from you, amidſt that Choir,

What, Precept or Example did inſpire,

A Title to Rewards, from that rich ſtore

Of Pious Works, which you have ſent before.

Then lay the fading Reliques, which remain,

In the ſtill Vault (excluding farther Pain);

Where Kings and Counſellors their Progreſs cloſe,

And his renowned Anceſtors repoſe;

Where l7v 158

Where Coventry Lord Keeper Coventry. withdrew All but in Name,

Leaving the World his Benefits and Fame;

Where his Paternal Predeceſſor lies,

Once large of Thought, and rank’d among the Wiſe;

Whoſe Genius in Long-Leat we may behold

(A Pile, as noble as if he’d been told

By Weymouth, it ſhou’d be in time poſſeſt,

And ſtrove to ſuit the Manſion to the Gueſt.)

Nor favour’d, nor diſgrac’d, there Essex ſleeps,

Nor Somerset his Maſter’s Sorrows weeps,

Who to the ſhelter of th’ unenvy’d Grave

Convey’d the Monarch, whom he cou’d not ſave;

Though, Roman-like, his own leſs-valu’d Head

He proffer’d in that injur’d Martyr’s ſtead.

Nor let that matchleſs Female The Lady Packington, ſuppoſed by many to be the Author of The Whole Duty of Man. ’ſcape my Pen,

Who their Whole Duty taught to weaker Men,

And of each Sex the Two beſt Gifts enjoy’d,

The Skill to write, the Modeſty to hide;

Whilſt L8r 159

Whilſt none ſhou’d that Performance disbelieve,

Who led the Life, might the Directions give.

With ſuch as Theſe, whence He deriv’d his Blood,

Great on Record, or eminently Good,

Let Him be laid, till Death’s long Night ſhall ceaſe,

And breaking Glory interrupt the Peace.

Mean-while, ye living Parents, eaſe your Grief

By Tears, allow’d as Nature’s due Relief.

For when we offer to the Pow’rs above,

Like You, the deareſt Objects of our Love;

When, with that patient Saint in Holy Writ,

We’ve learnt at once to Grieve, and to Submit;

When contrite Sighs, like hallow’d Incenſe, riſe

Bearing our Anguiſh to th’ appeaſed Skies;

Then may thoſe Show’rs, which take from Sorrow birth,

And ſtill are tending tow’rd this baleful Earth,

O’er all our deep and parching Cares diffuſe,

Like Eden’s Springs, or Hermon’s ſoft’ning Dews.

But L8v 160

But lend your Succours, ye Almighty Pow’rs,

For as the Wound, the Balſam too is Yours.

In vain are Numbers, or perſuaſive Speech,

What Poets write, or what the Paſtors teach,

Till You, who make, again repair the Breach.

For when to Shades of Death our Joys are fled,

When for a Loſs, like This, our Tears are ſhed,

None can revive the Heart, but who can raiſe the Dead.

But yet, my Muſe, if thou hadſt ſofter Verſe

Than e’er bewail’d the melancholy Herſe;

If thou hadſt Pow’r to diſſipate the Gloom

Inherent to the Solitary Tomb;

To reſcue thence the Memory and Air

Of what we lately ſaw ſo Freſh, ſo Fair;

Then ſhou’d this Noble Youth thy Art engage

To ſhew the Beauties of his blooming Age,

The pleaſing Light, that from his Eyes was caſt,

Like haſty Beams, too Vigorous to laſt;

Where M1r 161

Where the warm Soul, as on the Confines, lay

Ready for Flight, and for Eternal Day.

Gently diſpos’d his Nature ſhou’d be ſhown,

And all the Mother’s Sweetneſs made his Own.

The Father’s Likeneſs was but faintly ſeen,

As ripen’d Fruits are figur’d by the Green.

Nor cou’d we hope, had he fulfill’d his Days,

He ſhou’d have reach’d Weymouth’s unequal’d Praiſe

Still One diſtinguiſh’d Plant each Lineage ſhews,

And all the reſt beneath it’s Stature grows.

Of Tully’s Race but He poſſeſs’d the Tongue,

And none like Julius from the Cæſars ſprung.

Next, in his harmleſs Sports he ſhou’d be drawn

Urging his Courſer, o’er the flow’ry Lawn;

Sprightly Himſelf, as the enliven’d Game,

Bold in the Chace, and full of gen’rous Flame;

Yet in the Palace, Tractable and Mild,

Perfect in all the Duties of a Child;

M Which M1v 162

Which fond Reflection pleaſes, whilſt it pains,

Like penetrating Notes of ſad Harmonious Strains.

Selected Friendſhips timely he began,

And ſiez’d in Youth that beſt Delight of Man,

Leaving a growing Race to mourn his End,

Their earlieſt and their Ages promis’d Friend.

But far away alas! that Proſpect moves,

Loſt in the Clouds, like diſtant Hills and Groves,

Whilſt with encreaſing Steps we all purſue

What Time alone can bring to nearer View,

That Future State, which Darkneſs yet involves,

Known but by Death, which ev’ry Doubt reſolves.

The Critick and the Writer of Fables.

Weary, at laſt, of the Pindarick way,

Thro’ which advent’rouſly the Muſe wou’d ſtray;

To Fable I deſcend with ſoft Delight,

Pleas’d to Tranſlate, or eaſily Endite:

Whilſt M2r 163

Whilſt aery Fictions haſtily repair

To fill my Page, and rid my Thoughts of Care,

As they to Birds and Beaſts new Gifts impart,

And Teach, as Poets ſhou’d, whilſt they Divert.

But here,the Critick bids me check this Vein.

Fable, he crys, tho’ grown th’ affected Strain,

But dies, as it was born, without Regard or Pain.

Whilſt of his Aim the lazy Trifler fails,

Who ſeeks to purchaſe Fame by childiſh Tales.

Then, let my Verſe, once more, attempt the Skies,

The eaſily perſuaded Poet cries,

Since meaner Works you Men of Taſte deſpiſe.

The Walls of Troy ſhall be our loftier Stage,

Our mighty Theme the fierce Achilles Rage.

The Strength of Hector, and Ulyſſes Arts

Shall boaſt such Language, to adorn their Parts,

M2 As M2v 164

As neither Hobbes, nor Chapman cou’d beſtow,

Or did from Congreve, or from Dryden flow.

Amidſt her Towers, the dedicated Horſe

Shall be receiv’d, big with deſtructive Force;

Till Men ſhall ſay, when Flames have brought her down,

Troy is no more, and Ilium was a Town.

Is this the way to pleaſe the Men of Taſte,

The Interrupter cries, this old Bombaſt?

I’m ſick of Troy, and in as great a Fright,

When ſome dull Pedant wou’d her Wars recite,

As was ſoft Paris, when compell’d to Fight.

To Shades and Springs ſhall we awhile repair,

The Muſe demands, and in that milder Air

Deſcribe ſome gentle Swain’s unhappy Smart

Whoſe folded Arms ſtill preſs upon his Heart,

And deeper drive the too far enter’d Dart?

Whilſt Phillis with a careleſs pleaſure reigns

The Joy, the Grief, the Envy of the Plains;

Heightens M3r 165

Heightens the Beauty of the verdant Woods,

And ſoftens all the Murmurs of the Floods.

Oh! ſtun me not with theſe inſipid Dreams,

Th’ Eternal Huſh, the Lullaby of Streams.

Which ſtill, he cries, their even Meaſures keep,

Till both the Writers, and the Readers ſleep.

But urge thy Pen, if thou wou’d’ſt move our Thoughts,

To ſhew us private, or the publick Faults.

Diſplay the Times, High-Church or Low provoke;

We’ll praiſe the Weapon, as we like the Stroke,

And warmly ſympathizing with the Spite

Apply to Thouſands, what of One you write.

Then, muſt that ſingle Stream the Town ſupply,

The harmleſs Fable-writer do’s reply,

And all the Reſt of Helicon be dry?

And when ſo many choice Productions ſwarm,

Muſt only Satire keep your Fancies warm?

M3 Whilſt M3v 166

Whilſt even there, you praiſe with ſuch Reſerve,

As if you’d in the midſt of Plenty ſtarve,

Tho’ ne’er ſo liberally we Authors carve.

Happy the Men, whom we divert with Eaſe,

Whom Opera’s and Panegyricks pleaſe.

The King and the Shepherd.

Imitated from the French.

Through ev’ry Age ſome Tyrant Paſſion reigns:

Now Love prevails, and now Ambition gains

Reaſon’s loſt Throne, and ſov’reign Rule maintains.

Tho’ beyond Love’s, Ambition’s Empire goes;

For who feels Love, Ambition alſo knows,

And proudly ſtill aſpires to be poſſeſt

Of Her, he thinks ſuperior to the reſt.

As M4r 167

As cou’d be prov’d, but that our plainer Task

Do’s no ſuch Toil, or Definitions ask;

But to be ſo rehears’d, as firſt ’twas told,

When ſuch old Stories pleas’d in Days of old.

A King, obſerving how a Shepherd’s Skill

Improv’d his Flocks, and did the Paſtures fill,

That equal Care th’ aſſaulted did defend,

And the ſecur’d and grazing Part attend,

Approves the Conduct, and from Sheep and Curs

Transfers the Sway, and chang’d his Wool to Furrs.

Lord Keeper now, as rightly he divides

His juſt Decrees, and ſpeedily decides;

When his ſole Neighbour, whilſt he watch’d the Fold,

A Hermit poor, in Contemplation old,

Haſtes to his Ear, with ſafe, but loſt Advice,

Tells him ſuch Heights are levell’d in a trice,

Preferments treach’rous, and her Paths of Ice:

M4 And M4v 168

And that already ſure ’t had turn’d his Brain,

Who thought a Prince’s Favour to retain.

Nor ſeem’d unlike, in this miſtaken Rank,

The ſightleſs Wretch, who froze upon a Bank

A Serpent found, which for a Staff he took,

And us’d as ſuch (his own but lately broke)

Thanking the Fates, who thus his Loſs ſupply’d,

Nor marking one, that with amazement cry’d,

Throw quickly from thy Hand that ſleeping Ill;

A Serpent ’tis, that when awak’d will kill.

A Serpent this! th’ uncaution’d Fool replies:

A Staff it feels, nor ſhall my want of Eyes

Make me believe, I have no Senſes left,

And thro’ thy Malice be of this bereft;

Which Fortune to my Hand has kindly ſent

To guide my Steps, and ſtumbling to prevent.

No Staff, the Man proceeds; but to thy harm

A Snake ’twill prove: The Viper, now grown warm

Confirm’d it ſoon, and faſten’d on his Arm.

Thus M5r 169

Thus wilt thou find, Shepherd believe it true,

Some Ill, that ſhall this ſeeming Good enſue;

Thouſand Diſtates, t’ allay thy envy’d Gains,

Unthought of, on the parcimonious Plains.

So prov’d the Event, and Whiſp’rers now defame

The candid Judge, and his Proceedings blame.

By Wrongs, they ſay, a Palace he erects,

The Good oppreſſes, and the Bad protects.

To view this Seat the King himſelf prepares,

Where no Magnificence or Pomp appears,

But Moderation, free from each Extream,

Whilſt Moderation is the Builder’s Theme.

Aſham’d yet ſtill the Sycophants perſiſt,

That Wealth he had conceal’d within a Cheſt,

Which but attended ſome convenient Day,

To face the Sun, and brighter Beams diſplay.

The Cheſt unbarr’d, no radiant Gems they find,

No ſecret Sums to foreign Banks deſign’d,

But humble Marks of an obſcure Receſs,

Emblems of Care, and Inſtruments of Peace;

The M5v 170

The Hook, the Scrip, and for unblam’d Delight

The merry Bagpipe, which, ere fall of Night,

Cou’d ſympathizing Birds to tuneful Notes invite.

Welcome ye Monuments of former Joys!

Welcome! to bleſs again your Maſter’s Eyes,

And draw from Courts, th’ inſtructed Shepherd cries.

No more dear Relicks! we no more will part,

You ſhall my Hands employ, who now revive my Heart.

No Emulations, or corrupted Times

Shall falſly blacken, or ſeduce to Crimes

Him, whom your honeſt Induſtry can pleaſe,

Who on the barren Down can ſing from inward Eaſe

How’s this! the Monarch ſomething mov’d rejoins.

With ſuch low Thoughts, and Freedom from Deſigns,

What made thee leave a Life ſo fondly priz’d,

To be in Crouds, or envy’d, or deſpis’d?

Forgive M6r 171

Forgive me, Sir, and Humane Frailty ſee,

The Swain replies, in my paſt State and Me;

All peaceful that, to which I vow return.

But who alas! (tho’ mine at length I mourn)

Was e’er without the Curſe of ſome Ambition born.

An Epistle from a Gentleman to Madam Deſhouliers, returning Money ſhe had lent him at Baſſette, upon the firſt Day of their Acquaintance.

Tranſlated with Liberty from the French.

Urania, whom the Town admires,

Whoſe Wit and Beauty ſhare our Praiſe;

This fair Urania who inſpires

A thouſand Joys a thouſand ways,

She, who cou’d with a Glance convey

Favours, that had my Hopes outdone,

Has lent me Money on that Day,

Which our Acquaintance firſt begun.

Nor M6v 172

Nor with the Happineſs I taſte,

Let any jealous Doubts contend:

Her friendſhip is ſecure to laſt,

Beginning where all others end.

And thou, known Cheat! upheld by Law,

Thou Diſappointer of the craving Mind,

Bassette, who thy Original doſt draw

From Venice (by uncertain Seas confin’d);

Author of Murmurs, and of Care,

Of pleaſing Hopes, concluding in Deſpair:

To thee my ſtrange Felicity I owe,

From thy Oppreſſion did this Succour flow.

Leſs had I gain’d, had’ſt thou propitious been,

Who better by my Loſs haſt taught me how to Win.

Yet tell me, my tranſported Brain!

(whoſe Pride this Benefit awakes)

Know’ſt thou, what on this Chance depends?

