his Vineyard bleeds Th' one yields no Grapes the other only weeds So Rome her pious Farmer being gone Is left to her lewd Race to be undone To the KING An ODE on his Birth Day CLowdy Saturnia drives her Steeds apace Heaven-born Aurora presses to her place And all the new dress'd Planets of the Night Dance their gay Measures with unusual grace To usher in the happy Morning's Light To usher in c. Now blest Britannia let thy Head be crown'd Now let thy joyful Trumpets sound Into the late enslav'd Augusta's Ears The Triumphs of a Day renown'd Beyond the Glories of all former years A Day when eastern Kings to kneel forbore And end the Worship they begun Dazled with rising Glories from the British shore No longer they ador'd the Sun Chorus A Day when c. Second Movement The Belgick Sages saw from far The glittering Regal Star That blest the happy Morn When Great Nassau was born They heard besides a Cherub sing Haste Haste without delay To Albion haste away Revenge their Wrongs and be a King Before thy Sword and awful frown Rome Pagan Gods shall tumble down Haste to oppose Britannia's Foes And then to wear her Crown And now the day is come So dreadful to Proud Rome The day when Gallia shakes And Englands Genius wakes To call her Sons to fight And guard Eusebia's Right Hark hark I heat their loud Alarms And what was sold for tempting Gold Retriev'd again by Arms. Chorus Guard Guard Eusebia's Right Call call her Sons to fight Hark hark c. Third Movement Go on admir'd Nassau go on To Fame and Victory go on Recover Britains long lost Glory Reflect on former Battels won And what by English Monarchs done In Edward's and Great Henry's Story Whilst we in lofty Song and tuneful Mirth Each year sing loud to celebrate his Birth Whom bounteous Heaven with Paternal hand Sent as a second Saviour to this groaning Land Chorus of all Glad Albion let thy Joy appear Restor'd is now thy happy State The greatest blessings are most dear When we atchieve 'em late And whilst in a Jubile Triumph we sing All Hail Great Nassau all Joy to the King Let a Chorus of Thunder in the loud Consort play To inform the vast Globe this is Cesar's Birth day The Scotch VIRAGO A SONG Sung to the Queen at Kensington The Words made to a pretty New Scotch Tune I. Valliant Iockey's march'd away To fight the Foe with brave Mackay Leaving me poor Soul forlorn To Curse the hour when I was born But I 've sworn I se follow too And dearest Iockey's Fate pursue Near him be to guard his pretious Life Never Scot had such a Loyal Wife Sword I se wear I se cut my Hair Tan my Cheeks that once were thought so fair In Souldiers Weed To him I 'll speed Never sike a Trooper cross'd the Tweed II. Trumpet sound to Victory I se kill my self the next Dundee Love and Fate and Rage do all agree To do some glorious Deed by me Great Bellona take my part Fame and Glory charm my Heart That for Love and bonny Scotlands good Some brave Action may deserve my Blood Nought shall appear Of Female fear Fighting by his Side I love so dear All the North shall own There ne'er was known Such a spritely Lass this thousand years TO CHLORIS A SONG I. CHloris for fear you should think to deceive me Know all my Life I have studied your kind Learn'd in your Grammar I 'd have you believe me And all your Tricks in my Practice you 'll find Ogling and Glances Sighs and Advances Poor Country Cully no more shall ensnare Pantings and Tremblings Fits and Dissemblings Now you must leave and Intrigue on the Square II. Give me the Girl that 's good natur'd and Witty Whose pleasant Talk can her Friend entertain One who 's not Proud if you tell her she 's Pretty And yet enough to be Honest and Clean. Pox on Town Cheatings Jilts and Cognettings I my Dear Chloris will bring up by hand Tears and Complainings Breed but Disdainings Those still Love best that are under Command A Catch in Three Parts set by Mr. Hen. Purcel and taken from the Latin of BUCHANAN I. YOung Collin cleaving of a Beam At every thumping Blow cry'd Hem And told his Wife who the Cause would know 'T was Hem made th' Wedge much farther go II. Plump Ioan at Night when t' Bed she came And both were playing at that same Cry'd Hem Hem Hem prithee Collin do If ever thou lov'dst me Hem Hem now III. No no no no sweet Wife no no Some Wood will split with half a blow Besides I Bore now now I Bore I Hem when I Cleave but now I Bore A POEM Panegyrical On His GRACE THE D. of ALBEMARLE With Remarks on His Voyage for JAMAICA and the late Treasure brought Home in the JAMES and MARY Written Anno Dom. 1686. Epistle Dedicatory to Her Grace the DVCHESS WHen Brutus with the rest did Cesar doom And by his Death gave liberty to Rome Great Cato's Daughter his dear faithful Wife That knew the Secret of that fatal Strife From her lov'd Husband's side would never part Both had one Will one Courage and one Heart Her generous Virtue thought it 〈◊〉 to share Part of his Ioy and nothing of his Care And therefore all his Harms with Patience bore And when he dy'd she likewise was no more Her Virtues Madam flourish now in you A second Porcia Faithful Chast and True With Heavens divinest Gifts your Heart is stor'd And Wove into the Merits of your Lord So fast and with Affection so sublime You can look down with Scorn on Death and Time Since then Great Albemarle inspires my Muse Vpon a Theme 't is fit the World peruse Who should I beg to Consecrate my Lines But you who know how bright his Virtue shines You who have made the business of your Life To shew the World a Pattern of a Wiâ—e Ioy'd at your Lord 's good Chance griev'd at his Ill Kind Wise and what 's most Rare Obedient to his Will More I could say nay so much might be said These swelling Lines would tire ye to Read If I could boast of a Poetick Art To speak your Praise lavish as your Desert No Flight could be too high no Thought too strong Nor could the Poem ever be too long But modest Pens that dare not be too bold Know Truth the shortest way is wisest told A POEM Panegyrick on His Grace the DUKE of ALBEMARLE c. I. HAPPY those Islands where no sullen Sky Debars with Clouds the Prospect of the Eye Where the glad Sun with Joy performs his Race And sullies with no Fogs his glorious Face Where change of Weather makes no Native mourn No Agues freeze ye nor no Fevers burn But genuine Heat Nature for Health designs And through respiring Pores your Blood refines II. But above all most happy is that Land Which you my
