POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS By the Right Honourable, THE E Of R—

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Printed at ANTWERPEN.

An Epistolary Essay from M. G. to O. B. upon their Mutual Poems.

Dear Friend,

I Hear this Town does so abound
With sawcy Censurcrs, that faults are found
Which what of late we (in Poetique rage)
Bestowing, threw away on the dull Age;
But (howsoe're Envy, their spleens may raise,
To Rob my Brows of the deserved Bays)
Their thanks at least I merit, since through me,
They are partakers of your Poetry:
And this is all I'le say in my defence,
T' obtain one Line of your well-worded sense,
I'd be content t' have writ the Brittish Prince.
I'm none of those who think themselves inspir'd;
Nor write with the vain hope to be admir'd;
But from a Rule I have (upon long tryal)
T' avoid with care all sort of self denyal.
Which way so'ere desire, and fancy lead,
(Contemning Fame) that Path I boldly tread;
And if exposing what I take for wit,
To my dear self a pleasure I beget,
No matter tho the cens'ring Criticks fret.
These whom my Muse displeases, are at strife,
With equal spleen against my course of life,
The least delight of which, I'll not forgo,
For all the flatt'ring praise, Man can bestow.
[Page 4] If I design'd to please, the way were then,
To mend my Manners, rather than my Pen:
The first's unnatural, therefore unfit,
And for the second, I despair of it,
Since Grace is not so hard to get as Wit.
Perhaps ill Verses, ought to be confin'd
In meer good breeding like unsav'ry Wind:
Were reading forc'd, I shou'd be apt to think,
Men might no more write scurvily than stink:
But 'tis your choice, whether you'll read, or no,
If likewise of your smelling it were so.
I'd Fart just as I write for my own ease,
Nor shou'd you be concern'd unless you please,
I'll own, that you write better than I do,
But I have as much need to write as you.
What tho the Excrements of my dull Brain,
Flows in a harsh insipid strain;
Whilst your rich head, eases it self of Wit.
Must none but Civit Cats have leave to shit?
In all I write, shou'd Sense, and Wit, and Rhyme,
Fail me at once, yet something so sublime,
Shall stamp my Poem, that the World may see,
It cou'd have been produc'd by none but me;
And that's my end, for Man can wish no more,
Than so to write, as none e're writ before.
Yet why am I no Poet of the times?
I have Allusions, Similies, and Rhymes,
And Wit, or else 'tis hard that I alone,
Of the whole Race of Mankind shou'd have none.
Unequally the partial hand of Heav'n,
Has all but this one only blessing giv'n.
[Page 5] The World appears like a great Family,
Whose Lord opprest with Pride and Poverty.
(That to a few great bounty he may show)
Is fain to starve the num'rous Train below.
Just so seems Providence, as poor, and vain,
Keeping more Creatures than it can maintain.
Here 'tis profuse, and there it mainly saves,
And for one Prince, it makes ten thousand Slaves.
In Wit, alone't has been Magnificent,
Of which so just a share to each is sent,
That the most Avaricious are content.
For none e're thought (the due divisions such)
His own too little, or his Friends too much.
Yet most Men shew, or find great want of Wit
Writing themselves, or judging what is writ.
But I, who am of sprightly vigour full,
Look on Mankind, as envious and dull,
Born to my self, my self I like alone,
And must conclude my judgment good, or none.
For cou'd my sense be naught, how shou'd I know,
Whether another Mans were good or no?
Thus I resolve of my own Poetry,
That 'tis the best, and there's a Fame for me.
If then I'm happy, what does it advance,
Whither to merit due, or Arrogance?
Oh! but the World will take offence hereby,
Why then the World shall suffer for't, not I.
Did e're the sawcy World, and I agree
To let it have its beastly will on me?
Why shou'd my prostituted sense be drawn,
To ev'ry Rule their musty Customes spawn?
[Page 6] But Men, will censure you, 'tis two to one,
When e're they censure, they'll be in the wrong.
There's not a thing on Earth, that I can name,
So foolish, and so false, as common Fame.
It calls the Courtier Knave, the plain Man rude,
Haughty the grave, and the delightful lew'd.
Impertinent the brisk, Moross the sad,
Mean the familiar, the reserv'd one mad.
Poor helpless Woman, is not favour'd more,
She's a sly Hypocrite, or publick Whore.
Then who the Devil, wou'd give this—to be free
From th' innocent reproach of infamy.