And are we not exalted thus in vain,

Whilſt M7r 173

Whilſt we obſerve the Money which ſhe lends,

But not, alas! the Heart ſhe takes,

The fond Engagements, and the Ties

Her fatal Bounty does impoſe,

Who makes Repriſals, with her Eyes,

For what her gen’rous Hand beſtows?

And tho’ I quickly can return

Thoſe uſeful Pieces, which ſhe gave;

Can I again, or wou’d I have

That which her Charms have from me borne?

Yet let us quit th’ obliging Score;

And whilſt we borrow’d Gold reſtore,

Whilſt readily we own the Debt,

And Gratitute before her ſet

In its approv’d and faireſt Light;

Let her effectually be taught

By that inſtructive, harmleſs Slight,

That alſo in her turn ſhe ought

(Repaying ev’ry tender Thought)

Kindneſs with Kindneſs to requite.

To M7v 174

To Edward Jenkinſon, Eſq; a very young Gentleman, who writ a Poem on Peace.

Fair Youth! who wiſh the Wars may ceaſe,

We own you better form’d for Peace.

Nor Pallas you, nor Mars ſhou’d follow;

Your Gods are Cupid and Apollo;

Who give ſweet Looks, and early Rhimes,

Beſpeaking Joys, and Halcyon Times.

Your Face, which We, as yet, may praiſe,

Calls for the Myrtle, and the Bays.

The Martial Crowns Fatigues demand,

And laurell’d Heroes muſt be tann’d;

A Fate, we never can allow

Shou’d reach your pleaſing, poliſh’d Brow.

But granting what ſo young you’ve writ,

From Nature flow’d, as well as Wit;

And that indeed you Peace purſue,

We muſt begin to Treat with you.

We M8r 175

We Females, Sir, it is I mean:

Whilſt I, like Bristol for the Queen,

For all the Ladies of your Age

As Plenipo’ betimes engage;

And as firſt Article declare,

You ſhall be Faithful as you’re Fair:

No Sighs, when you ſhall know their Uſe,

Shall be diſcharg’d in Love’s Abuſe;

Nor kindling Words ſhall undermine,

Till you in equal Paſſion join.

Nor Money be alone your Aim,

Tho’ you an Over-weight may claim,

And fairly build on your Deſert,

If with your Perſon goes your Heart.

But when this Barrier I have gain’d,

And truſt it will be well maintain’d;

Who knows, but ſome imprudent She

Betraying what’s ſecur’d by me,

Shall yield thro’ Verſe, or ſtronger Charms,

To Treat anew on eaſier Terms?

And M8v 176

And I be negligently told――

You was too Young, and I too Old,

To have our diſtant Maxims hold.

To the Painter of an ill-drawn Picture of Cleone, the Honourable Mrs. Thynne.

Sooner I’d praiſe a Cloud which Light beguiles,

Than thy raſh Hand which robs this Face of Smiles;

And does that ſweet and pleaſing Air controul,

Which to us paints the fair Cleone’s Soul.

’Tis vain to boaſt of Rules or labour’d Art;

I miſs the Look that captivates my Heart,

Attracts my Love, and tender Thoughts inſpires;

Nor can my Breaſt be warm’d by common Fires;

Nor can Ardelia love but where ſhe firſt admires.

Like Jupiter’s, thy Head was ſure in Pain

When this Virago ſtruggl’d in thy Brain;

And N1r 177

And ſtrange it is, thou haſt not made her wield

A mortal Dart, or penetrating Shield,

Giving that Hand of diſproportion’d ſize

The Pow’r, of which thou haſt diſarm’d her Eyes:

As if, like Amazons, ſhe muſt oppoſe,

And into Lovers force her vanquiſh’d Foes.

Had to Theanor thus her Form been ſhown

To gain her Heart, he had not loſt his own;

Nor, by the gentle Bands of Human Life,

At once ſecur’d the Miſtreſs and the Wife

For ſtill Cleone’s Beauties are the ſame,

And what firſt lighten’d, ſtill upholds his Flame.

Fain his Compaſſion wou’d thy Works approve,

Were pitying thee conſiſtent with his Love,

Or with the Taſte which Italy has wrought

In his refin’d and daily heighten’d Thought,

Where Poetry, or Painting find no place,

Unleſs perform’d with a ſuperior Grace.

Cou’d but my Wiſh ſome Influence infuſe,

Ne’er ſhou’d the Pencil, or the Siſter-Muſe

Be try’d by thoſe who eaſily excuſe:

N But N1v 178

But ſtricteſt Cenſors ſhou’d of either judge,

Applaud the Artiſt, and deſpite the Drudge.

Then never wou’d thy Colours have debas’d

Cleone’s Features, and her Charms defac’d:

Nor had my Pen (more ſubject to their Laws)

Aſſay’d to vindicate her Beauty’s Cauſe.

A rigid Fear had kept us both in Awe,

Nor I compos’d, nor thou preſum’d to draw;

But in Cleone viewing with Surprize

That Excellence, to which we ne’er cou’d riſe,

By leſs Attempts we ſafely might have gain’d

That humble Praiſe which neither has obtain’d,

Since to thy Shadowings, or my ruder Verſe,

It is not giv’n to ſhew, or to rehearſe

What Nature in Cleone’s Face has writ,

A ſoft Endearment, and a chearful Wit,

That all-ſubduing, that enliv’ning Air

By which, a ſympathizing Joy we ſhare,

For who forbears to ſmile, when ſmil’d on by the Fair?

A Paſtoral N2r 179

A Pastoral Dialogue between Two Shepherdeſſes.


Pretty Nymph! within this Shade,

Whilſt the Flocks to reſt are laid,

Whilſt the World diſſolves in Heat,

Take this cool, and flow’ry Seat:

And with pleaſing Talk awhile

Let us two the Time beguile;

Tho’ thou here no Shepherd ſee,

To encline his humble Knee,

Or with melancholy Lays

Sing thy dangerous Beauty’s Praiſe.


Nymph! with thee I here wou’d ſtay,

But have heard, that on this Day,

Near thoſe Beeches, ſcarce in view,

All the Swains ſome Mirth purſue:

To whoſe meeting now I haſte.

Solitude do’s Life but waſte.

N2 Silvia.] N2v 180


Prithee, but a Moment ſtay.


No! my Chaplet wou’d decay;

Ev’ry drooping Flow’r wou’d mourn,

And wrong the Face, they ſhou’d adorn.


I can tell thee, tho’ ſo Fair,

And dreſs’d with all that rural Care,

Moſt of the admiring Swains

Will be abſent from the Plains.

Gay Sylvander in the Dance

Meeting with a ſhrew’d Miſchance,

To his Cabin’s now confin’d

By Mopſus, who the Strain did bind:

Damon through the Woods do’s ſtray,

Where his Kids have loſt their way:

Young Narciſſus iv’ry Brow

Rac’d by a malicious Bough,

Keeps the girliſh Boy from ſight,

Till Time ſhall do his Beauty right.

Dorinda.] N3r 181


Where’s Alexis?


――He, alas!

Lies extended on the Graſs;

Tears his Garland, raves, deſpairs,

Mirth and Harmony forſwears;

Since he was this Morning ſhown,

That Delia muſt not be his Own.


Fooliſh Swain! ſuch Love to place.


On any but Dorinda’s Face.


Haſty Nymph! I ſaid not ſo.


No―― but I thy Meaning know.

Ev’ry Shepherd thou wou’d’ſt have

Not thy Lover, but thy Slave;

To encreaſe thy captive Train,

Never to be lov’d again.

N3 But, N3v 182

But, ſince all are now away,

Prithee, but a Moment ſtay.


No; the Strangers, from the Vale,

Sure will not this Meeting fail;

Graceful one, the other Fair.

He too, with the penſive Air,

Told me, ere he came this way

He was wont to look more Gay.


See! how Pride thy Heart inclines

To think, for Thee that Shepherd pines;

When thoſe Words, that reach’d thy Ear,

Chloe was deſign’d to hear;

Chloe, who did near thee ſtand,

And his more ſpeaking Looks command.


Now thy Envy makes me ſmile.

That indeed were worth his while:

Chloe next thyſelf decay’d,

And no more a courted Maid.

Silvia.[ N4r 183


Next myſelf! Young Nymph, forbear.

Still the Swains allow me Fair,

Tho’ not what I was that Day,

When Colon bore the Prize away;



――Oh, hold! that Tale will laſt,

Till all the Evening Sports are paſt;

Till no Streak of Light is ſeen,

Nor Footſtep prints the flow’ry Green.

What thou wert, I need not know,

What I am, muſt haſte to ſhow.

Only this I now diſcern

From the things, thou’d’ſt have me learn,

That Woman-kind’s peculiar Joys

From paſt, or preſent Beauties riſe.

N4 Alcidor. N4v 184


While Monarchs in ſtern Battle ſtrove

For proud Imperial Sway;

Abandon’d to his milder Love,

Within a ſilent peaceful Grove,

Alcidor careleſs lay.

Some term’d it cold, unmanly Fear;

Some, Nicety of Senſe,

That Drums and Trumpets cou’d not hear,

The ſullying Blaſts of Powder bear,

Or with foul Camps diſpenſe.

A patient Martyr to their Scorn,

And each ill-faſhion’d Jeſt;

The Youth, who but for Love was born,

Remain’d, and thought it vaſt Return,

To reign in Cloria’s Breaſt.

But N5r 185

But oh! a ruffling Soldier came

In all the Pomp of War:

The Gazettes long had ſpoke his Fame;

Now Hautboys his Approach proclaim,

And draw in Crouds from far.

Cloria unhappily wou’d gaze;

And as he nearer drew,

The Man of Feather and of Lace

Stopp’d ſhort, and with profound Amaze

Took all her Charms to view.

A Bow, which from Campaigns he brought,

And to his Holſters low,

Herſelf, and the Spectators taught,

That Her the faireſt Nymph he thought,

Of all that form’d the Row.

Next N5v 186

Next day, ere Phœbus cou’d be ſeen,

Or any Gate unbarr’d;

At hers, upon th’ adjoining Green,

From Ranks, with waving Flags between,

Were ſoften’d Trumpets heard.

The Noon do’s following Treats provide,

In the Pavilion’s Shade;

The Neighbourhood, and all beſide,

That will attend the amorous Pride,

Are welcom’d with the Maid.

Poor Alcidor! thy Hopes are croſs’d,

Go periſh on the Ground;

Thy Sighs by ſtronger Notes are toſs’d,

Drove back, or in the Paſſage loſt;

Rich Wines thy Tears have drown’d.

In N6r 187

In Women’s Hearts, the ſofteſt Things

Which Nature cou’d deviſe,

Are yet ſome harſh, and jarring Strings,

That, when loud Fame, or Profit rings,

Will anſwer to the Noiſe.

Poor Alcidor! go Fight or Dye;

Let thy fond Notions ceaſe:

Man was not made in Shades to lie,

Or his full Bliſs, at eaſe, enjoy,

To Live, or Love in peace.

Some Pieces of the firſt Act of The Aminta of Tasso.

Daphne’s Anſwer to Sylvia, declaring ſhe ſhould eſteem all as Enemies, who ſhould talk to her of Love.

Then, to the ſnowy Ewe, in thy eſteem,

The Father of the Flock a Foe muſt ſeem;

The faithful Turtles to their yielding Mates.

The chearful Spring, which love and Joy creates,

That N6v 188

That reconciles the World by ſoft Deſires,

And tender Thoughts in ev’ry Breaſt inſpires,

To you a hateful Seaſon muſt appear,

Whilſt Love prevails, and all are Lovers here.

Obſerve the gentle Murmurs of that Dove,

And ſee, how billing ſhe confirms her Love!

For this, the Nightingale diſplays her Throat,

And Love, Love, Love, is all her Ev’ning Note.

The very Tygers have their tender Hours,

And prouder Lyons bow beneath Love’s Pow’rs.

Thou, prouder yet than that imperious Beaſt,

Alone deny’ſt him Shelter in thy Breaſt.

But why ſhould I the Creatures only name

That Senſe partake, as Owners of this Flame?

Love farther goes, nor ſtops his Courſe at theſe:

The Plants he moves, and gently bends the Trees.

See how thoſe Willows mix their am’rous Boughs;

And, how that Vine claſps her ſupporting Spouſe!

The ſilver Firr dotes on the ſtately Pine;

By Love thoſe Elms, by Love thoſe Beeches join.

But N7r 189

But view that Oak; behold his rugged Side:

Yet that rough Bark the melting Flame do’s hide.

All, by their trembling Leaves, in Sighs declare

All tell their Paſſions to the gath’ring Air.

Which, had but Love o’er Thee the leaſt Command,

Thou, by their Motions, too might’ſt underſtand.

Amintor, being ask’d by Thirsis Who is the object of his Love? ſpeaks as follows.


Thirsis! to Thee I mean that Name to ſhow,

Which, only yet our Groves, and Fountains know:

That, when my Death ſhall through the Plains be told,

Thou with the wretched Cauſe may’ſt that unfold

To every one, who ſhall my Story find

Carv’d by thy Hand, in ſome fair Beeches rind,

Beneath whoſe Shade the bleeding Body lay:

That, when by chance ſhe ſhall be led that way,

O’er N7v 190

O’er my ſad Grave the haughty Nymph may go,

And the proud Triumph of her Beauty ſhew

To all the Swains, to Strangers as they paſs;

And yet at length ſhe may (but Oh! alas!

I fear, too high my flatt’ring Hopes do ſoar)

Yet ſhe at length may my ſad Fate deplore

May weep me Dead, may o’er my Tomb recline,

And ſighing, wiſh were he alive and Mine!

But mark me to the End――


Go on; for well I do thy Speech attend,

Perhaps to better Ends, than yet thou know’ſt.


Being now a Child, or but a Youth at moſt,

When ſcarce to reach the bluſhing Fruit I knew,

Which on the loweſt bending Branches grew;

Still with the deareſt, ſweeteſt, kindeſt Maid

Young as myſelf, at childiſh Sports I play’d.