dedicate my part A weak defender of a Noble Art Glad of applause from Judges but not griev'd If by the Crowd my Lines are not receiv'd Heaven does Mankind to different Wits condemn The Vulgar hate me and I pity them But when I with a Man of Judgment meet Or with a virtuous Lady that has Wit My Breast entire between 'em both they part He has my faithful Service she my Heart For blasted be my Muse when it shall dare To wrong a worthy Friend or hurt the Fair. An ODE TO THE QUEEN I. HIGH on a Throne of Glittering Ore Exalted by Almighty Fate Out-shining the bright Jem she wore The gracious Gloriana sat II. The dazling Beams of Majesty Too â—ierce for mortal Eyes to see She veil'd and with a smiling Brow Thus taught th' admiring World below III. Virtue is still the chiefest good And power should only be her dress State is a Fever to the Blood Free Conscience is the solid Bliss IV. Glory is but a flattering Dream Of Wealth that is not though it seem False vision whose vain Joys do make Poor Mortals poorer when they wake V. The fawning Crowd of Slaves that bow With Praise could n'er my Sense controul Vast Pyramids of State seem low So much above it sits my Soul VI. She spake whilst Gods unseen that stood Admiring one so great so good Flew straight to Heaven and all along Bright Gloriana was their Song Returnel Bright Gloriana all along Bright Gloriana was their Song The Author answers his Friend who blames him for not singing when desired he contradict the Third Satyr of Horace beginning with Omnibus hoc vitium est Cantoribus inter Amicos c. He defends Tigellius and proves that Horace had no actual Skill in Vocal Musick IF this strange Vice in all good Singers were As the admir'd Horace does declare That when desir'd tho bless'd with Health and Easâ— Their choicest Friends they still deny to please Yet if unask'd shall rudely Sing so long To tire 'em quite with each repeated Song I strongly then should take his Satyr's part Lash the Performers and despise their Art But having studied long enough to be A little knowing in that quality I soon perceiv'd when I his Version met 'T was more from Prejudice than Judgment writ And Horace was in his Reproof more free Because Tigellius was his Enemy Whose resty Vice must bear this fierce Assault Whilst all the rest are lash'd for one man's Fault Satyr should never take from Malice aid For with due Reverence to Horace paid Who rails at Faults through personal prejudice Shews more his own than shames another's Vice Tigellius as his Character is plain Was of a Humour most adsurd and vain Fantastick in his Garb unsettled in his Brain And if as once great Cesar he deny'd When ask'd to Sing 't were the effect of Pride Lictors and Fasces should have bluntly taught The Fool to know th' Obedience that he ought But if Augustus his Commands did lay When th' Genius was not able to obey As oft with Singers it will happen so According as their Joys or Troubles grow 'T was no Offence then to excuse his Art The Soul untun'd makes discord in each part And Monarchs can no more give vocal Breath Than they can hinder when Fate summons death Though kind Complyance Singers ought to use They often have just Reasons to refuse A pleasure lov'd by one is lik'd by more Suppose Sir I have Sung too much before Made my self hoarse and even rack'd my Throat To please some Friend with some fine treble Note Chance does me then to you and others bring The second Complement is prithee sing I swear I Can't can't say you that 's find sport But all good Singers are so hard to Court Come come you must here 's Ladies beg not I What Soul so dull as Beauty can deny To make excuse then modestly I tell How hoarse I am with what that day befell 'T is all in vain you rail I 'm thought a Clown And Omnibus hoc victium knocks me down I often have 't is true to sing deny'd But not through resty Vanity or Pride But that perhaps I had been tir'd before Untun'd and ill not able to sing more Or that an hour of Infelicity Has rob'd my Soul of usual Harmony Yet all 's the same th' old Saw is still repeated You Singers long to be so much intreated Though at that time to me no Joy could fall Greater than not to have been ask'd at all Th' Harmonious Soul must have her Humour free Consent of parts still makes best Harmony We read the Iewish Captives could not Sing In a strange Land rul'd by a Foreign King Contentment the melodious Chord controuls And Tunes the Diapason of our Souls What makes a Cobler Chirp a pleasant part At his hard Labour but a merry Heart He sings when ask'd or bluntly else denies According to his share of Grief or Joys Thus the same Accidents to us befall And that which tun'd the Cobler tunes us all But if against our Will we thrash out Songs For singing then is Thrashing to the Lungs The blast of airy Praise we dearer get Than Peasants do their Bread with toil and sweat To sleep at your command is the same thing As when y' are ill or vext in mind to sing And though Performance ne'r so easie show As it has Charms