These things consider'd, make me (in despight
Of idle Rumour) keep at home and write.

SATYR.

VVEre I (who to my cost already am
One of those strange prodigious Crea­tures Man.)
A Spirit free, to choose for my own share,
What case of Flesh, and Blood, I pleas'd to wear,
I'd be a Dog, a Monkey, or a Bear.
Or any thing but that vain Animal,
Who is so proud of being rational.
The senses are too gross, and he'll contrive
A sixth, to contradict the other Five;
And before certain instinct, will preferr
Reason, which fifty times for one does err.
[Page 7] Reason, an Ignis fatuus, in the Mind,
Which leaving light of Nature, sense behind;
Pathless and dan'grous wandring ways it takes,
Through errors, Fenny-Boggs, and Thorny Brakes;
Whilst the misguided follower, climbs with pain,
Mountains of whimseys, heap'd in his own Brain:
Stumbling from thought to thought, falls head­long down,
Into doubts boundless Sea, where like to drown.
Books bear him up a while, and makes him try,
To swim with Bladders of Philosophy;
In hopes still t'oretake th'escaping light,
The Vapour dances in his dazling sight,
Till spent, it leaves him to eternal Night.
Then Old Age, and experience, hand in hand,
Lead him to death, and make him understand,
After a search so painful, and so long,
That all his Life he has been in the wrong;
Hudled in dirt, the reas'ning Engine lyes,
Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise,
Pride drew him in, as Cheats, their Bubbles, catch,
And makes him venture, to be made a Wretch.
His wisdom did his happiness destroy,
Aiming to know what World he shou'd enjoy;
And Wit, was his vain frivolous pretence,
Of pleasing others, at his own expence.
For Wits are treated just like common Whores,
First they're enjoy'd, and then kickt out of Doores,
The pleasure past, a threatning boubt remains,
That frights th'enjoyer, with succeeding pains:
Women and Men of Wit, are dang'rous Tools,
And ever fatal to admiring Fools.
[Page 8] Pleasure allures, and when the Fopps escape,
'Tis not that they're belov'd, but fortunate,
And therefore what thy fear, at least they hate.
But now methinks some formal Band, and Beard,
Takes me to task, come on Sir, I'm prepard.
Then by your favour, any thing that's writ
Against this gibeing jingling knack call'd Wit,
Likes me abundantly, but you take care,
Vpon this point, not to be too severe.
Perhaps my Muse, were fitter for this part,
For I profess, I can by very smart
On Wit, which I abhor with all my heart:
I long to lash it in some sharp Essay,
But your grand indiscretion bids me stay,
And turns my Tide of Ink another way.
What rage ferments in your degen'rate mind,
To make you rail at Reason, and Mankind?
Bless glorious Man! to whom alone kind Heav'n,
An everlasting Soul has freely giv'n;
Whom his great Maker took such care to make,
That from himself he did the Image take;
And this fair frame, in shining Reason drest,
To dignifie his Nature, above Beast.
Reason, by whose aspiring influence,
We take a flight beyond material sense.
Dive into Mysteries, then soaring pierce,
The flaming limits of the Vniverse.
Search Heav'n and Hell, find out what's acted there,
And give the World true grounds of hope and fear.
Hold mighty Man, I cry, all this we know,
From the Pathetique Pen of Ingello;
[Page 9] From P— Pilgrim, S— replys,
And 'tis this very reason I despise.
This supernatural gift, that makes a Myte-,
Think he is the Image of the Infinite:
Comparing his short life, void of all rest,
To the Eternal, and the ever blest.
This busie, puzling, stirring up of doubt,
That frames deep Mysteries, then finds 'em out;
Filling with Frantick Crowds of thinking Fools,
Those Reverend Bedlams, Colledges, and Schools
Borne on whose Wings, each heavy Sot can pierce,
The limits of the boundless Universe.
So charming Oyntments, make an Old Witch flie,
And bear a Crippled Carcass through the Skie.
'Tis this exalted pow'r, whose bus'ness lies,
In Nonsense, and impossibilities.
This made a Whimsical Philosopher,
Before the spacious World, his Tub prefer,
And we have modern Cloysterd Coxcombs, who
Retire to think, cause they have naught to do.
But thoughts, are giv'n for Actions government,
Where Action ceases, thoughts impertinent:
Our Sphere of Action, is lifes happiness,
And he who thinks Beyond, thinks like an Ass.