The Faireſt, ſure, of all that Lovely Kind,

Who ſpread their golden Treſſes to the Wind;

Cydippe’s N8r 191

Cydippe’s Daughter, and Montano’s Heir,

Whoſe Flocks and Herds ſo num’rous do appear;

The beauteous Sylvia; She, ’tis She I love,

Warmth of all Hearts, and Pride of ev’ry Grove.

With Her I liv’d, no Turtles e’er ſo fond.

Our Houſes met, but more our Souls were join’d.

Together Nets for Fiſh, and Fowl we laid;

Together through the ſpacious Foreſt ſtray’d;

Purſu’d with equal Speed the flying Deer,

And of the Spoils there no Diviſions were.

But whilſt I from the Beaſts their Freedom won,

Alas! I know no how, my Own was gone.

By unperceiv’d Degrees the Fire encreas’d,

Which fill’d, at laſt, each corner of my Breaſt;

As from a Root, tho’ ſcarce diſcern’d ſo ſmall,

A Plant may riſe, that grows amazing tall.

From Sylvia’s Preſence now I could not move,

And from her Eyes took in full Draughts of Love,

Which ſweetly thro’ my raviſh’d Mind diſtill’d;

Yet in the end ſuch Bitterneſs wou’d yield,

That N8v 192

That oft I ſigh’d, ere yet I knew the cauſe,

And was a Lover, ere I dream’d I was.

But Oh! at laſt, too well my State I knew;

And now, will ſhew thee how this Paſſion grew.

Then liſten, while the pleaſing Tale I tell.

Thirsis perſuades Amintor not to deſpair upon the Predictions of Mopſus diſcov’ring him to be an Impoſtor.


Why doſt thou ſtill give way to ſuch Deſpair!


Too juſt, alas! the weighty Cauſes are.

Mopſus, wiſe Mopſus, who in Art excels,

And of all Plants the ſecret Vertue tells,

Knows, with what healing Gifts our Springs abound,

And of each Bird explains the myſtick Sound;

’Twas He, ev’n He! my wretched Fate foretold.


Doſt thou this Speech then of that Mopſus hold, Who, O1r 193

Who, whilſt his Smiles attract the eaſy View,

Drops flatt’ring Words, ſoft as the falling Dew;

Whoſe outward Form all friendly ſtill appears,

Tho’ Fraud and Daggers in his Thoughts he wears,

And the unwary Labours to ſurprize

With Looks affected, and with riddling Lyes.

If He it is, that bids thy Love deſpair,

I hope the happier End of all thy Care.

So far from Truth his vain Predictions fall.


If ought thou know’ſt, that may my Hopes recall,

Conceal it not; for great I’ve heard his Fame,

And fear’d his Words――


――When hither firſt I came,

And in theſe Shades the falſe Impoſtor met,

Like Thee I priz’d, and thought his Judgment great;

On all his ſtudy’d Speeches ſtill rely’d,

No fear’d to err, whilſt led by ſuch a Guide:

When on a Day, that Bus’neſs and Delight

My Steps to the Neighb’ring Town invite,

O Which O1v 194

Which ſtands upon that riſing Mountain’s ſide,

And from our Plains this River do’s divide,

He check’d me thus――Be warn’d in time, My Son,

And that new World of painted Miſchiefs ſhun,

Whoſe gay Inhabitants thou ſhalt behold

Plum’d like our Birds, and ſparkling all in Gold;

Courtiers, that will thy ruſtick Garb deſpiſe,

And mock thy Plainneſs with diſdainful Eyes.

But above all, that Structure ſee thou fly,

Where hoarded Vanities and Witchcrafts lie;

To ſhun that Path be thy peculiar Care.

I ask, what of that Place the Dangers are:

To which he ſoon replies, there ſhalt thou meet

Of ſoft Enchantreſſes th’ Enchantments ſweet,

Who ſubt’ly will thy ſolid Senſe bereave,

And a falſe Gloſs to ev’ry Object give.

Braſs to thy Sight as poliſh’d Gold ſhall ſeem,

And Glaſs thou as the Diamond ſhalt eſteem.

Huge 02r 195

Huge Heaps of Silver to thee ſhall appear,

Which if approach’d, will prove but ſhining Air.

The very Walls by Magick Art are wrought,

And Repetition to all Speakers taught:

Not ſuch, as from our Ecchoes we obtain,

Which only our laſt Words return again;

But Speech for Speech entirely there they give,

And often add, beyond what they receive.

Their downy Couches to falſe Reſt invite,

The Lawn is charm’d, that faintly bars the Light.

No gilded Seat, no iv’ry Board is there,

But what thou may’ſt for ſome Deluſion fear:

Whilſt, farther to abuſe thy wond’ring Eyes,

Strange antick Shapes before them ſhall ariſe;

Fantaſtick Fiends, that will about thee flock,

And all they ſee, with Imitation mock.

Nor are theſe Ills the worſt. Thyſelf may’ſt be

Transform’d into a Flame, a Stream, a Tree;

A Tear, congeal’d by Art, thou may’ſt remain,

’Till by a burning Sigh diſſolv’d again.

O2 Thus O2v 196

Thus ſpake the Wretch; but cou’d not ſhake my Mind.

My way I take, and ſoon the City find,

Where above all that lofty Fabrick ſtands,

Which, with one View, the Town and Plains commands.

Here was I ſtopt, for who cou’d quit the Ground,

That heard ſuch Muſick from thoſe Roofs refound!

Muſick! beyond th’ enticing Syrene’s Note;

Muſick! beyond the Swan’s expiring Throat;

Beyond the ſofteſt Voice, that charms the Grove,

And equal’d only by the Spheres above.

My Ear I thought too narrow for the Art,

Nor faſt enough convey’d it to my Heart:

When in the Entrance of the Gate I ſaw

A Man Majeſtick, and commanding Awe;

Yet temper’d with a Carriage, ſo refin’d

That undetermin’d was my doubtful Mind,

Whether for Love, or War, that Form was moſt deſign’d.

With O3r 197

With ſuch a Brow, as did at once declare

A gentle Nature, and a Wit ſevere;

To view that Palace me he ask’d to go,

Tho’ Royal He, and I Obſcure and Low.

But the Delights my Senſes there did meet,

No rural Tongue, no Swain can e’er repeat.

Celeſtial Goddeſſes, or Nymphs as Fair,

In unveil’d Beauties, to all Eyes appear

Sprinkl’d with Gold, as glorious to the View,

As young Aurora, deck’d with pearly Dew;

Bright Rays diſpenſing, as along they paſs’d,

And with new Light the ſhining Palace grac’d.

Phœbus was there by all the Muſes met,

And at his Feet was our Elpino ſet.

Ev’n humble Me their Harmony inſpir’d,

My Breaſt expanded, and my Spirits fir’d.

Rude Paſt’ral now, no longer I rehearſe,

But Heroes crown with my exalted Verſe.

Of Arms I ſung, of bold advent’rous Wars;

And tho’ brought back by my too envious Stars,

O3 Yet O3v 198

Yet kept my Voice and Reed thoſe lofty Strains,

And ſent loud Muſick through the wond’ring Plains:

Which Mopſus hearing, ſecretly malign’d,

And now to ruin Both at once deſign’d.

Which by his Sorceries he ſoon brought to paſs;

And ſuddenly ſo clogg’d, and hoarſe I was,

That all our Shepherds, at the Change amaz’d,

Believ’d, I on ſome Ev’ning-Wolf had gaz’d:

When He it was, my luckleſs Path had croſt,

By whoſe dire Look, my Skill awhile was loſt.

This have I told, to raiſe thy Hopes again,

And render, by diſtruſt, his Malice vain.

From the Aminta of Tasso.

Tho’ we, of ſmall Proportion ſee

And ſlight the armed Golden Bee;

Yet if her Sting behind ſhe leaves,

No Eaſe th’ envenom’d Fleſh receives.

Love, O4r 199

Love, leſs to Sight than is this Fly,

In a ſoft Curl conceal’d can lie;

Under an Eyelid’s lovely Shade,

Can form a dreadful Ambuſcade;

Can the moſt ſubtil Sight beguile,

Hid in the Dimples of a Smile.

But if from thence a Dart he throw,

How ſure, how mortal is the Blow!

How helpleſs all the Pow’r of Art

To bind, or to reſtore the Heart!

From the Aminta of Tasso.

Part of the Deſcription of the Golden Age.

Then, by ſome Fountains flow’ry ſide

The Loves unarm’d, did ſtill abide.

Then, the loos’d Quiver careleſs hung,

The Torch extinct, the Bow unſtrung.

O4 Then, O4v 200

Then, by the Nymphs no Charms were worn,

But ſuch as with the Nymphs were born.

The Shepherd cou’d not, then, complain,

Nor told his am’rous Tale in vain.

No Veil the Beauteous Face did hide,

Nor harmleſs Freedom was deny’d.

Then, Innocence and Virtue reign’d

Pure, unaffected, unconſtrain’d.

Love was their Pleaſure, and their Praiſe,

The ſoft Employment of their Days.

To the Nightingale.

Exert thy Voice, ſweet Harbinger of Spring!

This Moment is thy Time to Sing,

This Moment I attend to Praiſe,

And ſet my Numbers to thy Layes.

Free as thine ſhall be my Song;

As thy Muſick, ſhort, or long.

Poets, O5r 201

Poets, wild as thee, were born,

Pleaſing beſt when unconfin’d,

When to Pleaſe is leaſt deſign’d,

Soothing but their Cares to reſt;

Cares do ſtill their Thoughts moleſt,

And ſtill th’ unhappy Poet’s Breaſt,

Like thine, when beſt he ſings, is plac’d againſt a Thorn.

She begins, Let all be ſtill

Muſe, thy Promiſe now fulfill!

Sweet, oh! ſweet, ſtill ſweeter yet

Can thy Words ſuch Accents fit,

Canſt thou Syllables refine,

Melt a Senſe that ſhall retain

Still ſome Spirit of the Brain,

Till with Sounds like theſe it join.

’Twill not be! then change thy Note;

Let Diviſion ſhake thy Throat.

Hark! Diviſion now ſhe tries;

Yet as far as the Muſe outflies.

Ceaſe O5v 202

Ceaſe then, prithee, ceaſe thy Tune;

Trifler, wilt thou ſing till June?

Till thy Bus’neſs all lies waſte,

And the Time of Building’s paſt!

Thus we Poets that have Speech,

Unlike what thy Foreſts teach,

If a fluent Vein be ſhown

That’s tranſcendent to our own,

Criticize, reform, or preach,

Or cenſure what we cannot reach.

The Atheist and the Acorn.

Methinks this World is oddly made,

And ev’ry thing’s amiſs,

A dull preſuming Atheiſt ſaid,

As ſtretch’d he lay beneath a Shade;

And inſtanced in this:

Behold, O6r 203

Behold, quoth he, that mighty thing,

A Pumpkin, large and round,

Is held but by a little String,

Which upwards cannot make it ſpring,

Or bear it from the Ground.

Whilſt on this Oak, a Fruit ſo ſmall,

So diſproportion’d, grows;

That, who with Sence ſurveys this All,

This univerſal Caſual Ball,

Its ill Contrivance knows.

My better Judgment wou’d have hung

That Weight upon a Tree,

And left this Maſt, thus ſlightly ſtrung,

’Mongſt things which on the Surface ſprung,

And ſmall and feeble be.

No O6v 204

No more the Caviller cou’d ſay,

Nor farther Faults deſcry;

For, as he upwards gazing lay,

An Acorn, looſen’d from the Stay,

Fell down upon his Eye.

Th’ offended Part with Tears ran o’er,

As puniſh’d for the Sin:

Fool! had that Bough a Pumpkin bore,

Thy Whimſeys muſt have work’d no more,

Nor Scull had kept them in.

The Tradeſman and the Scholar.

A Citizen of mighty Pelf,

But much a Blockhead, in himſelf

Diſdain’d a Man of ſhining Parts,

Maſter of Sciences and Arts,

Who left his Book ſcarce once a day

For ſober Coffee, Smoak, or Tea;

Nor O7r 205

Nor ſpent more Money in the Town

Than bought, when need requir’d, a Gown;

Which way of Living much offends

The Alderman, who gets and ſpends,

And grudges him the Vital Air,

Who drives no Trade, and takes no Care.

Why Bookworm! to him once he cry’d,

Why, ſetting thus the World aſide,

Doſt thou thy uſeleſs Time conſume,

Enclos’d within a lonely Room,

And poring damnify thy Wit,

’Till not for Men, or Manners fit?

Hop’ſt thou, with urging of thy Vein,

To ſpin a Fortune from thy Brain?

Or gain a Patron, that ſhall raiſe

Thy ſolid State, for empty Praiſe?

No; truſt not to your Soothings vile,

Receiv’d per me’s the only Stile.

Your Book’s but frown’d on by My Lord;

If Mine’s uncroſs’d, I reach his Board.

In O7v 206

In ſlighting Yours, he ſhuts his Hand;

Protracting Mine, devolves the Land.

Then let Advantage be the Teſt,

Which of us Two ev’n Writes the beſt.

Beſides, I often Scarlet wear,

And ſtrut to Church, juſt next the Mayor.

Whilſt ruſty Black, with Inch of Band,

Is all the Dreſs you underſtand;

Who in the Pulpit threſh to Pleaſe,

Whilſt I below can ſnore at Eaſe.

Yet, if you prove me there a Sinner,

I let you go without a Dinner.

This Prate was ſo beneath the Sence

Of One, who Wiſdom cou’d diſpenſe,

Unheard, or unreturn’d it paſt:

But War now lays the City waſte,

And plunder’d Goods profuſely fell

By length of Pike, not length of Ell.

Abroad th’ Inhabitants are forc’d,

From Shops, and Trade, and Wealth divorc’d.

The O8r 207

The Student leaving but his Book,

The Tumult of the Place forſook.

In foreign Parts, One tells his Tale,

How Rich he’d been, how quick his Sale,

Which do’s for ſcanty Alms prevail.