it has Vexations too And th' Singers Plague 't is none but Singers know How often have I heard th' unskilful say Had I a Voice by Heaven I 'd sing all day But with that Science had he been endow'd And was to sing when ask'd or be thought proud When weary hoarse or vext not to deny But at all Seasons with all Friends comply He 'd then blame Horace full as much as I Whose want of Knowledge in the Vocal Art Made him lash all for one man 's mean desert For had he the Fatigue of Songsters known And judg'd their Inconvenience by his own Tigellius only had Correction met And Omnibus hoc vitium ne'r been writ TO THE Right HONOURABLE THE Earl of RADNOR ON HIS MARRIAGE IF my faint Genius does not reach that height It ought your Fortune to congratulate Be pleas'd my Lord to take this for excuse That 't is the Inter-regnum of a Muse. Apollo frowns upon each drooping Son And Sadness crowns the Bowls of Hellicon The Mounting Pegasus that late could fly Trap'd with gay Thought and fancy through the Sky In her swift Course now the bold Soldier dares To stop and back and manage for the Wars Strange turns of State disturb the peaceful Nine And with the rest of the sad Muses mine Such sollid Grief does all Parnassus sway There scarce was Joy the Coronation day Pardon a Homely Genius then ill drest That dares approach without a Nuptial Vest To wish you Joy which though not pollish'd here Nor mirthfully adorn'd is yet sincere Poets like Plants flourish when shin'd
upon But wither and decay without the Sun Son Renown'd Ovid when in Court preferr'd For lofty Verse was by all Rome rever'd But when disgrac'd he did to Pontus go His Fate was humble and his Stile was low Like him undone forgotten and distress'd I wander'd when your Theme my Muse possess'd But then like Attoms thought did sollid grow And Sparks of the old fire began to glow Your new-gain'd Happiness inspir'd my Pen In spite of all resolves to write agen Your Virtues next inform'd my Memory Your Noble Nature Love to Poetry That dares encourage Verse you find sublime Unsway'd by the Opinion of the time And own like Athens once in Wit are Charms And Arts should Grace a State as well as Arms There honour'd with a part of publick sway Poets were by the Senate held in pay But here in our Reform'd wise warlike Isle Their choicest Labours are not worth a Smile Another Herd have rush'd into our Fold And our new brood of Wits devour'd the old A decent Praise to mighty worth is due And only such my Lord I pay to you To the few Patrons of true Sense I fly And beg a Genius at their Feet may lye More us'd to Satyr than to Flattery That slavish Vice I yet ne'r understood Nor can we flatter Merit if we wou'd Because no Praise can ever be too good When once Great Virgil by Augustus sate To read the Work he was to dedicate Though Praises even extravagant did seem Yet Cesar did not think he flatter'd him My Muse though to his height it ought to soar Does only greet your Joy and wish you more With grateful thanks for Honours done before Be pleas'd to take what Tribute I can pay And think my Lord this is my only way TO A LADY Twitting him with his being Peevish and having Ill Humours I. TEll tell me no more that my Humors are bad And peevishly ever displease If one had the Plague you would think he were mad Should he rail at anothers Disease The Errors that to your own Questions belong You still to my Answers apply And though I have Manners to be in the wrong I have Reason enough to deny II. But speaking offends and to play a new part I 'll learn of some favourite Fool Fools oft saying nothing by signs win a Heart 'T is a fortunate thing to be dull Yet Madam how poor is the Conquest you gain When this shall your Reason convince On one that has such a defect in his brain How vainly you lavish your Sense III. From all but Loves Passions I swear I am free My Soul is serene as the Air With Pride Envy Hatred I n'er could agree And that I 'm good natur'd I swear But ah what are these when my Humors offend And we wrangle where ever we come To give my self ease and your trouble an end 'T were better for me I were dumb IV. And now take this secret you know me not yet I am and can be what I please Now merry now sad now a Fool now a Wit Brisk dull gay and peevish with ease Let Coxcombs supinely all Injuries bear Dull Asses for Burdens were meant And he that is still in one Humour I sweaâ— Has not Courage nor Wit to resent A PARALLEL IN old Italian Prose we read A youth by Riot and fond Love undone Had yet a Faulcon left of famous breed His chief diversion in his fatal Need And sole Companion when he left the Town The Saint that did his Soul possess Touch'd with a generous Sence of his distress Made him a Visit at his poor retreat Whom his Heart nobly feasted but alas His empty Purse could get Nothing was good enough for her to eat Till rack'd with Shame and a long fruitless search He more to make his Love appear His darling Hawk snatch'd from the Pearch And dress'd it for his Dear Which generous Act did so intirely gain her She gave him all her Love and Wealth And nobly paid her Entertainer So when my Love with fatal strife Had spent its whole Estate And Natures short-wing'd Hawk my Life Was doom'd a Dish for Fate Divine Olympia chang'd the sad decree And with infallible Divinity Gave A new Being to my Soul and me TO THE Right HONOURABLE THE LADY E. R. Vpon her finding a Spider in her BED SEE what Revenge great Love doth still prepare To fright and punish the relentless Fair Into that Bed where by your cruel doom No passionate Admirer e'er might come Where Heaven on Earth no Eye but Heaven sees And cold Virginity alone does freeze Where Beauty blossoms and in folded sweets A Body whiter