Thus, whilst' gainst false reas'ning I inveigh,
I own right Reason, which I wou'd obey:
That Reason that distinguishes by sense,
And gives us Rules, of good, and ill from thence:
That bounds desires, with a reforming Will,
To keep 'em more in vigour, not to kill.
Your Reason hinders, mine helps t'enjoy,
Renewing Apetites, yours wou'd destroy.
[Page 10] My Reasons is my Friend, yours is a Cheat,
Hungar call's out, my Reason bids me eat;
Perversly yours, your Appetite does mock,
This askt for Food, that answers what's a Clock?
This plain distinction Sir your doubt secures,
'Tis not true Reason I despise but yours.
This I think Reason righted, but for Man,
I'le nere recant defend him if you can.
For all his Pride, and his Philosophy,
'Tis evident, Beasts are in their degree,
As wise at least, and better far than he.
Those Creatures, are the wisest who attain,
By surest means, the ends at which they aim.
If therefore Jowler, finds, and Kills his Hares,
Better than M—, supplyes Committed Chairs;
Though one's a Sates-man, th'other but a Hound.
Jowler, in Justice, wou'd be wiser found.
You see how far Mans wisedom here extends,
Look next, if humane Nature makes amends;
Whose Principles, most gen'rous are, and just,
And to whose Morals, you wou'd sooner trust.
Be Judge your self, I'le bring it to the test,
Which is the basest Creature Man, or Beast?
Birds feed on Birds, Beast on each other prey,
But Savage Man alone, does Man betray:
Prest by necessity, they Kill for Food,
Man, undoes Man, to do himself no good.
With Teeth, & Claws: by Nature arm'd thy hunt,
Natures allowance, to supply their want.
But Man, with smiles, embraces Friendships, praise.
Unhumanely his Fellows life betrays;
[Page 11] With voluntary pains, works his distress,
Not through necessity, but wantonness.
For hunger, or for Love, they fight, or tear,
Whilst wretched Man, is still in Arms for fear;
For fear he Armes, and is of Armes afraid,
By fear, to fear, successively betray'd
Base fear, the fource whence his best passion came,
His boasted Honour, and his dear bought Fame.
That lust of Pow'r, to which he's such a Slave,
And for the which alone he dares be brave:
To which his various Projects are design'd,
Which makes him gen'rous, affable, and kind.
For which he takes such pains to be thought wise,
And screws his actions, in a forc'd disguise:
Leading a tedious life in Misery,
Under laborious, mean Hypocrisie.
Look to the bottom, of his vast design,
Wherein Mans VVisdom, Pow'r, and Glory joyn;
The good he acts, the ill he does endure;
'Tis all for fear, to make himself secure.
Meerly for safety, after Fame we thirst,
For all Men, wou'd be Cowards if they durst.
And honesty's against all common sense,
Men must be Knaves, 'tis in their own defence.
Mankind's dishonest, if you think it fair;
Amongst known Cheats, to play upon the square,
You'le be undone—
Nor can weak truth, your reputation save,
The Knaves, will all agree to call you Knave.
VVrong'd shall he live, insulted o're, opprest.
VVho dares be less a Villain, than the rest.
[Page 12] Thus Sir you see what humane Nature craves,
Most Men are Cowards, all Men shou'd be Knaves:
The diff'rence lyes (as far as I can see)
Not in the thing it self, but the degree;
And all the subject matter of debate,
Is only who's a Knave, of the first Rate?
All this with indignation have I hurl'd,
At the pretending part of the proud World,
Who swolne with selfish vanity, devise,
False freedoms, holy Cheats, and formal Lyes
Over their fellow Slaves, to tyrannize.
But if in Court, so just a Man there be,
(In Court, a just Man, yet unknown to me.)
Who does his needful flattery direct,
Not to oppress, and ruine, but protect;
Since flattery which may so ever laid,
Is still a Tax on that unhappy Trade.
If so upright a States-Man, you can find,
Whose passions bend to his unbyas'd Mind;
Who does his Arts, and Policies apply,
To raise his Country, not his Family;
Nor while his Pride, own'd Avarice withstands,
Receives Aureal Bribes, from Friends corrupted hands.
Is there a Church-Man who on God relyes?
Whose Life, his Faith, and Doctrine Justifies?
Not one blown up, with vain Prelatique Pride,
Who for reproof of Sins, does Man deride:
Whose envious heart with his obstrep'ous sawcy Eloquence,
Dares chide at Kings, and raile at Men of sense.