The Chance of War whilſt he deplores,

And dines at Charitable Doors;

The Man of Letters, known by Fame,

Was welcom’d, whereſoe’er he came.

Still, Potentates entreat his Stay,

Whoſe Coaches meet him on the Way:

And Univerſities conteſt

Which ſhall exceed, or uſe him beſt.

Amaz’d the Burgomaſter ſees

On Foot, and ſcorn’d ſuch Turns as theſe;

And ſighing, now deplores too late

His cumb’rous Traſh, and ſhallow Pate:

Since loaded but with double Cheſt

Of learned Head, and honeſt Breaſt,

The O8v 208

The Scholar moves from Place to Place,

And finds in every Climate Grace.

Wit and the Arts, on that Foundation rais’d,

(Howe’er the Vulgar are with Shows amaz’d)

Is all that recommends, or can be juſtly prais’d.

Man’s Injuſtice towards Providence.

A Thriving Merchant, who no Loſs ſuſtain’d,

In little time a mighty Fortune gain’d.

No Pyrate ſeiz’d his ſtill returning Freight;

Nor foundring Veſſel ſunk with its own Weight:

No Ruin enter’d through diſſever’d Planks.

No Wreck at Sea, nor in the Publick Banks;

Aloft he ſails, above the Reach of Chance,

And do’s in Pride, as faſt as Wealth, advance.

His Wife too, had her Town and Country-Seat,

And rich in Purſe, concludes her Perſon Great.

A P1r 209

A Dutcheſs wears not ſo much Gold and Lace;

Then ’tis with Her an undiſputed Caſe,

The fineſt Petticoat muſt take the Place.

Her Rooms, anew at ev’ry Chriſt’ning dreſt,

Put down the Court, and vex the City-Gueſt.

Grinning Malottos in true Ermin ſtare;

The beſt Japan, and cleareſt China Ware

Are but as common Delft and Engliſh Laquar there.

No Luxury’s by either unenjoy’d,

Or coſt withheld, tho’ awkwardly employ’d.

How comes this Wealth? a Country Friend demands,

Who ſcarce cou’d live on Product of his Lands.

How is it that, when Trading is ſo bad

That ſome are Broke, and ſome with Fears run Mad,

You can in better State yourſelf maintain,

And your Effects ſtill unimpair’d remain!

My Induſtry, he cries, is all the Cauſe;

Sometimes I interlope, and ſlight the Laws:

P I P1v 210

I wiſer Meaſures, than my Neighbours, take,

And better ſpeed, who better Bargains make.

I knew, the Smyrna-Fleet wou’d fall a Prey,

And therefore ſent no Veſſel out that way:

My buſy Factors prudently I chuſe,

And in ſtreight Bonds their Friends and Kindred nooſe:

At Home, I to the Publick Sums advance,

Whilſt, under-hand in Fee with hoſtile France,

I care not for your Tourvills, or Du-Barts,

No more than for the Rocks, and Shelves in Charts:

My own ſufficiency creates my Gain,

Rais’d, and ſecur’d by this unfailing Brain.

This idle Vaunt had ſcarcely paſt his Lips,

When Tydings came, his ill-provided Ships

Some thro’ the want of Skill, and ſome of Care,

Were loſt, or back return’d without their Fare.

From bad to worſe, each Day his State declin’d,

’Till leaving Town, and Wife, and Debts behind,

To P2r 211

To his Acquaintance at the Rural Seat

He Sculks, and humbly ſues for a Retreat.

Whence comes this Change, has Wiſdom left that Head,

(His Friend demands) where ſuch right Schemes were bred?

What Phrenzy, what Delirium mars the Scull,

Which fill’d the Cheſts, and was it ſelf ſo full?

Here interrupting, ſadly he Reply’d,

In Me’s no Change, but Fate muſt all Things guide;

To Providence I attribute my Loſs.

Vain-glorious Man do’s thus the Praiſe engroſs,

When Proſp’rous Days around him ſpread their Beams:

But, if revolv’d to oppoſite Extreams,

Still his own Sence he fondly will prefer,

And Providence, not He, in his Affairs muſt Err!

P2 The P2v 212

The Eagle, the Sow, and the Cat.

The Queen of Birds, t’ encreaſe the Regal Stock,

Had hatch’d her Young Ones in a ſtately Oak,

Whoſe Middle-part was by a Cat poſſeſt,

And near the Root with Litter warmly dreſt,

A teeming Sow had made her peaceful Neſt.

(Thus Palaces are cramm’d from Roof to Ground,

And Animals, as various, in them found.)

When to the Sow, who no Misfortune fear’d,

Puſs with her fawning Compliments appear’d,

Rejoicing much at her Deliv’ry paſt,

And that ſhe ’ſcap’d ſo well, who bred ſo faſt.

Then every little Piglin ſhe commends,

And likens them to all their ſwiniſh Friends;

Beſtows good Wiſhes, but with Sighs implies,

That ſome dark Fears do in her Boſom riſe.

Such tempting Fleſh, ſhe cries, will Eagles ſpare?

Methinks, good Neighbour, you ſhou’d live in Care:

Since P3r 213

Since I, who bring not forth ſuch dainty Bits,

Tremble for my unpalatable Chits;

And had I but foreſeen, the Eagle’s Bed

Was in this fatal Tree to have been ſpread;

I ſooner wou’d have kitten’d in the Road,

Than made this Place of Danger my abode.

I heard her young Ones lately cry for Pig,

And pity’d you, that were ſo near, and big

In Friendſhip this I ſecretly reveal,

Leſt Pettitoes ſhou’d make th’ enſuing Meal;

Or elſe, perhaps, Yourſelf may be their aim,

For a Sow’s Paps has been a Diſh of Fame.

No more the ſad, affrighted Mother hears,

But overturning all with boiſt’rous Fears,

She from her helpleſs Young in haſte departs,

Whilſt Puſs aſcends, to practiſe further Arts.

The Anti-chamber paſs’d, ſhe ſcratch’d the Door;

The Eagle, ne’er alarum’d ſo before,

Bids her come in, and look the Cauſe be great,

That makes her thus diſturb the Royal Seat;

P3 Nor P3v 214

Nor think, of Mice and Rats ſome peſt’ring Tale

Shall, in excuſe of Inſolence, prevail.

Alas! my Gracious Lady, quoth the Cat,

I think not of ſuch Vermin; Mouſe, or Rat

To me are taſteleſs grown; nor dare I ſtir

To uſe my Phangs, or to expoſe my Fur.

A Foe inteſtine threatens all around,

And e’vn this lofty Structure will confound;

A Peſtilential Sow, a meazel’d Pork

On the Foundation has been long at work,

Help’d by a Rabble, iſſu’d from her Womb,

Which ſhe has foſter’d in that lower Room;

Who now for Acorns are ſo madly bent,

That ſoon this Tree muſt fall, for their Content.

I wou’d have fetch’d ſome for th’ unruly Elves;

But ’tis the Mob’s delight to help Themſelves:

Whilſt your high Brood muſt with the meaneſt drop,

And ſteeper be their Fall, as next the Top;

Unleſs you ſoon to Jupiter repair,

And let him know, the Caſe demands his Care.

Oh! P4r 215

Oh! may the Trunk but ſtand, ’till you come back!

But hark! already ſure, I hear it crack.

Away, away――The Eagle, all agaſt,

Soars to the Sky, nor falters in her haſte:

Whilſt crafty Puſs, now o’er the Eyry reigns,

Repleniſhing her Maw with treach’rous Gains.

The Sow ſhe plunders next, and lives alone;

The Pigs, the Eaglets, and the Houſe her Own.

Curs’d Sycophants! How wretched is the Fate

Of thoſe, who know you not, till ’tis too late!

To a Friend, in Praiſe of the Invention of Writing Letters.

Bleſt be the Man! his Memory at leaſt,

Who found the Art, thus to unfold his Breaſt;

And taught ſucceeding Times an eaſy way

Their ſecret Thoughts by Letters to convey;

To baffle Abſence, and ſecure Delight,

Which, till that Time, was limited to Sight.

P4 The P4v 216

The parting Farewel ſpoke, the laſt Adieu,

The leſſ’ning Diſtance paſt, then loſs of View,

The Friend was gone, which ſome kind Moments gave,

And Abſence ſeparated, like the Grave.

The Wings of Love were tender too, till then

No Quill, thence pull’d, was ſhap’d into a Pen,

To ſend in Paper-ſheets, from Town to Town,

Words ſmooth as they, and ſofter than his Down.

O’er ſuch he reign’d, whom Neighbourhood had join’d,

And hopt, from Bough to Bough, ſupported by the Wind.

When for a Wife the youthful Patriarch ſent,

The Camels, Jewels, and the Steward went,

A wealthy Equipage, tho’ grave and ſlow;

But not a Line, that might the Lover ſhew.

The Rings and Bracelets woo’d her Hands and Arms;

But had ſhe known of melting Words, the Charms

That under ſecret Seals in Ambuſh lie,

To catch the Soul, when drawn into the Eye,

The P5r 217

The Fair Aſſyrian had not took this Guide,

Nor her ſoft Heart in Chains of Pearl been ty’d.

Had theſe Conveyances been then in Date,

Joſeph had known his wretched Father’s State,

Before a Famine, which his Life purſues,

Had ſent his other Sons, to tell the News.

Oh! might I live to ſee an Art ariſe,

As this to Thoughts, indulgent to the Eyes;

That the dark Pow’rs of diſtance cou’d ſubdue,

And make me See, as well as Talk to You;

That tedious Miles, nor Tracts of Air might prove

Bars to my Sight, and ſhadows to my Love!

Yet were it granted, ſuch unbounded Things

Are wand’ring Wiſhes, born on Phancy’s Wings,

They’d ſtretch themſelves beyond this happy Caſe,

And ask an Art, to help us to Embrace.

A P5v 218

A Miller, his Son, and their Aſs.

A Fable Tranſlated from Monſieur de la Fontaine.

Tho’ to Antiquity the Praiſe we yield

Of pleaſing Arts; and Fable’s earli’ſt Field

Own to be fruitful Greece; yet not ſo clean

Thoſe Ears were reap’d, but ſtill there’s ſome to glean;

And from the Lands of vaſt Invention come

Daily new Authors, with Diſcov’ries home.

This curious Piece, which I ſhall now impart,

Fell from Malherbe, a Maſter in his Art

To Racan, fill’d with like poetick Fire,

Both tuneful Servants of Apollo’s Choir,

Rivals and Heirs to the Horatian Lyre:

Who meeting him, one Day, free and alone,

(For ſtill their Thoughts were to each other known)

Thus P6r 219

Thus ask’d his Aid――Some uſeful Counſel give,

Thou who, by living long, haſt learnt to live;

Whoſe Obſervation nothing can eſcape;

Tell me, how I my courſe of Life ſhall ſhape:

To ſomething I wou’d fix ere’t be too late.

You know my Birth, my Talents, my Eſtate:

Shall I with thee content, all Search reſign,

And to the Country my Deſires confine?

Or in the Court, or Camp, advancement gain?

The World’s a mixture of Delight and Pain:

Tho’ rough it ſeems, there’s Pleaſure in the Wars,

And Hymen’s Joys are not without their Cares.

I need not ask, to what my Genius tends,

But wou’d content the World, the Court, my Friends.

Pleaſe all the World (in haſte) Malherbe replies?

How vain th’ Attempt will prove in him, that tries,

Learn from a Fable, I have ſomewhere found,

Before I anſwer all that you propound.

A P6v 220

A Miller and his Son (the Father old,

The Boy about ſome fifteen Years had told)

Deſign’d their Aſs to ſell, and for the Fair,

Some diſtance off, accordingly prepare.

But leſt ſhe in the walk ſhould loſe her Fleſh,

And not appear, for Sale, ſo full and freſh,

Her Feet together ty’d; between them two

They heav’d her up; and on the Ruſticks go:

Till thoſe, who met them bearing thus the Aſs,

Cry’d, Are theſe Fools about to act a Farce?

Surely the Beaſt (howe’er it ſeem to be)

Is not the greateſt Aſs of all the Three.

The Miller in their Mirth his Folly finds,

And down he ſets her, and again unbinds;

And tho’ her grumbling ſhew’d, ſhe lik’d much more

The lazy way, ſhe travell’d in before,

He minds her not; but up the Boy he ſets

Upon her Back, and on the Crupper gets.

Thus on they jog, when of Three Men that paſs’d,

The eldeſt thinking Age to be diſgrac’d,

Call’d P7r 221

Call’d to the Youth, ho! you, young Man for ſhame!

Come down, leſt Paſſengers your Manners blame,

And ſay, it ill becomes your tender Years

To ride before a Grandſire with grey Hairs.

Truly, the Gentlemen are in the right,

The Miller cries, and makes the Boy alight;

Then forward ſlides himſelf into his place,

And with a Mind content, renews his pace:

But much he had not gain’d upon his way,

Before a Troop of Damſels, neat and gay,

(Partial to Youth) to one another cry’d,

See, how with walking by that Dotard’s ſide,

The Boy is tir’d; whilſt with a Prelate’s ſtate

He rides alone, and dangling in the Seat,

Hangs like a Calf thrown up, acroſs the Beaſt.

The Miller, thinking to have ſpoil’d that Jeſt,

Reply’d, he was too Old for Veal to paſs,

But after more on him, and on his Aſs,

He P7v 222

He ſtands convinc’d, and takes his Son again

To ride at eaſe himſelf, ſtill next the Mane.

Yet ere he’d thirty Paces borne the Lad,

The next they met, cry’d――Are theſe Fellows mad!

Have they no Pity thus t’o’erload the Jade!

Sure, at the Fair, they for her Skin may trade.

See, how’s ſhe ſpent, and ſinks beneath their ſtrokes!

The Miller, whom this moſt of all provokes,

Swears by his Cap, he ſhews his want of Brains,

Who thus to pleaſe the World, beſtows his Pains.

Howe’er we’ll try, if this way’t may be done;

And off he comes, and fetches down his Son.