than the snowy Sheets This black detested crawling thing was sent From angry Venus for your punishment This is she cry'd her that prophan'd my Rites Laugh'd at my Laws neglected my Delights Flush'd with a Pride of Virtue durst withstand Loves fiercest Darts and Natures great Command Is now condemn'd by the avenging Fates T' a Bed-fellow which above all she hates Thus Andromeda flourish'd in her Prime Thus laugh'd at Love and thus still lost her time Whilst bounteous Pity her fair Breast did warm The Powers above protected her from harm But when her Rigour to contempt presum'd Her blooming Beauties to a Monster doom'd And though the Cries of an afflicted Maid Brought the renown'd Perseus to her aid Had not her Will been tun'd t' another strain The Warrior ne'r had loos'd her from the Chain Love's Harmony in well tun'd Hearts appears Alike their hopes and still alike their fears No jarring Sounds the Consort can molest The charming Musick fills each happy Breast Their Wills unite and their charm'd Souls agree Like two soft Flutes when sounding in one key When honourable Love with humble Grace And Merit pleads to fill the happy space By your sweet side shall Spiders claim a place Shall Rival Insects own a Love-like ours And lay their sprawling filthy Limbs by yours Ah Madam then must all Mankind proclaim 'T is punishment to you to them a shame No more Adorers then of Hopes bereave But to your Bed some generous Love receive Marriage like Irish Wood has such a Charm No Venom dares approach to do you harm If you would have no hated Spiders come To Bed let Love and Honor fill the Room A TRUE TALE OF A True INTRIGUE DARK was the Night and not a Star Was seen o'er all the Hemisphere When lately musing all alone I rambled to a Country Town To heal with Balmy Love my Breast That had with Grief been long oppress'd For there two Beauteous Sisters shone As bright as the rejoycing Moon When she with full Contentment cloy'd Endimion in Eclipse enjoy'd Young as the Spring as sweet they smelt And soft as down of Swans they felt And I transported with delight Could boast my self chief Favourite Oh Happiness too fierce to taste Oh Pleasure too refin'd to last 'T is by the Change we always see The Curse of our Mortallity The one was fair
Instalment of this Glorious Guest â—n the left hand of Gracious Charles he sate His mortal Cares crown'd with immortal State This joyful Scene scarce did my Vision show â—ut I was waken'd with their Crys below And to my grief as well as theirs I knew Their mournful sounds had prov'd this wonder true His Friends in Tears all made a loud Complaint The World had lost though Heaven had gain'd a Saint And amongst all the numerous selfish Train My self had not least Reason to complain â—ut wished with them a worthy held so dear Had been less happy and stay'd longer here â—nd here my Muse make thy peculiar moan The best inspirer of thy Art is gone Thy noble Patron that first plum'd thy wing Inform'd and dipt thee in Apollo's Spring And in Poetick numbers made thee sing By Angels courted to his sacred home Leaves thee to sigh thy Sorrows on his Tomb. In wisest Rules of moral Learning bred He never thought it a disgrace to read Nor true Applause to a just Merit grudge Though not a Poet yet a Poets Judge Could well instruct a Pegasus to fly Shew where he flagg'd or where he soar'd too higâ— Mourn mouâ—n ye Sons of Phoebus burn yoâ— Books And let your hearts be sad as are your Looks Forsake your Lyrick strains and let each Eye Drown in salt Floods your Patrons Elegy Who now the Muses lustre shall advance Above the scorn of sordid Ignorance Who shall their want of generous Friends suppâ— Or raise the drooping head of Poetry 〈◊〉 gone he 's gone his Aid you ask in vain 〈◊〉 and the Grave never refund again 〈◊〉 late the mighty Loss is understood 〈◊〉 know the value till they lose the Good 〈◊〉 eighty rowling Years he still was known 〈◊〉 brightest Jewel in the British Crow◠〈◊〉 with unblemish'd lustre grac'd our Isle 〈◊〉 value true nor needed any foil 〈◊〉 Virtue made his Dignity more great 〈◊〉 Mein was graceful and his Language sweet 〈◊〉 none his noble Actions liv'd to see 〈◊〉 wish'd him greater than he wish'd to be 〈◊〉 early Cares to serve his Prince did tend â—â—ithful Subject Counsellor and Friend â—â—th ' Royal Line when Faction high did rise 〈◊〉 Arm gave succour and his Heart advise once to Saul did the great Prophet do 〈◊〉 Counsel gave and fought his Battels too â—appy those Heroes were that understood 〈◊〉 Virtues made 'em nobler than their Blood That 't was the intrinsick Value of the Ore And not the stamp that made the Merit more With vain Ambition some themselves deceive But to be brave and honest is to live To be an Ormond is the Life sublime The noblest Pattern of precedent Time Whose Saint-like Pity God-like Gentleness T' incourage Merit and relieve Distress No Wit can praise enough nor Tongue express Henceforth vile Age thy ill spent time redeem Grow good and let Great Ormond be thy Theme Let each vain Courtier break his flattering Glass And in his Pious Mirror learn to dress Whilst all the Muses with dejected Eyes Offer whole Volumes of sad Elgies A mournful Train with Cypress Garlands on Methinks I see forsake their Hellicon To sing the solemn Dirges of this day But ah bright Soul what Tribute shall I pay My Heart no respite to her Woes shall have For when remembring thee I idly rave To think no Worth can charm no Virtue scape the Grave EPIGRAM On the Sacred Memory of that glorious Patron of POETS greatest and best of Monarchs KING CHARLES the Second Written 1686. IF Sacred Worth which high as Heaven does raise His Fame were low enough for mortal Praise The mighty Theme would crack each