[Page 13] Who from his Pulpit, vents more peevish lies,
More bitter railings, scandals, Calumnies,
Than at a Gossipping, are thrown about,
When the good Wives get drunk, and then fall out.
None of that sensual Tribe, whose Talents lye,
In Avarice, Pride, Sloth, and Gluttony.
Who hunt good Livings, but abhor good Lives,
Whose lust exalted, to that height arrives,
They act Adūltery with their own Wives.
And e're a score of years compleated be,
Can from the lofty Pulpit proudly see,
Half a large Parish, their own Progeny.
Nor doating B— who wou'd be ador'd,
For domineering at the Councel Board;
A greater Fop, in business at fourscore,
Fonder of serious Toyes, affected more,
Than the gay glitt'ring Fool, at twenty proves,
With all his noise, his tawdrey Cloaths, and loves,
But a meek humble Man, of modest sense,
Who Preaching peace, does practice continence;
Whose pious life's a proof he does believe,
Misterious truths, which no Man can conceive.
If upon Earth there dwell such God like Men,
I'le here recant my Paradox to them.
Adore those Shrines of Vertue, Homage pay,
And with the Rabble World, their Laws obey.
If such there are, yet grant me this at least,
Man differs more from Man, than Man from Beast,

A Ramble in St. JAMES'S PARK.

MUch Wine had past with grave discourse,
Of who Fucks who, and who does worse;
Such as you usually do hear,
From them that dyet at the Bear;
When I, who still take care to see,
Drunkenness reliev'd by Lechery;
Went out into St. James's Park,
To cool my Head, and fire my Heart:
But though St. James has the honor on't,
'Tis consecrate to Prick and Cunt.
There by a most incestuous Birth;
Strange Woods,, spring from the teeming Earth
For they relate how heretofore,
VVhen Antient Pict, began to whore,
Deluded of his Assignation,
(Jilting it seems was then in fashion.)
Poor pensiue Lover, in this place,
VVould Frigg upon his Mothers Face:
VVhence Rowes of Mandrakes tall did rise,
VVhose lewd Tops Fuck'd the very Skies.
Each imitative Branch does twine,
In some lov'd fold of Aretine.
And Nightly now beneath their shade,
Are Bugg'ries, Rapes, and Incests made.
Unto this All-sin-sheltring Grove,
Whores of the Bulk, and the Alcove.
Great Ladies Chamber-Maids, Drudges;
The Rag-picker; and Heiresse trudges;
[Page 15] Car-men, Divines, great Lords, and Taylors,
Prentices, Pimps, Poets and Gaolers;
Foot-Men, fine Fops, do here arrive,
And here promisculously they strive.
Along these hollow'd Walks it was,
That I beheld Corinna pass;
Who ever had been by to see,
The proud disdain she cast on me.
Though charming Eyes, he wou'd have swore,
She drapt from Hea'vn that very hour;
Forsaking the Divine abode.
In scorn of some desparing God.
But mark what Creatures Women are.
So infinitely vile, and fair.
Three Knights, o'th' Elbow, and the slurr,
VVith wrigling Tails, made up to her.
The first was of your VVhitehall Blades
Near kin to th' Mother of the Maids,
Grac'd by whose favour he was able,
To bring a Friend to th' VVaiters Table.
Where he had heard Sir Edward S.—
Say how the K— lov'd Bansted Mutton.
Since when he'd ne'er be brought to eat,
By's good will any other Meat.
In this, as well as all the rest,
He ventures to do like the best.
But wanting common Sence, th'ingredient,
In choosing well, not least expedient.
Converts Abortive imitation.
To Universal affectation;
So he not only eats, and talks,
But feels, and smells, sits down and walks.
[Page 16] Nay looks, and lives, and loves by Rote,
In an old tawdrey Birth-Day-Coat.
The Second was a Grays Inn Wit,
A great Inhabiter of the Pit;
Where Critick-like, he sits and squints,
Steals Pocket-Handkerchiefs, and hints,
From's Neighbour, and the Comedy,
To Court and pay his Landlady.
The Third a Ladies Eldest Son,
VVithin few years of Twenty One;
Who hopes from his propitious Fate,
Against he comes to his Estate.
By these Two Worthies to be made
A most accomplisht tearing Blade.
One in a strain 'twixt Tune and Nonsense,
Cries, Madam, I have lov'd you long since,
Permit me your fair hand to kiss.