Behind they walk, and now the Creature drive,

But cou’d no better in their Purpoſe thrive;

Nor ſcape a Fellow’s Cenſure, whom they meet,

That cries, to ſpare the Aſs they break their Feet;

And whilſt unladen at her eaſe ſhe goes,

Trudge in the Dirt, and batter out their Shooes;

As if to burthen her they were afraid,

And Men for Beaſts, not Beaſts for Men were made.

The P8r 223

The Proverb right, the Cart before the Horſe.

The Miller, finding things grow worſe and worſe,

Cries out, I am an Aſs, it is agreed,

And ſo are all, who wou’d in this ſucceed.

Hereafter, tho’ Reproof or Praiſe I find,

I’ll neither heed, but follow my own Mind,

Take my own Counſel, how my Beaſt to fell.

This he reſolv’d, and did it, and did well.

For you, Sir, Follow Love, the Court, the War;

Obtain the Croſier, or the City’s Furr;

Live ſingle all your Days, or take a Wife;

Truſt me, a Cenſure waits each ſtate of Life.

The Man bitten by Fleas.

A Peeviſh Fellow laid his Head

On Pillows, ſtuff’d with Down;

But was no ſooner warm in Bed,

With hopes to reſt his Crown,

But P8v 224

But animals of ſlender ſize,

That feaſt on humane Gore,

From ſecret Ambuſhes ariſe,

Nor ſuffer him to ſnore;

Who ſtarts, and ſcrubs, and frets, and ſwears,

’Till, finding all in vain,

He for Relief employs his Pray’rs

In this old Heathen ſtrain.

Great Jupiter! thy Thunder ſend

From out the pitchy Clouds,

And give theſe Foes a dreadful End,

That lurk in Midnight Shrouds:

Or Hercules might with a Blow,

If once together brought,

This Crew of Monſters overthrow,

By which ſuch Harms are wrought.

The Q1r 225

The Strife, ye Gods! is worthy You,

Since it our Blood has coſt;

And ſcorching Fevers muſt enſue,

When cooling Sleep is loſt.

Strange Revolutions wou’d abound,

Did Men ne’er cloſe their Eyes;

Whilſt thoſe, who wrought them wou’d be found

At length more Mad, than Wiſe.

Paſſive Obedience muſt be us’d,

If this cannot be Cur’d;

But whilſt One Flea is ſlowly bruis’d,

Thouſands muſt be endur’d.

Confuſion, Slav’ry, Death and Wreck

Will on the Nation ſeize,

If, whilſt you keep your Thunders back,

We’re maſſacr’d by Fleas.

Q Why, Q1v 226

Why, prithee, ſhatter-headed Fop,

The laughing Gods reply;

Haſt thou forgot thy Broom, and Mop,

And Wormwood growing nigh?

Go ſweep, and waſh, and ſtrew thy Floor,

As all good Houſewives teach;

And do not thus for Thunders roar,

To make ſome fatal Breach;

Which You, nor your ſucceeding Heir,

Nor yet a long Deſcent

Shall find out Methods to repair,

Tho’ Prudence may prevent.

For Club, and Bolts, a Nation call’d of late,

Nor wou’d be eas’d by Engines of leſs Weight:

But whether lighter had not done as well,

Let their Great-Grandſons, or their Grandſons tell.

Refor- Q2r 227


A Gentleman, moſt wretched in his Lot,

A wrangling and reproving Wife had got,

Who, tho’ ſhe curb’d his Pleaſures, and his Food,

Call’d him My Dear, and did it for his Good,

Ills to prevent; She of all Ills the worſt,

So wiſely Froward, and ſo kindly Curſt.

The Servants too experiment her Lungs,

And find they’ve Breath to ſerve a thouſand Tongues.

Nothing went on; for her eternal Clack

Still rectifying, ſet all Matters back;

Nor Town, nor Neighbours, nor the Court cou’d pleaſe,

But furniſh’d Matter for her ſharp Diſeaſe.

To diſtant Plains at length he gets her down,

With no Affairs to manage of her own;

Hoping from that unactive State to find

A calmer Habit, grown upon her Mind:

Q2 But Q2v 228

But ſoon return’d he hears her at his Door,

As noiſy and tempeſtuous as before;

Yet mildly ask’d, How ſhe her Days had ſpent

Amidſt the Quiet of a ſweet Content,

Where Shepherds ’tend their Flocks, and Maids their Pails,

And no harſh Miſtreſs domineers, or rails?

Not rail! ſhe cries ―― Why, I that had no ſhare

In their Concerns, cou’d not the Trollops ſpare;

But told ’em, they were Sluts ―― And for the Swains,

My Name a Terror to them ſtill remains;

So often I reprov’d their ſlothful Faults,

And with ſuch Freedom told ’em all my Thoughts,

That I no more amongſt them cou’d reſide.

Has then, alas! the Gentleman reply’d,

One ſingle Month ſo much their Patience try’d?

Where you by Day, and but at Seaſons due,

Cou’d with your Clamours their Defects purſue;

How Q3r 229

How had they ſhrunk, and juſtly been afraid,

Had they with me one Curtain-Lecture heard!

Yet enter Madam, and reſume your Sway;

Who can’t Command, muſt ſilently Obey.

In ſecret here let endleſs Faults be found,

Till, like Reformers who in States abound,

You all to Ruin bring, and ev’ry Part confound.

Fragment at Tunbridge-Wells.

For He, that made, muſt new create us,

Ere Seneca, or Epictetus,

With all their ſerious Admonitions,

Can, for the Spleen, prove good Phyſicians.

The Heart’s unruly Palpitation

Will not be laid by a Quotation;

Nor will the Spirits move the lighter

For the moſt celebrated Writer.

Sweats, Swoonings, and convulſive Motions

Will not be cur’d by Words, and Notions.

Q3 Then Q3v 230

Then live, old Brown! with thy Chalybeats,

Which keep us from becoming Idiots.

At Tunbridge let us ſtill be Drinking,

Though ’tis th’ Antipodes to Thinking:

Such Hurry, whilſt the Spirit’s flying,

Such Stupefaction, when ’tis dying:

Yet theſe, and not ſententious Papers,

Muſt brighten Life, and cure the Vapours, &c.

A Pindarick Poem

Upon the Hurricane in 1703-11November 1703, referring to this Text in Pſalm 148. ver. 8. Winds and Storms fulfilling his Word.

With a Hymn compos’d of the 148th Psalm Paraphras’d.

You have obey’d, you Winds, that muſt fulfill

The Great Diſpoſer’s righteous Will;

Through- Q4r 231

Throughout the Land, unlimited you flew,

Nor ſought, as heretofore, with Friendly Aid

Only, new Motion to beſtow

Upon the ſluggiſh Vapours, bred below,

Condenſing into Miſts, and melancholy Shade.

No more ſuch gentle Methods you purſue,

But marching now in terrible Array,

Undiſtinguiſh’d was your Prey:

In vain the Shrubs, with lowly Bent,

Sought their Deſtruction to prevent;

The Beech in vain, with out-ſtretch’d Arms,

Deprecates th’ approaching Harms;

In vain the Oak (ſo often ſtorm’d)

Rely’d upon that native Force,

By which already was perform’d

So much of his appointed Courſe,

As made him, fearleſs of Decay,

Wait but the accompliſh’d Time

Of his long-wiſh’d and uſeful Prime,

To be remov’d, with Honour, to the Sea.

Q4 The Q4v 232

The ſtrait and ornamental Pine

Did in the like Ambition joyn,

And thought his Fame ſhou’d ever laſt,

When in ſome Royal Ship he ſtood the planted Maſt;

And ſhou’d again his Length of Timber rear,

And new engrafted Branches wear

Of fibrous Cordage and impending Shrouds,

Still trimm’d with human Care, and water’d by the Clouds.

But oh, you Trees! who ſolitary ſtood;

Or you, whoſe Numbers form’d a Wood;

You, who on Mountains choſe to riſe,

And drew them nearer to the Skies;

Or you, whom Valleys late did hold

In flexible and lighter Mould;

You num’rous Brethren of the Leafy Kind,

To whatſoever Uſe deſign’d,

Now, vain you found it to contend

With not, alas! one Element; your Friend

Your Q5r 233

Your Mother Earth, thro’ long preceding Rains,

(Which undermining ſink below)

No more her wonted Strength retains;

Nor you ſo fix’d within her Boſom grow,

That for your ſakes ſhe can reſolve to bear

Theſe furious Shocks of hurrying Air;

But finding All your Ruin did conſpire,

She ſoon her beauteous Progeny reſign’d

To this deſtructive, this imperious Wind,

That check’d your nobler Aims, and gives you to the Fire.

Thus! have thy Cedars, Libanus, been ſtruck

As the lythe Oziers twiſted round;

Thus! Cadez, has thy Wilderneſs been ſhook,

When the apalling, and tremendous Sound

Of rattl’ing Tempeſts o’er you broke,

And made your ſtubborn Glories bow,

When in ſuch Whirlwinds the Almighty ſpoke,

Warning Judea then, as our Britannia now.

Yet Q5v 234

Yet theſe were the remoter Harms,

Foreign the Care, and diſtant the Alarms:

Whilſt but ſheltering Trees alone,

Maſter’d ſoon, and ſoon o’erthrown,

Felt thoſe Guſts, which ſince prevail,

And loftier Places aſſail;

Whoſe ſhaken Turrets now give way,

With vain Inſcriptions, which the Freeze has borne

Through Ages paſt, t’extol and to adorn,

And to our latter Times convey;

Who did the Structures deep Foundation lay,

Forcing his Praiſe upon the gazing Croud,

And, whilſt he moulders in a ſcanty Shroud,

Telling both Earth and Skies, he when alive was proud.

Now down at once comes the ſuperfluous Load,

The coſtly Fret-work with it yields,

Whoſe imitated Fruits and Flow’rs are ſtrew’d,

Like thoſe of real Growth o’er the Autumnal Fields.

The Q6r 235

The preſent Owner lifts his Eyes,

And the ſwift Change with ſad Affrightment ſpies:

The Cieling gone, that late the Roof conceal’d;

The Roof untyl’d, thro’ which the Heav’ns reveal’d,

Expoſes now his Head, when all Defence has fail’d.

What alas, is to be done!

Thoſe, who in Cities wou’d from Dangers run,

Do but encreaſing Dangers meet,

And Death, in various ſhapes, attending in the Street;

Where ſome, too tardy in their Flight,

O’ertaken by a worſe Miſchance,

Their upward Parts do ſcarce advance,

When on their following Limbs th’ extending Ruins light.

One half’s interr’d, the other yet ſurvives,

And for Releaſe with fainting Vigour ſtrives;

Implores the Aid of abſent Friends in vain;

With Q6v 236

With fault’ring Speech, and dying Wiſhes calls

Thoſe, whom perhaps, their own Domeſtick Walls

By parallel Diſtreſs, or ſwifter Death retains.

O Wells! The Biſhop’s Palace at Wells was blown down, and kill’d Biſhop Kidder with his Lady. thy Biſhop’s Manſion we lament,

So tragical the Fall, ſo dire th’ Event!

But let no daring Thought preſume

To point a Cauſe for that oppreſſive Doom.

Yet ſtrictly pious Ken! had’ſt Thou been there,

This Fate, we think, had not become thy ſhare;

Nor had that awful Fabrick bow’d,

Sliding from its looſen’d Bands;

Nor yielding Timbers been allow’d

To cruſh thy ever-lifted Hands,

Or interrupt thy Pray’r.

Thoſe Orizons, that nightly Watches keep,

Had call’d thee from thy Bed, or there ſecur’d thy Sleep.

Whilſt Q7r 237

Whilſt you, bold Winds and Storms! his Word obey’d,

Whilſt you his Scourge the Great Jehova made,

And into ruin’d Heaps our Edifices laid.

You South and Weſt the Tragedy began,

As, with diſorder’d haſte, you o’er the Surface ran;

Forgetting, that you were deſign’d

(Chiefly thou Zephyrus, thou ſofteſt Wind!)

Only our Heats, when ſultry, to allay,

And chaſe the od’rous Gums by your diſperſing Play.

Now, by new Orders and Decrees,

For our Chaſtiſement iſſu’d forth,

You on his Confines the alarmed North

With equal Fury ſees,

And ſummons ſwiftly to his Aid

Eurus, his Confederate made,

His eager Second in th’ oppoſing Fight,

That even the Winds may keep the Balance right,

Nor yield increaſe of Sway to arbitrary Might.

Meet- Q7v 238

Meeting now, they all contend,

Thoſe aſſail, while Theſe defend;

Fierce and turbulent the War,

And in the loud tumultuous Jar

Winds their own Fifes, and Clarions are.

Each Cavity, which Art or Nature leaves,

Their Inſpiration haſtily receives;

Whence, from their various Forms and Size,

As various Symphonies ariſe,

Their Trumpet ev’ry hollow Tube is made,

And, when more ſolid Bodies they invade,

Enrag’d, they can no farther come,

The beaten Flatt, whilſt it repels the Noiſe,

Reſembles but with more outrageous Voice

The Soldier’s threatning Drum:

And when they compaſs thus our World around,

When they our Rocks and Mountains rend,

When they our Sacred Piles to their Foundations ſend,

No Q8r 239

No wonder if our ecchoing Caves rebound;

No wonder if our liſt’ning Senſe they wound,

When arm’d with ſo much Force, and uſher’d with ſuch Sound.

Nor ſcarce, amidſt the Terrors of that Night,

When you, fierce Winds, ſuch Deſolations wrought,

When you from out his Stores the Great Commander brought,

Cou’d the moſt Righteous ſtand upright;

Scarcely the Holieſt Man performs

The Service, that becomes it beſt,

By ardent Vows, or ſolemn Pray’rs addreſt;

Nor finds the Calm, ſo uſual to his Breaſt,

Full Proof againſt ſuch Storms.

How ſhou’d the Guilty then be found,

The Men in Wine, or looſer Pleaſures drown’d,

To fix a ſtedfaſt Hope, or to maintain their Ground!