studious Brain No Tongue be still nor unimploy'd no Pen But since no Planet can for Phaebus shine And all Applause is vain of things Divine To Court a Tomb let every Muse be taught And perish with the sad extremes of Thought The impoverish'd Land is by his loss undone As each Muse dull'd now its Inspirer's gone Blest by his Beams the learn'd in Crowds would throng To 〈◊〉 the Oraculous Wisdom of his Tongue Mute as the Grave when he a Story told England was then as Athens was of old Or Rome where Arms with Science flourish'd long Augustus smil'd at honour'd Virgil's Song But now our Harps are on the Willows hung For since the Sovereign of all Arts could die There is no farther use of Poetry Hot Pegasus no middle Tract will go Charles is a Theme too high and all besides too low An ELEGY On the late Holy Father Pope INNOCENT the Eleventh STrange power of Piety when Virtue is So strong it can disarm our prejudice When Luther's Sons Romes prizeless loss bemoan Less than a Miracle can there be shown Yet see they mourn and those our Doctrine bred Hating the Body yet adore the Head This Truth tho Ages past scarce understood Ours boldly may affirm one Pope was good Not partial nor to private Interest sold Nay what 's more strange than all not fond of Gold But durst against the stream of Avarice swim St. Peter's Keys were never gilt by him Nor did the Churches Biggots till his sway Ever so little for Salvation pay His mellow'd Wisdom prop'd Romes tottering State His moderate Judgment stemm'd the Clergies hate Willing the Churches variance to attone Rail'd not at ours nor less'ned not his own When Heathens did in swarming Numbers list And War began 'twixt Mahomet and Christ The imprison'd Treasure which he then set free Shew'd him refin'd from former Papacy The Gold which to that Holy War he threw Declar'd him more than Pope a Christian too When France observ'd him scourge the Infidels Quite different from his Pagan Principles His Mother Church th' Apostate durst condemn And slight her power to make his own Supreme Nor longer own'd Romes Doctrine his Soul's guide When its Ambition was unsatisfied This faultless Prelate if e'er Pope was so Sounded his Wiles and Plots did overthrow Lent th' golden Mattock to this pious work And balk'd both Pagan and the Christian Turk Who slily did like snarling Blood-hound lurk To snap the Prey and gorge himself alone When th' rest were tir'd with fighting for the bone Mourn all ye neighb'ring Princes sigh and mourn Old Rome will now to her old Sins return Her Scarlet Robe has for a time been clean But with new Errors will new Spots be seen Now each ambitious Cardinal bribes high To fill the Conclave for the Prelacy Which gain'd the inchanted Purse strait shuts as close As if the strings were never to unloose The Fish is caught farewel Hipocrisie The Vizor banish'd and the Net laid by Religion late was beyond Gold preferr'd But profit now 's the only sound is heard Vile Sores o'er Romes corrupted Body grow Her Trunk is filthy now her Head lies low For when as some rich honest Farmer dies Leaving behind him Lands and Legacies His brainless Offâ—Spring by their Vice allur'd Destroy the Crop which he with care manur'd His Garden 's fruitless and
Lord are going to Command Their darling Genius Claps her joyful Wings And your Approach in lofty numbers sings The Sun 's atractive force they knew before Exhaling Dews from every Plant and Flow'r But this new Influence they learn from you That to a point he can draw Virtue too III. 'T is said indeed this generative Heat In parching Climes most Worthies does beget And that no Northern Nation can inspire Her sickly Sons with such Heroick fire But I could never credit this till now The Sympathy is verifi'd in you That still your liking for those parts have shown Where the hot glittering God attracts his own IV. As some fond Mother that with tender Care Sees her young Darling posting to the War Oppress'd with Sorrow does the Parting view Hates he should go yet loves his Glory too Such Grief my Lord Your mourning Friends all share When of your Voyage the sad News they hear And jointly wish America could know The Jem she gains without their loss in you V. But still to have you were too great a Grace Perfection ne'er continues in one place So Angels did in former time appear Gave us true Joy but staid but little here To cheer the World your Virtues Heaven design'd And could not in one Island be confin'd Worth like the Sun so universal known 'T is fit should bless more Countries than your own VI. Well may those happy Isles serene appear But we I fear shall find it Clowdy here If Comets are oblig'd t' infest the Skies At a States Change or when a Monarch dies Methinks they should their fâ—tal Fears infuse Into our Hearts when we a Worthy lose Did not wise Heaven think it vain to show A Prodigy for Plagues too well we know VII In taking you Fate leaves us poor and bare The mighty Sum is more than we can spare For common Losses common Tears we shower But Sir your Merit will command much more The aking Hearts of all your Countrymen When Woes are deepest fewest Tears are seen And when Grief burns within where none can spy The bubbling Fountains of the Head are dry VIII To thy own safety England have regard The Loyal and the Brave are rarely spar'd In props of Virtue we are not so rich But such a Pillar gone will will make a Breach Crowds may drop off like Hair of no Esteem But when one Hero goes we lose a Limb Well Britain may thy Arms the World o'er come When thou canst spare an Albemarle from Home IX He that when late Rebellious Seeds grew high And proud Sedition trod on Loyalty Encompass'd round with Dangers and with Foes Numerous as Dust when