VVhen at her Mouth her C— says yes.
In short, without much more ado.
Joyful, and pleas'd, away she flew;
And with these Three confounded Asses,
From Park, to Hackney-Coach, she passes.
So a proud Bitch does lead about,
Of Humble Currs, the Amorous rout:
VVho most obsequiously do hunt,
The sav'ry sence of Salt-swolne Cunt.
Some Pow'r more patient now relate;
The sense of this surprizing Fate.
Gods! that a thing admir'd by me,
Shou'd tast so much of Infamy.
Had she pickt out to rub her Arse on,
Some stiff-Prick'd Clown, or well hung Parson.
[Page 17] Each job of whose Spermatick Sluce,
Had fill'd her C—t with wholsom Juice.
I the proceeding shou'd have prais'd,
In hope she had quencht a Fire I rais'd:
Such nat'ral freedoms are but just,
There's something gen'rous in meer Lust.
But to turn damn'd abandon'd Jade,
When neither Head nor Tail perswade;
To be a Whore, in understanding,
A Passive Pot for Fools to S— in.
The Devil plaid booty, sure with thee,
To bring a blot of infamy.
But why was I of all Mankind,
To so severe a fate design'd?
Ungrateful! why this Treachery
To humble fond, believing me?
Who gave you Priviledges above,
The nice allowances of Love?
Did ever I refuse to bear,
The meanest part your Lust cou'd spare?
When your lew'd C—t, came spewing home,
Drencht with the Seed of half the Town.
My Dram of Sperme, was supt up after,
For the digestive Surfeit Water.
Full gorded at another time,
With a vast Meal of Nasty Slime;
Which your devouring C—t had drawn
From Porters Backs, and Foot-mens Brawn.
I was content to serve you up,
My B-lock full, for your Grace Cup;
Nor ever thought it an abuse,
While you had pleasure for excuse.
[Page 18] You that cou'd make my Heart away,
For Noise and Colours, and betray,
The Secrets of my tender hours,
To such Knight Errant Paramours;
When leaning on your Faithless Breast,
Wrapt in security, and rest.
Soft kindness all my pow'rs did move,
And reason lay dissolv'd in Love.
May stinking Vapour choak your Womb,
Such as the Men you doat upon;
May your deprav'd Appetite,
That cou'd in whiffling Fools delight,
Beget such Frenzies in your Mind,
You may go mad for the North-wind.
And fixing all your hopes upon't;
To have him Bluster in your C—t.
Turn up your longing Arse to th' Air,
And perish in a wild despair.
But Cowards shall forget to Rant,
School-boys to Frigg, old Whores to Paint:
The Jesuits Fraternity,
Shall leave the use of Buggery.
Crab-Lowse, inspir'd with Grace Divine,
From Earthy Cod, to Heav'n shall climb;
Physicians, shall believe in Jesus,
And disobedience cease to please us.
E're I desist with all my Pow'r,
To plague this Woman and undo her.
But my revenge will best be tim'd,
When she is Marry'd that is lymd;
In that most lamentable State,
I'll make her feel my scorn, and hate;
[Page 19] Pelt her with Scandals, Truth, or Lies,
And her poor Curr with jealousies.
Till I have torn him from her Breech,
While she whines like a Dog-drawn Bitch.
Loath'd, and depriv'd, kickt out of Town,
Into some dirty hole alone,
To Chew the Cud of Misery,
And know she owes it all to me.
And may no Woman better thrive,
VVho dares profane the C—t I S—

A Letter fancy'd from Artemisa ia the Town, to Cloe in the Country.

CLoe, by your command in Verse I write,
Shortly you'l bid me ride astride and Fight;
Such Talents better with our Sex agree,
Than lofty flights of dang'rous Poëtry,
Among the Men, I mean the Men of Wit,
(At least they past for such before they writ.)
How many bold advent'rers for the Bays,
Proudly designing large returns of Praise.
Who durst that stormy Pathless World explore,
Were soon dasht back, & wreckt on the dull shore,
Broke off that little stock they had before.
How wou'd a VVomans tott'ring Barque be tost,
Where stoutest Ships, the Men of VVit are lost?
When I reflect on this I straight grow wise,
And my own self I gravely thus advise.