When at his Glaſs the late Companion feels,

That Giddy, like himſelf, the tott’ring Manſion reels!

The Q8v 240

The Miſer, who with many a Cheſt

His gloomy Tenement oppreſt,

Now fears the over-burthen’d Floor,

And trembles for his Life, but for his Treaſure more.

What ſhall he do, or to what Pow’rs apply?

To thoſe, which threaten from on High,

By him ne’er call’d upon before,

Who alſo will ſuggeſt th’ impoſſible Reſtore?

No; Mammon, to thy Laws he will be true,

And, rather than his Wealth, will bid the World adieu.

The Rafters ſink, and bury’d with his Coin

That Fate does with his living Thoughts combine;

For ſtill his Heart’s inclos’d within a Golden Mine.

Contention with its angry Brawls

By Storms o’er-clamour’d, ſhrinks and falls;

Nor Whig, nor Tory now the raſh Contender calls.

Thoſe, R1r 241

Thoſe, who but Vanity allow’d,

Nor thought, it reach’d the Name of Sin,

To be of their Perfections proud,

Too much adorn’d without, or too much rais’d within,

Now find, that even the lighteſt Things,

As the minuter parts of Air,

When Number to their Weight addition brings,

Can, like the ſmall, but numerous Inſects Stings,

Can, like th’ aſſembl’d Winds, urge Ruin and Deſpair.

Thus You’ve obey’d, you Winds, that muſt fulfill

The Great diſpoſer’s Righteous Will:

Thus did your Breath a ſtrict Enquiry make,

Thus did you our moſt ſecret Sins awake,

And thus chaſtis’d their Ill.

Whilſt vainly Thoſe, of a rapacious Mind,

Fields to other Fields had laid,

By force, or by injurious Bargains join’d,

With Fences for their Guard impenetrable made;

R The R1v 242

The juſter Tempeſt mocks the wrong,

And ſweeps, in its directed Flight,

Th’ Incloſures of another’s Right,

Driving at once the Bounds, and licens’d Herds along.

The Earth agen one general Scene appears;

No regular diſtinction now,

Betwixt the Grounds for Paſture, or the Plough,

The Face of Nature wears.

Free as the Men, who wild Confuſion love,

And lawleſs Liberty approve,

Their Fellow-Brutes purſue their way,

To their own Loſs, and diſadvantage ſtray,

As wretched in their Choice, as unadvis’d as They.

The tim’rous Deer, whilſt he forſakes the Park,

And wanders on, in the miſguiding Dark,

Believes, a Foe from ev’ry unknown Buſh

Will on his trembling Body ruſh,

Taking the Winds, that vary in their Notes,

For hot purſuing Hounds with deeply bellowing Throats.

Th’ R2r 243

Th’ awak’d Birds, ſhook from their nightly Seats,

Their unavailing Pinions ply,

Repuls’d, as they attempt to fly

In hopes they might attain to more ſecure Retreats.

But, Where ye wilder’d Fowls wou’d You repair?

When this your happy Portion given,

Your upward Lot, your Firmament of Heaven,

Your unentail’d, your undivided Air,

Where no Proprietor was ever known,

Where no litigious Suits have ever grown,

Whilſt none from Star to Star cou’d call the ſpace his Own;

When this no more your middle Flights can bear,

But ſome rough Blaſt too far above conveighs,

Or to unquitted Earth confines your weak Eſſays.

Nor You, nor wiſer Man cou’d find Repoſe,

Nor cou’d our Induſtry produce

Expedients of the ſmalleſt Uſe,

To ward our greater Cares, or mitigate your Woes.

R2 (2) Ye R2v 244

Ye Clouds! We had a great Shower of Rain in the midd’ſt of the Storm. that pity’d our Diſtreſs,

And by your pacifying Showers

(The ſoft and uſual methods of Succeſs)

Kindly aſſay’d to make this Tempeſt leſs;

Vainly your Aid was now alas! employ’d,

In vain you wept o’er thoſe deſtructive Hours,

In which the Winds full Tyranny enjoy’d,

Nor wou’d allow you to prevail,

But drove your ſcorn’d, and ſcatter’d Tears to wail

The Land that lay deſtroy’d.

Whilſt You obey’d, you Winds! that muſt fulfill

The juſt Diſpoſer’s Righteous Will;

Whilſt not the Earth alone, you diſarray,

But to more ruin’d Seas wing’d your impetuous Way.

Which to foreſhew, the ſtill portentous Sun The Ancients look’d upon the Sun (or Phœbus) as Prophetick.

One Day of the Summer before the Storm, we had an unuſual Appearance of the Sun (which was obſerv’d by many People in ſeveral Parts of Kent) It was of a pale dead Colour, without any Beams or Brightneſs for ſome Hours in the Morning, altho’ obſtructed by no Clouds; for the Sky was clear. Beamleſs, and pale of late, his Race begun,

Quenching the Rays, he had no Joy to keep,

In the obſcure, and ſadly threaten’d Deep.

Farther R3r 245

Farther than we, that Eye of Heaven diſcerns,

And nearer plac’d to our malignant Stars,

Our brooding Tempeſts, and approaching Wars

Anticipating learns.

When now, too ſoon the dark Event

Shews what that faded Planet meant;

Whilſt more the liquid Empire undergoes,

More ſhe reſigns of her entruſted Stores,

The Wealth, the Strength, the Pride of diff’rent Shores

In one Devoted, one Recorded Night,

Than Years had known deſtroy’d by generous Fight,

Or Privateering Foes.

All Rules of Conduct laid aſide,

No more the baffl’d Pilot ſteers,

Or knows an Art, when it each moment veers,

To vary with the Winds, or ſtem th’ unuſual Tide.

Diſpers’d and looſe, the ſhatter’d Veſſels ſtray,

Some periſh within ſight of Shore,

R3 Some, R3v 246

Some, happier thought, obtain a wider Sea,

But never to return, or caſt an Anchor more!

Some on the Northern Coaſts are thrown,

And by congealing Surges compaſs’d round,

To fixt and certain Ruin bound,

Immoveable are grown:

The fatal Goodwin ſwallows All that come

Within the Limits of that dangerous Sand,

Amphibious in its kind, nor Sea nor Land;

Yet kin to both, a falſe and faithleſs Strand,

Known only to our Coſt for a devouring Tomb,

Nor ſeem’d the Hurricane content,

Whilſt only Ships were wreckt, and Tackle rent;

The sailors too muſt fall a Prey,

Thoſe that Command, with thoſe that did Obey;

The beſt Supporters of thy pompous Stile,

Thou far Renown’d, thou pow’rful British Iſle!

Foremoſt in Naval Strength, and Sov’reign of the Sea!

Theſe from thy Aid that wrathful Night divides,

Plung’d in thoſe Waves, o’er which this Title rides.

What R4r 247

What art thou, envy’d Greatneſs, at the beſt,

In thy deluding Splendors dreſt?

What are thy glorious Titles, and thy Forms?

Which cannot give Security, or Reſt

To favour’d Men, or Kingdoms that conteſt

With Popular Aſſaults, or Providential Storms!

Whilſt on th’ Omnipotent our Fate depends,

And They are only ſafe, whom He alone defends.

Then let to Heaven our general Praiſe be ſent,

Which did our farther Loſs, our total Wreck prevent.

And as our Aſpirations do aſcend,

Let every Thing be ſummon’d to attend;

And let the Poet after God’s own Heart

Direct our Skill in that ſublimer part,

And our weak Numbers mend!

Explanatory Notes.

The Biſhop’s Palace at Wells was blown down, and kill’d Biſhop Kidder with his Lady. We had a great Shower of Rain in the midd’ſt of the Storm. The Ancients look’d upon the Sun (or Phœbus) as Prophetick. One Day of the Summer before the Storm, we had an unuſual Appearance of the Sun (which was obſerv’d by many People in ſeveral Parts of Kent) It was of a pale dead Colour, without any Beams or Brightneſs for ſome Hours in the Morning, altho’ obſtructed by no Clouds; for the Sky was clear.
R4 The R4v 248

The Hymn.

To the Almighty on his radiant Throne,

Let endleſs Hallelujas riſe!

Praiſe Him, ye wondrous Heights to us unknown,

Praiſe Him, ye Heavens unreach’d by mortal Eyes,

Praiſe Him, in your degree, ye ſublunary Skies!

Praiſe Him, you Angels that before him bow,

You creatures of Celeſtial frame,

Our Gueſts of old, our wakeful Guardians now,

Praiſe Him, and with like Zeal our Hearts enflame,

Tranſporting then our Praiſe to Seats from whence you came!

Praiſe Him, thou Sun in thy Meridian Force;

Exalt Him, all ye Stars and Light!

Praiſe Him, thou Moon in thy revolving Courſe,

Praiſe Him, thou gentler Guide of ſilent Night,

Which do’s to ſolemn Praiſe, and ſerious Thoughts invite.

Praiſe R5r 249

Praiſe Him, ye humid Vapours, which remain

Unfrozen by the ſharper Air;

Praiſe Him, as you return in Show’rs again,

To bleſs the Earth and make her Paſtures fair:

Praiſe Him, ye climbing Fires, the Emblems of our Pray’r.

Praiſe Him, ye Waters petrify’d above,

Ye ſhredded Clouds that fall in Snow,

Praiſe Him, for that you ſo divided move;

Ye Hailſtones, that you do no larger grow,

Nor, in one ſolid Maſs, oppreſs the World below.

Praiſe Him, ye ſoaring Fowls, ſtill as you fly,

And on gay Plumes your Bodies raiſe;

You Inſects, which in dark Receſſes lie,

Altho’ th’ extremeſt Diſtances you try,

Be reconcil’d in This, to offer mutual Praiſe.

Praiſe R5v 250

Praiſe Him, thou Earth, with thy unbounded Store;

Ye Depths which to the Center tend:

Praiſe Him ye Beaſts which in the Foreſts roar;

Praiſe Him ye Serpents, tho’ you downwards bend,

Who made your bruiſed Head our Ladder to aſcend.

Praiſe Him, ye Men whom youthful Vigour warms;

Ye Children, haſt’ning to your Prime;

Praiſe Him, ye Virgins of unſullied Charms,

With beauteous Lips becoming ſacred Rhime:

You Aged, give Him Praiſe for your encreaſe of Time.

Praiſe Him ye Monarchs in ſupreme Command,

By Anthems, like the Hebrew Kings;

Then with enlarged Zeal throughout the Land

Reform the Numbers, and reclaim the Strings,

Converting to His Praiſe, the moſt Harmonious Things.

Ye R6r 251

Ye Senators preſiding by our Choice,

And You Hereditary Peers!

Praiſe Him by Union, both in Heart and Voice;

Praiſe Him, who your agreeing Council ſteers,

Producing ſweeter Sounds than the according Spheres.

Praiſe Him, ye native Altars of the Earth!

Ye Mountains of ſtupendious ſize!

Praiſe Him, ye Trees and Fruits which there have birth,

Praiſe Him, ye Flames that from their Bowels riſe,

All fitted for the uſe of grateful Sacrifice.

He ſpake the Word; and from the Chaos roſe

The Forms and Species of each Kind:

He ſpake the Word, which did their Law compoſe,

And all, with never ceaſing Order join’d,

Till ruffl’d for our Sins by his chaſtiſing Wind.

But R6v 252

But now, you Storms, that have your Fury ſpent,

As you his Dictates did obey,

Let now your loud and threatning Notes relent,

Tune all your Murmurs to a ſofter Key

And bleſs that Gracious Hand, that did your Progreſs ſtay.

From my contemn’d Retreat, obſcure and low,

As Grots from whence the Winds diſperſe,

May this His Praiſe as far extended flow;

And if that future Times ſhall read my Verſe,

Tho’ worthleſs in it ſelf, let them his Praiſe rehearſe.

Friendſhip between Ephelia and Ardelia.


What Friendſhip is, Ardelia ſhew.


’Tis to love, as I love You.


This Account, ſo ſhort (tho’ kind)

Suits not my enquiring Mind.

Therefore R7r 253

Therefore farther now repeat;

What is Friendſhip when compleat?


’Tis to ſhare all Joy and Grief;

’Tis to lend all due Relief

From the Tongue, the Heart, the Hand;

’Tis to mortgage Houſe and Land;

For a Friend be ſold a Slave;

’Tis to die upon a Grave,

If a Friend therein do lie.


This indeed, tho’ carry’d high,

This, tho’ more than e’er was done

Underneath the rolling Sun,

This has all been ſaid before.

Can Ardelia ſay no more?


Words indeed no more can ſhew:

But ’tis to love, as I love you.

The R7v 254

The Lyon and the Gnat.

To the ſtill Covert of a Wood,

About the prime of Day,

A Lyon, ſatiated with Food,

With ſtately Pace, and ſullen Mood,

Now took his lazy way.

To Reſt he there himſelf compos’d,

And in his Mind revolv’d,

How great a Perſon it enclos’d,

How free from Danger he repos’d,

Though now in Eaſe diſſolv’d!

Who Guard, nor Centinel did need,

Deſpiſing as a Jeſt

All whom the Foreſt elſe did feed,

As Creatures of an abject Breed,

Who durſt not him moleſt.

But R8r 255

But in the Air a Sound he heard,

That gave him ſome diſlike;

At which he ſhook his griſly Beard,

Enough to make the Woods affeard,

And ſtretch’d his Paw to ſtrike.

When on his lifted Noſe there fell

A Creature, ſlight of Wing,

Who neither fear’d his Grin, nor Yell,

Nor Strength, that in his Jaws did dwell,

But gores him with her Sting.

Tranſported with th’ Affront and Pain,

He terribly exlaims,

Proteſting, if it comes again,

Its guilty Blood the Graſs ſhall ſtain,

And to ſurprize it aims.

The R8v 256

The ſcoffing Gnat now laugh’d aloud,

And bids him upwards view

The Jupiter within the Cloud,

That humbl’d him, who was ſo proud,

And this ſharp Thunder threw.