the wild Tempest blows With Fortitude undaunted durst defy The Force and Favors of the Enemy From his lov'd Country should Affection claim Dear as his own and lasting as his Fame X. All good Men know that then he nobly serv'd And to his utmost power the Throne preserv'd Iames found his Vigilance and Conduct right Tho upstart Davus snarl'd and durst not bite Nor can a Royal Heart unmindful be Of stanch Hereditary Loyalty For none should Monarchs of Remissness charge Their Memories are like their Glories large XI A stedfast Duty and a Faith entire We know the Jem is right that past the fire So good our Nations Genius was afraid To lose a Prize so proper for her Aid And lest light Coffers by true Bounty drein'd A Mighty Prince should Merchandising send Neptune as if he brib'd him not to go Sent him a Present from his hoar'd below XII Seven Wonders Ancient Chronicles relate Now change the Scene and make the number Eight T is well Renowned Britain that with thee No Land can vie for Wit or Industry If Honor could the Argumenâ— maintain As well as politick Designs for Gain The World would then thy wondrous Merit know And Heaven above as the Salt Deeps below XIII Gigantick Rocks ravish'd the wealthy Ore A Peoples Ruin the Rich Vessel bore And Providence for Ends now known confin'd In Coral Groves the Mistress of Mankind Full forty Years the pensive Beauty lay Low in a Sea-Gods Cell to which-none found the Way Till Phip's inspir'd arriv'd and Heaven thought well To bless our Hero by a Miracle XIV 'T were wondrous well if Fate would order so That Monarchs every Subjects Heart could know They then the difference of Men might see That serve for Interest or for Loyalty To build their Fortunes many plow the Main Their Duty is encourag'd by their Gain But he that leaves a Greatness so well known Merely to serve his Prince is Loyal Monk alone XV. For who but he would leave the Bowers of Peace Of blest Contentment and delightful Ease To war with Blasts and Fevers of the Skies Half buz'd to death by Buccaneering Flies Who would the tiresome Voyage undergo When Profit has no Golden face to show Or who but he the hot Fatigue would bear And leave New-Hall to be a Viceroy there XVI New-Hall the true Elizium of the Eye The glorious Seat of ancient Royalty Where Art and Nature seem by Heaven design'd To strive which shall be Master of their kinâ— And as the pretious Ore in Golden Mines Nature produces but 't is Art that coins So she by Paradise this Model drew And Art improv'd the Beauties as they grew XVII The curious Gardens that delight the Eye Shew the gay Scene of blest Variety Sweet as a Virgin that has never known The scorching passions of the vicious Town Ceres and Flora here their Bounty show And Fruits and Flowers so Luxurious grow As Adam here had us'd his primitive Spade And from his Markeâ— has just learnt the Trade XVIII Next take the Park and prospect in your view Apelles never such a Landshape drew Tall Sons of â—â—rth three quarters of a Mile Weaving their Branches frame a wond'rous Isle Here the poor Traveller relief to gain From the oppressing Storms of Wind and Rain Tir'd with his tedious Journey slacks his pace Sits down looks round and wonders at the Place XIX The Nightingalâ— in every Grove impart By Nature Airs that need no help of Art No Artist sent from Italy comes there And yet no Eunuch ever sung so rare Curse your ill Stars ye poor disgender'd crew Each Linnet has a better Fate than you For they can in the charming Chorus join And yet enjoy the Pleasures of their kind XX. The happy Herds of Dear then Feasting see Emblems of Innocence and Amity That feed and love together couch and rise Never debauch'd with strife or mortal Vice But silently their great Creator praise And if they chance to see a human Face With eager speed they from the Object run And gaze and wonder at the Monster Man XXI Reflect vain Creature with errected Face That claim'st command o'er the four-footed Race How much thy lazy Virtue they 'd out do If they were blest with sacred Reason too Proud of thy Gifts yet Heaven in them do find More truth nay more
such a Player All 's one to us his Charms have here no power Our Hearts have just the Temper as before Besides to shew we live with strictest Rules Our Nunnery-Door is charm'd to shut out Fools No Love-toy here can pass to private view Nor China Orange cram'd with Billet dew Rome may allow strange Tricks to please her Sons But we are Protestants and English Nuns Like nimble Fawns and Birds that bless the Spring Unscar'd by turning Times we dance and sing We in hope to please but if some Critick here Fond of his Wit designs to be severe Let not his Patience be worn out too soon And in few years we shall be all in Tune Loves Revenge A SONG I. THE World was hush'd and Nature lay Lull'd in a soft Repose As I in Tears reflecting lay On Chloes faithless Vows The God of Love all gay appear'd To heal my wounded Heart New pangs of Joy my Soul indear'd And Pleasure charm'd each part Fond Man said he here end thy Wo Till they my Power and Justice know The foolish Sex will all do so II. And for thy Ease believe no bliss Is perfect without pain The fairest Summer hurtful is Without some Showers of Rain The Joys of Heaven who would prize If Men too cheaply bought The dearest part of Mortal Joys Most charming is when sought And though with Dross true Love they pay Those that know finest Metals say No Gold will Coyn without allay III. But that the Generous Lover may Not always sigh in vain The Cruel Nymph that kills to day To morrow shall be slain The little God no sooner spoke But from my sight he slew And I that groan'd with Chloes yoke Found Love's Revenge was true Her proud hard Heart too