Dear Artemisa, Poetry's a Snare,
Bedlam, has many Mansions; have a care,
Your Muse diverts you, makes the Reader, sad
You think your self inspir'd, he thinks you mad
Thus like an Arrant Woman as I am,
No sooner well convinc'd writin'gs a shame,
That Whore, is scarce a more reproachful name
Than Poetess—
Like Men that Marry, or like Maids that woe,
Because it is the worst thing they can do.
Pleas'd with the contradiction, and the Sin,
Me thinks I stand on Thornes till I begin.
You expect to hear at least, what love has past
In this lewd Town, since you, and I saw last
What change has happen'd of Intrigues, and whe­ther,
The old ones last, and who, and who's together?
But how (my dearest Cloe) shou'd I set
My Pen to write, what I wou'd fain forget?
Or name the lost thing Love, without a Tear,
Since so debauch'd by ill-bred Customes here?
Love, the most generous passion of the Mind,
The softest refuge innocence can find,
The safe directer of unguided Youth,
Fraught with kind wishes and secur'd by Truth;
That Cordial drop, Heav'n in our Cup has thrown,
To make the naus'ous draught of life go down;
On which one only blessing, God, might raise,
In Lands of Atheists, Subsidies of praise;
For none did, e're so dull, and stupid prove,
But felt a God, and blest his pow'r in love:
[Page 21] This only joy, for which poor we were made,
Is grown like play, to be an Arrant Trade;
The Rooks creep in, and it has got of late,
As many little Cheats, and tricks as that:
But what yet more a VVomans heart wou'd vex,
'Tis chiefly carry'd on by our own Sex.
Oh silly Sex! though born like Monarchs free,
Turn Gipsies, for a meaner liberty,
And hate restraint, though but from infamy.
They call what ever is not common, nice,
And deaf to Natures Rule, or Loves advice,
Forsake the pleasure, to pursue the Vice.
To an exact perfection they have brought,
The action Love, the passion is forgot;
'Tis below VVit, they say, if we admire,
And ev'n with approving, they desire:
Their private wish, obeys the publique voice;
'Twixt good, and bad, whimsey decides, not choice;
Fashion's grown up to taste, at formes they strike,
They know what they wou'd have, not what they like.
Bovy's, a Beauty, if some few agree
To call him so, the rest to that degree,
Sir. R. B.
Affected are, that with their Eares they see.
Where I was visiting the other Night,
Comes a fine Lady, with her humble Knight;
Who had prevail'd with her, through her own skill,
At his request, though much against his will
To come to London—
As the Coach stopt, I heard her voice more loud,
Then a great Bellied Womans, in a Crowd;
[Page 22] Telling the Knight, that her affairs require,
He for some hours, obsequiously retire.
I think she was asham'd he shou'd be seen,
Hard fate of Husband, the Gallant had been,
Thought a diseas'd, ill favour'd Fool, brought in
Dispatch says she, the bus'ness you pretend,
Your Beastly visit, to your drunken Friends;
A Bottle, ever makes you look so fine;
Methinks I long to smell you stink of Wine:
Your Country drinking Breath's enough to Kill;
Sowre Ale, corrected with a Lemmon Pill.
Prithee farewell, we'le meet again anon,
The necessary thing, bows, and is gone.
She flies up stairs, and hast does show,
That silly Antick Postures will allow.
And then burst out—And Madam am not I,
The strangest alter'd Creature! let me dye,
I find my self rediculously grown,
Fmbarrast, with my being out of Town.
Rude, and untaught, like any Indian Queen,
My Country nakedness, is strangely seen.
How is Love govern'd, Love that rules the state
And pray who are the Men most worn of late?
When I was marry'd, Fools, were All-a-mode,
Then Men of Wit, were then held incommode,
Slow of belief, and sickle in desire,
Who e're they'le be perswaded, must enquire,
As if they came to spye, not to admire.
With searching wisdom, fatal to their ease,
They find out why, what may, and shou'd not please.
Nay take themselves for injur'd, when we dare,
Make'em think better of us than we are:
[Page 23] And if we hide our frailties from their sights,
Call us deceitful Jilts, and Hypocrites;
Thy little guess (who at our Arts are griv'd)
The perfect joy of being well deceiv'd:
Inquisitive, as jealous Cuckolds grow.
Rather than not be knowing, they will know,
VVhat being known, creates their certain wee.
VVomen, shou'd these of all Mankind avoid,
For wonder by clear knowledge is destroy'd,
Women, who is an Arrant Bird of Night,
Bold in the dusk, before a Fools dull sight,
Must fly, when Reason brings the blazing light.