That Taunt no Lyon’s Heart cou’d bear;

And now much more he raves,

Whilſt this new Perſeus in the Air

Do’s War and Strife again declare,

And all his Terrour braves.

Upon his haughty Neck ſhe rides,

Then on his laſhing Tail;

(Which need not now provoke his Sides)

Where ſhe her ſlender Weapon guides,

And makes all Patience fail.

A S1r 257

A Truce at length he muſt propoſe,

The Terms to be her Own;

Who likewiſe Reſt and Quiet choſe,

Contented now her Life to cloſe,

When ſhe’d ſuch Triumph known.

You mighty Men, who meaner ones deſpiſe,

Learn from this Fable to become more Wiſe;

You ſee the Lyon may be vext with Flies.

The Man and his Horse.

Within a Meadow, on the way,

A ſordid Churl reſolv’d to ſtay,

And give his Horſe a Bite;

Purloining ſo his Neighbours Hay,

That at the Inn he might not pay

For Forage all the Night.

S With S1v 258

With Heart’s content th’ unloaded Steed

Began to neigh, and frisk, and feed;

For nothing more he car’d,

Since none of all his Maſter’s breed

E’er found ſuch Paſture, at their need,

Or half ſo well had far’d.

When, in the turning of a Hand,

Out comes the Owner of the Land,

And do’s the Treſpaſs eye;

Which puts poor Bayard to a Stand,

For now his Maſter do’s command

Him to return and fly.

But Hunger quick’ning up his Wit,

And Graſs being ſweeter than the Bit,

He to the Clown reply’d:

Shall I for you this Dinner quit,

Who to my Back hard Burdens fit,

And to the Death wou’d ride?

No; S2r 259

No; ſhou’d I as a Stray be found,

And ſeiz’d upon forbidden Ground,

I’ll on this Spot ſtand ſtill;

For tho’ new Riders ſhou’d abound,

(Or did Mankind this Field ſurround)

They cou’d but uſe me ill.

Urge no Man to deſpair; leſt in the Fit

He with ſome Counterblow thy Head may hit.

Life’s Progreſs.

How gayly is at firſt begun

Our Life’s uncertain Race!

Whilſt yet that ſprightly Morning Sun,

With which we juſt ſet out to run

Enlightens all the Place.

S2 How S2v 260

How ſmiling the World’s Proſpect lies

How tempting to go through!

Not Canaan to the Prophet’s Eyes,

From Piſgah with a ſweet Surprize,

Did more inviting ſhew.

How promiſing’s the Book of Fate,

Till throughly underſtood!

Whilſt partial Hopes ſuch Lots create,

As may the youthful Fancy treat

With all that’s Great and Good.

How ſoft the firſt Ideas prove,

Which wander through our Minds!

How full the Joys, how free the Love,

Which do’s that early Seaſon move;

As Flow’rs the Weſtern Winds!

Our S3r 261

Our Sighs are then but Vernal Air;

But April-drops our Tears,

Which ſwiftly paſſing, all grows Fair,

Whilſt Beauty compenſates our Care,

And Youth each Vapour clears.

But oh! too ſoon, alas, we climb;

Scarce feeling we aſcend

The gently riſing Hill of Time,

From whence with Grief we ſee that Prime,

And all its Sweetneſs end.

The Die now caſt, our Station known,

Fond Expectation paſt;

The Thorns, which former Days had ſown,

To Crops of late Repentance grown,

Thro’ which we toil at laſt.

S3 Whilſt S3v 262

Whilſt ev’ry Care’s a driving Harm,

That helps to bear us down;

Which faded Smiles no more can charm,

But ev’ry Tear’s a Winter-Storm,

And ev’ry Look’s a Frown.

Till with ſucceeding Ills oppreſt,

For Joys we hop’d to find;

By Age too, rumpl’d and undreſt,

We gladly ſinking down to reſt,

Leave following Crouds behind.


The Tree of Knowledge we in Eden prov’d;

The Tree of Life was thence to Heav’n remov’d:

Hope is the growth of Earth, the only Plant,

Which either Heav’n, or Paradice cou’d want.

Hell S4r 263

Hell knows it not, to Us alone confin’d,

And Cordial only to the Human Mind.

Receive it then, t’expel theſe mortal Cares,

Nor wave a Med’cine, which thy God prepares.

Moral Song.

Would we attain the happieſt State,

That is deſign’d us here;

No Joy a Rapture muſt create,

No Grief beget Deſpair.

No Injury fierce Anger raiſe,

No Honour tempt to Pride;

No vain Deſires of empty Praiſe

Muſt in the Soul abide.

No Charms of Youth, or Beauty move

The conſtant, ſettl’d Breaſt:

Who leaves a Paſſage free to Love,

Shall let in, all the reſt.

S4 In S4v 264

In ſuch a Heart ſoft Peace will live,

Where none of theſe abound;

The greateſt Bleſſing, Heav’n do’s give,

Or can on Earth be found.


O Man! what Inſpiration was thy Guide,

Who taught thee Light and Air thus to divide;

To let in all the uſeful Beams of Day,

Yet force, as ſubtil Winds, without thy Shaſh to ſtay;

T’extract from Embers by a ſtrange Device,

Then poliſh fair theſe Flakes of ſolid Ice;

Which, ſilver’d o’er, redouble all in place,

And give thee back thy well or ill-complexion’d Face.

To Veſſels blown exceed the gloomy Bowl,

Which did the Wine’s full excellence controul,

Theſe ſhew the Body, whilſt you taſte the Soul.

Its Colour ſparkles Motion, lets thee ſee,

Tho’ yet th’ Exceſs the Preacher warns to flee,

Leſt Men at length as clearly ſpy through Thee.

The S5r 265

The Dog and his Master.

No better Dog e’er kept his Maſter’s Door

Than honeſt Snarl, who ſpar’d nor Rich nor Poor;

But gave the Alarm, when any one drew nigh,

Nor let pretended Friends paſs fearleſs by:

For which reprov’d, as better Fed then Taught,

He rightly thus expoſtulates the Fault.

To keep the Houſe from Raſcals was my Charge;

The Task was great, and the Commiſſion large.

Nor did your Worſhip e’er declare your Mind,

That to the begging Crew it was confin’d;

Who ſhrink an Arm, or prop an able Knee,

Or turn up Eyes, till they’re not ſeen, nor ſee.

To Thieves, who know the Penalty of Stealth,

And fairly ſtake their Necks against your Wealth,

Theſe are the known Delinquents of the Times,

And Whips and Tyburn teſtify their Crimes.

But S5v 266

But ſince to Me there was by Nature lent

An exquiſite Diſcerning by the Scent;

I trace a Flatt’rer, when he fawns and leers,

A rallying Wit, when he commends and jeers:

The greedy Paraſite I grudging note,

Who praiſes the good Bits, that oil his Throat;

I mark the Lady, you ſo fondly toaſt,

That plays your Gold, when all her own is loſt:

The Knave, who fences your Eſtate by Law,

Yet ſtill reſerves an undermining Flaw.

Theſe and a thouſand more, which I cou’d tell,

Provoke my Growling, and offend my Smell.

The Phoenix.

A Song.

A Female Friend advis’d a Swain

(Whoſe Heart ſhe wiſh’d at eaſe)

Make Love thy Pleaſure, not thy Pain,

Nor let it deeply ſeize.

Beauty, S6r 267

Beauty, where Vanities abound,

No ſerious Paſſion claims;

Then, ’till a Phœnix can be found,

Do not admit the Flames.

But griev’d She finds, that his Replies

(Since prepoſſeſs’d when Young)

Take all their Hints from Silvia’s Eyes,

None from Ardelia’s Tongue.

Thus, Cupid, of our Aim we miſs,

Who wou’d unbend thy Bow;

And each ſlight Nymph a Phœnix is,

When Love will have it ſo.

S6v 268

A Song.

Perſuade me not, there is a Grace

Proceeds from Silvia’s Voice or Lute,

Againſt Miranda’s charming Face

To make her hold the leaſt Diſpute.

Muſick, which tunes the Soul for Love,

And ſtirs up all our ſoft Deſires,

Do’s but the growing Flame improve,

Which pow’rful Beauty firſt inſpires.

Thus, whilſt with Art ſhe plays, and ſings,

I to Miranda, ſtanding by,

Impute the Muſick of the Strings,

And all the melting Words apply.

Jea- S7r 269


A Song.

Vain Love, why do’ſt thou boaſt of Wings,

That cannot help thee to retire!

When ſuch quick Flames Suſpicion brings,

As do the Heart about thee fire.

Still Swift to come, but when to go

Thou ſhou’d’ſt be more――Alas! how Slow.

Lord of the World muſt ſurely be

But thy bare Title at the moſt;

Since Jealouſy is Lord of Thee,

And makes ſuch Havock on thy Coaſt,

As do’s thy pleaſant Land deface,

Yet binds thee faſter to the Place.

A S7v 270

A Song.

Love, thou art beſt of Human Joys,

Our chiefeſt Happineſs below;

All other Pleaſures are but Toys,

Muſick without Thee is but Noiſe,

And Beauty but an empty Show.

Heav’n, who knew beſt what Man wou’d move,

And raiſe his Thoughts above the Brute;

Said, Let him Be, and let him Love;

That muſt alone his Soul improve,

Howe’er Philoſophers diſpute.

A Song.

Quickly, Delia, Learn my Paſſion,

Loſe not Pleaſure, to be Proud;

Courtſhip draws on Obſervation,

And the Whiſpers of the Croud.

Soon S8r 271

Soon or late you’ll hear a Lover,

Nor by Time his Truth can prove;

Ages won’t a Heart diſcover,

Truſt, and ſo ſecure my Love.

A Song.

Tis ſtrange, this Heart within my breaſt,

Reaſon oppoſing, and her Pow’rs,

Cannot one gentle Moment reſt,

Unleſs it knows what’s done in Yours.

In vain I ask it of your Eyes,

Which ſubt’ly wou’d my Fears controul;

For Art has taught them to diſguiſe,

Which Nature made t’ explain the Soul.

In vain that Sound, your Voice affords,

Flatters ſometimes my eaſy Mind;

But of too vaſt Extent are Words

In them the Jewel Truth to find.

Then S8v 272

Then let my fond Enquiries ceaſe,

And ſo let all my Troubles end:

For, ſure, that Heart ſhall ne’er know Peace,

Which on Anothers do’s depend.

To Mr. F. now Earl of W.

Who going abroad, had deſired Ardelia to write ſome Verſes upon whatever Subject ſhe thought fit, againſt his Return in the Evening.

Written in the Year 16891689.

No ſooner, Flavio, was you gone,

But, your Injunction thought upon,

Ardelia took the Pen;

Deſigning to perform the Task,

Her Flavio did ſo kindly ask,

Ere he returned agen.

Unto T1r 273

Unto Parnaſſus ſtrait ſhe ſent,

And bid the Meſſenger, that went

Unto the Muſes Court,

Aſſure them, ſhe their Aid did need,

And begg’d they’d uſe their utmoſt Speed,

Becauſe the Time was ſhort.

The haſty Summons was allow’d;

And being well-bred, they roſe and bow’d,

And ſaid, they’d poſte away;

That well they did Ardelia know,

And that no Female’s Voice below

They ſooner wou’d obey:

That many of that rhiming Train,

On like Occaſions, fought in vain

Their Induſtry t’excite;

But for Ardelia all they’d leave:

Thus flatt’ring can the Muſe deceive,

And wheedle us to write.

T Yet, T1v 274

Yet, ſince there was ſuch haſte requir’d;

To know the Subject ’twas deſir’d,

On which they muſt infuſe;

That they might temper Words and Rules,

And with their Counſel carry Tools,

As Country-Doctors uſe.

Wherefore to cut off all Delays,

’Twas ſoon reply’d, a Husband’s Praiſe

(Tho’ in theſe looſer Times)

Ardelia gladly wou’d rehearſe

A Husband’s, who indulg’d her Verſe,

And now requir’d her Rimes.

A Husband! eccho’d all around:

And to Parnaſſus ſure that Sound

Had never yet been ſent;

Amazement in each Face was read,

In haſte th’ affrighted Siſters The Muſes――Erato, Melpomene, Thalia, Urania, &c. fled,

And unto Council went.

Erato T2r 275

Erato cry’d, ſince Grizel’s Days,

Since Troy-Town pleas’d, and Chivey-chace,

No ſuch Deſign was known;

And ’twas their Bus’neſs to take care,

It reach’d not to the publick Ear,

Or got about the Town:

Nor came where Evening Beaux were met

O’er Billet-doux and Chocolate,

Leſt it deſtroy’d the Houſe;

For in that Place, who cou’d diſpence

(That wore his Cloaths with common Senſe)

With mention of a Spouſe?

’T was put unto the Vote at laſt,

And in the Negative it paſt,

None to her Aid ſhou’d move;

Yet ſince Ardelia was a Friend,

Excuſes ’twas agreed to ſend,

Which plauſible might prove:

T2 That T2v 276

That Pegaſus of late had been

So often rid thro’ thick and thin,

With neither Fear nor Wit;

In Panegyrick been ſo ſpurr’d,

He cou’d not from the Stall be ſtirr’d,

Nor wou’d endure the Bit.

Melpomene had given a Bond,

By the New Houſe alone to ſtand,

And write of War and Strife;

Thalia, ſhe had taken Fees,

And Stipends from the Patentees,

And durſt not for her Life.

Urania Urania is the Heavenly Muſe, and ſuppos’d to inſpire Thoughts of Virtue. only lik’d the Choice;

Yet not to thwart the publick Voice,

She whiſp’ring did impart:

They need no Foreign Aid invoke,

No help to draw a moving Stroke,

Who dictate from the Heart.