late did turn With fiercer Flames than mine did burn Whilst I as much began to scorn EPSOM-WELLS A Satyr by way of Dialogue between Critick and Fame I. Crit. FAME that dost o'er the Universe scatter Satyrs and Libels and Politicks tell Say who 's in the Country drinking the Water And first begin with Epsom Well II. Crit. Who is that Lad there puffing and sweating And who those Rake hells that buz in his Ears Fame 'T is the mad Lord that loves the Bul-baiting With all his Brethren Dogs and Bears III. Crit. Who are those two lank Tallow fac'd Doxies That look as just they from sweating did crawl Fame Two London Whores would wash off their Poxes Dreading their Dooms when Leaves do fall IV. Cr. What City Wife 's there on the Downs rowling Who with young Bully to Box-Hill repairs Fa. One who whilst Husband loses at Bowling Takes the right way to get him Heirs V. Cr. But amongst all these prithee dear Rumour What Iack i' th' Box is that with Coach four Fa. A Pox upon him 't is a Perfumer That makes a stink all Fleet-street o'er VI. Cr. What Lady bright comes yonder a Tuning To whom the Wits and the Wittals so throng Fa. One that for all the Rooks is too cunning And Plays and Sings all Summer long VII Cr. What bonny Blade sits there above fifty Chewing the Cud amongst Elmor's Calves Fa. 'T is an old Bachelor that to be thrifty Purchases Land by fulls and halfs VIII Cr. The Vicar here loves Wine above Water Chearing his Heart against wofuller Times Fa. Then coaks the Justice and kiss his Daughter There no more subject left for Rhime Prologue spoken by Mr. HAINS to TRAPOLIN or a Duke and no Duke TRapolin suppos'd a Prince this humour shows Strange Matters do depend upon suppose You wh res may be thought Chast You Criticks witty And I that have been kept for being pretty Suppos'd a Beau through the well govern'd City Fancy digested into strong Supposes Makes Cheeks fair where no Lillies grow nor Roses And Women beautiful that want their Noses 'T is that and Nature all the World inspires Fancy's the Bellows kindling up new Fires When th' Fuel's gone that should supply desires And Nature is the Parent we all know By whom like Plants we fructifie and grow The Reverend Citizen sixty and above That by poor Inch of Candle barters Love Supposes that his Son and Heir he got But ask his Wife and she supposes not The Trees by Rosamonds Pond her Sins have known And the dear Leaves still stick upon her Gown Whilst the dull Sot that 's just a C old made Supposes she's at Church and praying for a Trade The Country Novice newly come to Town Doom'd by his Parents to a dagled Gown That wanting Grace in Love most lewdly falls With some hot Nymph in these unhallow'd Walls Supposes some bright Angel he has gotten Till finding by sad signs the Wh re was rotten His sweating Study's chang'd to sweating Tubs And Doctor Littleton for Doctor Hobs Pray tell me who would marry here among ye For Whoring ye all hate I scorn to wrong ye That did not first suppose his Wife a Maid And Virgin Pleasures blest the Marriage Bed Yet 't is Opinion must your Peace secure For no Experiment can do 't I 'm sure In Paths of Love no footsteps e'er were trac'd All you can do is to suppose her Chast For Women are of that deep subtle kind The more you dive to know the less you find Ah Ladies what strange Fate attends us Men For when we prudently would scape your gin Sweet Supposition draws the Woodcocks in In all Affairs 't is so the Lawyer bawls And with dam'd Noise and Nonsence plagues the Halls Supposing after seven years being a Drudge 'T will be his Fortune to be made a Judge The Parson too that prays against Ill Weathers That thumps the Cushion till he leaves no Feathers Would let his Flock I fear grow very lean Without a fat Suppose of being a Dean In every thing is some by End but Wit And that has too much Virtue in 't to get Then for our sakes that want a lucky Hit Let kind Suppose for once possess your Mind Think in that Charm all Pleasures are confin'd Tho you mislike the Farce pray don't disclose it But if you are not satisfi'd Suppose it An ELEGY On the Death of that true Perfection of Beauty and Goodness the Lady ESSEX SPICKET who dyed of the Small-Pox immediately after her Marriage Written by way of Dialogue betwixt Mors and Hymen Mors. GReat Second Cause of Mans Original Why does thy Head upon thy Bosom fall Why are thy active Spirits all dispers'd Why thy Robe torn and genial Torch revers'd As if the end of Nature now were come And general Dissolution fill'd one Tomb. Since Mortals all by our disposes move I point their date of Time and thou their Love Since Death is natural to all are born Why dost thou languish thus why dost thou mourn Hymen Thou bloodless Tyrant of Mortality Pale King of Charnels canst thou ask me why Ah that I could reverse Heavens great Decree And in thy Place fix any Fate but thee Thou that thus