T3r 277

Enough! the pleas’d Ardelia cry’d;

And ſlighting ev’ry Muſe beſide,

Conſulting now her Breaſt,

Perceiv’d that ev’ry tender Thought,

Which from abroad ſhe’d vainly ſought,

Did there in Silence reſt:

And ſhou’d unmov’d that Poſt maintain,

Till in his quick Return again,

Met in ſome neighb’ring Grove,

(Where Vice nor Vanity appear)

Her Flavio them alone might hear,

In all the Sounds of Love.

For ſince the World do’s ſo deſpiſe

Hymen’s Endearments and its Ties,

They ſhou’d myſterious be;

Till We that Pleaſure too poſſeſs

(Which makes their fancy’d Happineſs)

Of ſtollen Secrecy.

T3 A T3v 278

A Letter to the ſame Perſon.

Sure of Succeſs, to You I boldly write,

Whilſt Love do’s ev’ry tender Line endite;

Love, who is juſtly Preſident of Verſe,

Which all his Servants write, or elſe rehearſe.

Phœbus (howe’er miſtaken Poets dream)

Ne’er us’d a Verſe, till Love became his Theme.

To his ſtray’d Son, ſtill as his Paſſion roſe,

He rais’d his haſty Voice in clam’rous Proſe:

But when in Daphne he wou’d Love inſpire,

He woo’d in Verſe, ſet to his ſilver Lyre.

The Trojan Prince did pow’rful Numbers join

To ſing of War; but Love was the Deſign:

And ſleeping Troy again in Flames was dreſt,

To light the Fires in pitying Dido’s Breaſt.

Love without Poetry’s refining Aid

Is a dull Bargain, and but coarſely made;

Nor T4r 279

Nor e’er cou’d Poetry ſucceſsful prove,

Or touch the Soul, but when the Senſe was Love.

Oh! cou’d they both in Abſence now impart

Skill to my Hand, but to deſcribe my Heart;

Then ſhou’d you ſee impatient of your Stay

Soft Hopes contend with Fears of ſad Delay;

Love in a thouſand fond Endearments there,

And lively Images of You appear.

But ſince the Thoughts of a Poetick Mind

Will never be to Syllables confin’d;

And whilſt to fix what is conceiv’d, we try,

The purer Parts evaporate and dye:

You muſt perform what they want force to do,

And think what your Ardelia thinks of you.

1690-10-21October 12. 1690.
T4 Frag- T4v 280


So here confin’d, and but to female Clay,

Ardelia’s Soul miſtook the rightful Way:

Whilſt the ſoft Breeze of Pleaſure’s tempting Air

Made her believe, Felicity was there;

And basking in the warmth of early Time,

To vain Amuſements dedicate her Prime.

Ambition next allur’d her tow’ring Eye;

For Paradice ſhe heard was plac’d on high,

Then thought, the Court with all its glorious Show

Was ſure above the reſt, and Paradice below.

There plac’d too ſoon the flaming Sword appear’d,

Remov’d thoſe Pow’rs, whom juſtly ſhe rever’d,

Adher’d too in their Wreck, and in their Ruin ſhar’d.

Now by the Wheels inevitable Round,

With them thrown proſtrate to the humble Ground,

No more ſhe takes (inſtructed by that Fall)

For fix’d, or worth her thought, this rolling Ball:

Tow’rds T5r 281

Tow’rds a more certain Station ſhe aſpires,

Unſhaken by Revolts, and owns no leſs Deſires.

But all in vain are Pray’rs, extatick Thoughts,

Recover’d Moments, and retracted Faults,

Retirement, which the World Moroſeneſs calls,

Abandon’d Pleaſures in Monaſtick Wye College in Kent, formerly a Priorty. Walls:

Theſe, but at diſtance, towards that purpoſe tend,

The lowly Means to an exalted End;

Which He muſt perfect, who allots her Stay,

And That, accompliſh’d, will direct the way.

Pity her reſtleſs Cares, and weary Strife,

And point ſome Iſſue to eſcaping Life;

Which ſo diſmiſs’d, no Pen or Human Speech

Th’ ineffable Receſs can ever teach:

Th’ Expanſe, the Light, the Harmony, the Throng,

The Bride’s Attendance, and the Bridal Song,

The numerous Manſions, and th’ immortal Tree,

No Eye, unpurg’d by Death, muſt ever ſee,

Or T5v 282

Or Waves which through that wond’rous City roll.

Reſt then content, my too impatient Soul;

Obſerve but here the eaſie Precepts given,

Then wait with chearful hope, till Heaven be known in Heaven.

Pſalm the 137th, Paraphras’d to the 7th Verſe.

Proud Babylon! Thou ſaw’ſt us weep;

Euphrates, as he paſs’d along,

Saw, on his Banks, the Sacred Throng

A heavy, ſolemn Mourning keep.

Sad Captives to thy Sons, and Thee,

When nothing but our Tears were Free!

A Song of Sion they require,

And from the neighb’ring Trees to take

Each Man his dumb, neglected Lyre,

And chearful Sounds on them awake:

But chearful Sounds the Strings refuſe,

Nor will their Maſters Griefs abuſe.

How T6r 283

How can We, Lord, thy Praiſe proclaim,

Here, in a ſtrange unhallow’d Land!

Leſt we provoke them to Blaſpheme

A Name, they do not underſtand;

And with rent Garments, that deplore

Above whate’er we felt before.

But, Thou, Jeruſalem, ſo Dear!

If thy lov’d Image e’er depart,

Or I forget thy Suff’rings here;

Let my right Hand forget her Art;

My Tongue her vocal Gift reſign,

And Sacred Verſe no more be mine!

The Battle between the Rats and the Weazles.

In dire Conteſt the Rats and Weazles met,

And Foot to Foot, and Point to Point was ſet:

An ancient Quarrel had ſuch Hatred wrought,

That for Revenge, as for Renown, they fought.

Now T6v 284

Now bloody was the Day, and hard the Strife,

Wherein bold Warriors loſt neglected Life:

But as, ſome Errors ſtill we muſt commit,

Nor Valour always ballanc’d is by Wit;

Among the Rats ſome Officers appear’d,

With lofty Plumage on their Foreheads rear’d,

Unthinking they, and ruin’d by their Pride:

For when the Weazels prov’d the ſtronger Side,

A gen’ral Rout befell, and a Retreat,

Was by the Vanquiſh’d now implor’d of Fate;

To ſlender Crannies all repair’d in haſte,

Where eaſily the undreſs’d Vulgar paſt:

But when the Rats of Figure wou’d have fled,

So wide thoſe branching Marks of Honour ſpread,

The Feather in the Cap was fatal to the Head.

Demo- T7r 285

Democritus and his Neighbours.

Imitated from Fontaine.

In Vulgar Minds what Errors do ariſe!

How diff’ring are the Notions, they poſſeſs,

From theirs, whom better Senſe do’s bleſs,

Who juſtly are enroll’d amongſt the Learn’d and Wiſe!

Democritus, whilſt he all Science taught,

Was by his fooliſh Neighbours thought

Diſtracted in his Wits;

Who call his ſpeculative Flights,

His ſolitary Walks in ſtarry Nights,

But wild and frantick Fits.

Bleſs me, each cries, from ſuch a working Brain!

And to Hippocrates they ſend

The Sage’s long-acquainted Friend,

To put in Tune his jarring Mind again,

And Pericranium mend.

Away T7v 286

Away the Skilful Doctor comes

Of Recipes and Med’cines full,

To check the giddy Whirl of Nature’s Fires,

If ſo th’ unruly Caſe requires;

Or with his Cobweb-cleanſing Brooms

To ſweep and clear the over-crouded Scull,

If ſettl’d Spirits flag, and make the Patient dull.

But asking what the Symptoms were,

That made ’em think he was ſo bad?

The Man indeed, they cry’d, is wond’rous Mad.

You, at this Diſtance, may behold him there

Beneath that Tree in open Air,

Surrounded with the Engines of his Fate,

The Gimcracks of a broken Pate.

Thoſe Hoops a Sphere he calls,

That Ball the Earth;

And when into his raving Fit he falls,

’Twou’d move at once your Pity, and your Mirth,

To hear him, as you will do ſoon,

Declaring, there’s a Kingdom in the Moon;

And T8r 287

And that each Star, for ought he knows,

May ſome Inhabitants encloſe:

Philoſophers, he ſays, may there abound,

Such Jugglers as himſelf be in them found;

Which if there be, the World may well turn round;

At leaſt to thoſe, whoſe Whimſies are ſo ſtrange,

That, whilſt they’re fixt to one peculiar Place,

Pretend to meaſure far extended Space,

And ’mongſt the Planets range.

Behold him now contemplating that Head,

From which long-ſince both Fleſh, and Brains are fled;

Queſtioning, if that empty, hollow Bowl

Did not ere while contain the Human Soul:

Then ſtarts a Doubt, if ’twere not to the Heart

That Nature rather did that Gift impart.

Good Sir, employ the utmoſt of your Skill,

To make him Wiſer, tho’ againſt his Will;

Who thinks, that he already All exceeds,

And laughs at our moſt ſolemn Words and Deeds:

Tho’ T8v 288

Tho’ once amongſt us he wou’d try a Cauſe,

And Bus’neſs of the Town diſcuſs,

Knowing, as well as one of us,

The Price of Corn, and ſtanding Market-Laws;

Wou’d bear an Office in his Turn,

For which good Purpoſes all Men were born;

Not to be making Circles in the Sand,

And ſcaling Heav’n, till they have ſold their Land;

Or, when unſtock’d below their Paſture lies,

To find out Bulls and Rams, amidſt the Skies.

From theſe Miſtakes his Madneſs we conclude;

And hearing, you was with much Skill endu’d,

Your Aid we ſought. Hippocrates amaz’d,

Now on the Sage, now on the Rabble gaz’d;

And whilſt he needleſs finds his artful Rules.

Pities a Man of Senſe, judg’d by a Croud of Fools

Then how can we with their Opinions join,

Who, to promote ſome Int’reſt, wou’d define

The Peoples Voice to be the Voice Divine?

U1r 289

The Tree.

Fair Tree! for thy delightful Shade

’Tis juſt that ſome Return be made:

Sure, ſome Return is due from me

To thy cool Shadows, and to thee.

When thou to Birds do’ſt Shelter give,

Thou Muſick do’ſt from them receive;

If Travellers beneath thee ſtay,

Till Storms have worn themſelves away,

That Time in praiſing thee they ſpend,

And thy protecting Pow’r commend:

The Shepherd here, from Scorching freed,

Tunes to thy dancing Leaves his Reed;

Whilſt his lov’d Nymph, in Thanks, beſtows

Her flow’ry Chaplets on thy Boughs.

Shall I then only Silent be,

And no Return be made by me?

No; let this Wiſh upon thee wait,

And ſtill to flouriſh be thy Fate,

U To U1v 290

To future Ages may’ſt thou ſtand

Untouch’d by the raſh Workman’s hand;

’Till that large Stock of Sap is ſpent,

Which gives thy Summer’s Ornament;

’Till the fierce Winds, that vainly ſtrive

To ſhock thy Greatneſs whilſt alive,

Shall on thy lifeleſs Hour attend,

Prevent the Axe, and grace thy End;

Their ſcatter’d Strength together call,

And to the Clouds proclaim thy Fall;

Who then their Ev’ning-Dews may ſpare,

When thou no longer art their Care;

But ſhalt, like ancient Heroes, burn,

And ſome bright Hearth be made thy Urn.

A U2r 291

A Nocturnal Rêverie.

In ſuch a Night, when every louder Wind

Is to its diſtant Cavern ſafe confin’d;

And only gentle Zephyr fans his Wings,

And lonely Philomel, ſtill waking, ſings;

Or from ſome Tree, fam’d for the Owl’s delight,

She, hollowing clear, directs the Wand’rer right:

In ſuch a Night, when paſſing Clouds give place,

Or thinly vail the Heav’ns myſterious Face;

When in ſome River, overhung with Green,

The waving Moon and trembling Leaves are ſeen;

When freſhen’d Graſs now bears it ſelf upright,

And makes cool Banks to pleaſing Reſt invite,

Whence ſprings the Woodbind, and the Bramble- Roſe,

And where the ſleepy Cowſlip ſhelter’d grows;

Whilſt now a paler Hue the Foxglove takes,

Yet checquers ſtill with Red the dusky brakes:

When ſcatter’d Glow-worms, but in Twilight fine,

Shew trivial Beauties watch their Hour to ſhine;

U2 Whilſt U2v 292

Whilſt Salisb’ry ſtands the Teſt of every Light,

In perfect Charms, and perfect Virtue bright:

When Odours, which declin’d repelling Day,

Thro’ temp’rate Air uninterrupted ſtray;

When darken’d Groves their ſofteſt Shadows wear,

And falling Waters we diſtinctly hear;

When thro’ the Gloom more venerable ſhows

Some ancient Fabrick, awful in Repoſe,

While Sunburnt Hills their ſwarthy Looks conceal,

And ſwelling Haycocks thicken up the Vale:

When the loos’d Horſe now, as his Paſture leads,

Comes ſlowly grazing thro’ th’ adjoining Meads,

Whoſe ſtealing Pace, and lengthen’d Shade we fear,

Till torn up Forage in his Teeth we hear:

When nibbling Sheep at large purſue their Food,

And unmoleſted Kine rechew the Cud;

When Curlews cry beneath the Village-walls,

And to her ſtraggling Brood the Partridge calls;

Their ſhortliv’d Jubilee the Creatures keep,

Which but endures, whilſt Tyrant-Man do’s ſleep:

When U3r 293

When a ſedate Content the Spirit feels,

And no fierce Light diſturbs, whilſt it reveals;

But ſilent Muſings urge the Mind to ſeek

Something, too high for Syllables to ſpeak;

Till the free Soul to a compos’dneſs charm’d,

Finding the Elements of Rage diſarm’d,

O’er all below a ſolemn Quiet grown,

Joys in th’ inferiour World, and thinks it like her Own:

In ſuch a Night let Me abroad remain,

Till Morning breaks, and All’s confus’d again;

Our Cares, our Toils, our Clamours are renew’d,

Or Pleaſures, ſeldom reach’d, again purſu’d.