rudely dar'st my Rights invade And cloud Love's brighest Lustre with thy shade With barbarous Power act a lawless Guest And Rape a Virgin from her Nuptial Feast The sharpest Bolt in Heaven with fatal speed My eager Rage should dart upon thy head Mo. Raging in vain thou idly spendst thy breath Dost thou not know reward for Sin is Death Since Primitive offence Hymen for Sin I own But ah why should she Perish that had none The sweet Aspatia was all purity Mors. Was not the sweet Aspatia born to dye Hym. Tho Nature's Tribute once she were to pay Could it be due upon her Wedding-day A time when Rapture the pleas'd Sense controuls And spritely Joy kept Revels in their Souls When Vesta fond of her dear Charge to me Had just giv'n up her beauteous Votary A sacred Mould for a blest Progeny At such a time when Love did brightest shine When Life was dear to force her to resign Was cruelty fit for no Breast but thine Mo. These Arguments how vainly you employ You are a Friend but I sworn Foe to Joy At the wide door of Luxury I wait And summon there the least prepar'd to fate An envious Pleasure does my Breast o'erflow To dash their sweetest draughts of Life with wo So when the haughty Syrian Monarch crown'd His swelling Bowls in Gulphs of Pleasure drown'd When Consecrated Vessels were not free From the wild Law of his Impiety When thoughtless Epicures swoln with excess And wanton Women charm'd his Soul with bliss The fatal Hand upon the Wall was plac'd Subscribing that short moment for his last Hym. Why nam'st thou thaâ— or Syria's Monarch here Death as reward of Sin was proper there His ill spent days obtain'd to long a date Spotted with Crimes and mellow'd for his fate But sweet Aspatia guiltless from her birth Divinely liv'd an Angel upon Earth Mors. Merrit extreme but with a Mortal date Hym. All worth is Mortal with remorseless fate A charming Grace did all her Actions guide A sacred Virtue never soil'd with Pride A saint-like Piety a pitying Heart An uncorrupted Beauty without Art Humble as Cottage Girls yet awful too Kidn to distress and to all Merrit true Devout as Angels singing Hymns on high Yet spite of all their Graces Mo. Born to dye Hym. If these could not thy Avarice o'er-come Thou might'st take more to swell the mighty sum Her graceful Modesty her mighty Wit The one delightful as the other great And then for Patience and blest Charity None e'er her equal knew Mo. Yet born to dye Hym. Not only dye but in her blooming Age To feel the Curse of thy extremest Rage A double Death did her dear Life pursue Of Beauty first and then of Nature too Vile Schelliton that wouldst not Pity shew But where no Flesh is how should Pity grow Were thy Soul form'd of any thing but spite Or all the contraâ—ies of soft delight Those Eyes late blinded with disease so foul With pointed Beams had shot thee to the Soul Mo. That was one Reason why I quench'd their fire Her Wit and Beauty did so far aspire Even Death had else been fool'd into desire Pity had warm'd my Breast to let her live And Female Charms had purchas'd a Reprieve Had not resenting Ghosts o'er whom I Reign All murmuring at a thought so strange so vain Declar'd in the Grand Council of my State Pity was fit for any thing but Fate Hym. And Fate more fit for any thing than Love Henceforth aloud in every-shady Grove Where harmless Lovers pretty Garlands wove The Swains and Nymphs Aspatia's Obsequies Shall sing with heavy Hearts and weeping Eyes Aspatia's hapless Fate each Breast shall sway Aspatia's story shall wear out the day Satyrs shall range from their obscure Abode Vice shall grow â—amous Marriage out of mode And till by warrant from the Deity Hymen has power to alter Fate 's decree Of this great wrong he 'll ne'er cease to complain Nor ever tye the genial Knot again An ODE To my much honored Friend Sir THOMAS GARRARD Baronet upon his Climacterical YEAR I. THE famous old Prophet that twenty years toil'd To write us the Psalms that dunce Hopkins has spoil'd In giving account of the Ages of Men Has strangely confin'd us to Threescore and Ten He tells us to scare us his last hour is near That enters the sad Climacterical Year II. Then welfare the Man that inspir'd by good Wine Cares neither for Seventy nor seven times Nine Whose jolly brisk Humor adds sands to his Glass And standing upright can look Fate in the â—ace That makes much of Life but when Nature is due Declines like a Flower as sweet as he grew To his fair Example and Grandeur of Soul Let each in his order Carouse a full Bowl Whatever dull Gown men or Sages may think There 's no Man grows old till he ceases to drink Then Health to Sir Thomas and that he may be As well as sixscore as at sixty and threâ—â— The KING'S Health A CATCH Sung in Parts I. NOW Second Hannibal is come O'er frozen Lakes and mounts of Snow To found our Faith on conquer'd Rome And give Proud France a fatal Blow II. Well may our Phaebus disappear And set his Glory in the Sea If Planets of a lower Sphere Can give us greater light than he III. Fryars and Monks and all those bald-pate Fools With Wafers Oyntments Beads and Shams Pardons and Antichristian Bulls Must yield to Belgick battering Rams IV. Infallibility is gone And Judges of Dispensing Powers That had thier Country quite undone Was ever known such Sons of Whores V. Drink all around then by consent Health to the Monarch of the Land The Queen and healing Parliament Pledge me six Bumpers in a hand And when the Jesuits you see Dangling upon the Triple Tree Fill up six more and sing with me A Plague on senseless Popery A Letter written by the Author for a Friend to one in Town being a SATYR on DINGBOY and a Rampant WIDOW 1685. ABroad when Dingboy's Verses came And in the Scrowl you read my Name Too well my dearest Friend I know You blush'd as much as I do now Not that you thought my scanty Crimes Had not deserv'd Satyrick Rhimes But that I should a Subject be For th' Pen of such a Dunce as he Whose empty Noddle still takes pains Without a dram of Sense of Brains To make my Fame about the Town As black and ugly as his own Nature a signal shame has meant To the Obstinate and Ignorant And Dingboy above all Mankind The Curse of his own Vice does find 'T is plague enough to be a Fool Wretchedly Poor and Proud as Dull To aim at Wit and Writing well And yet not have the sence to spell To give the Noble Art abuse By daring to invoke a Muse. This one would think were shame enough If Block-heads e'er could taste Reproof But he as if the Genius fled From th' barren Soyl of such a Head Still plunges on and