But the kind easie Fool, apt to admire
Himself, trust us; his follyes all conspire,
To flatter his, and favour our desire:
Vain of his proper merit, he with ease.
Believes we love him best, who best can please:
On him our gross, dull, common, flatteries, pass.
Ever most happy, when most made an Ass;
Heavy to apprehend, though all Mankind
Perceive us false, the Fop himself, is blind,
VVho doating on himself—
Thinks ev'ry one that sees him of his Mind.
These are true Womens Men here fore'd to cease,
Through want of breath, not will to hold her peace;
She to the Window runs, where she had spi'd,
Her much esteem'd dear Friend, the Monkey ey'd.
With Forty smiles, as many Antick bows,
As if't had been the Lady of the House,
The dirty chatt'ring Monster, she embrac'd;
And made it this fine tender Speech at last.
[Page 24] Kiss me! thou curious Miniature of Man.
How odd thou art! how pretty! how japan!
Oh I cou'd live and dye with thee! then on
For half on hour in Complements she ran.
I took this time to think what Nature meant,
When this mixt thing into the World she sent,
So very wise, yet so impertinent,
One that knows ev'ry thing; that God thought fit,
Shou'd be an Ass, through choich, not want of wit.
Whose Foppery, without the help of sense,
Cou'd ne're have rise to such an excellence.
Nature's as lame in making a true Fop,
As a Philosopher; the very top.
And dignity of folly, we attain,
By studious search, and labour of the Brain;
By observation, Councel, and deep thought,
God, never made a Coxcomb worth a groat;
We owe that Name to Inductry, and Arts,
An eminent Fool, must be a Man of parts:
And such a one was she, who had turn'd o're,
As many Books as Men, lov'd much, read more;
Had discerning Wit, to her was known,
Evry ones fault, or merit, but her own:
All the good Quallities, that ever blest,
A Woman, so distinguish'd from the rest,
Except discretion only, she possest.
But now Moncher, dear Pug, says she adieu,
And the discourse broke off, does thus renew.
You smile to see me, whom the World perchance
Mistakes to have some wit, so far advance.
The interest of Fools, that I approve,
Their merit more, than Mens of wit, and love.
[Page 25] But in our Sex, too may proofs there are,
Of such whom Wits undone, and Fools repair:
This in my time, was so observ'd a Rule,
Hardly a Wench, in Town, but had her Fool;
The meanest common Slut, who long was grown,
The jeast, and scorn of ev'ry Pit Buffoone;
Had yet left charms enough, to have subdu'd,
Some Fop, or other, fond to be thought lewd.
F—, cou'd make an Irish Lord, a Nokes;
And B—M—, had her City Cokes
A Womans ne're so ruin'd, but she can,
Be still reveng'd, on her undoer Man.
How lost soe're, she'le find some Lover, more,
A more abandon'd Fool, than she a Whores
That wretched thing Corinna, who has run
Through all the several ways of being undone,
Couzen'd at first by love, and living then,
By turning thee too dear-bought-cheat on Men.
Gay were the hours, and wing'd with joy they slew,
VVhen first the Town, her early Beauties knew;
Courted admir'd, and lov'd, with Presents fed,
Youth in her Cheeks, and pleasure in her Bed.
Till Fate, or her ill Angel, thought it fit,
To make her dote upon a Man of Wit,
VVho found 'twas dull to love above a Day,
Made his ill natur'd jest, and went away:
Now scorn'd of all, for saken and opprest.
Shee's a Memento mori, to the rest.
Diseas'd, decay'd, to take up Half a Crown,
Must Morgage her Long Scarfe, & Mantoe-Gown.
Poor Greature! who unheard of as a Fly,
In some dark hole, must all the Winter lye.
[Page 26] And want she must endure a whole half year,
That for one Month, she Tawdry may appear:
In Easter Terme, she gets her a new Gown,
When my young Masters Worship comes to Town;
From Pedagogue, and Mother, jest set free,
The hopeful Heir, of a great Family;
Who with strong Beer, and Beef, the Country rules,
And ever since the Conqnest, have been Fools.
And still with careful prospect, to maintain,
This Charecter, least crossing of the Strain.
Shou'd mend the Body Breed, his Friends provide,
A Couzen of his own to be his Bride.
And thus set out—
VVith an Estate, no Wit, and a young Wife,
The soled comforts, of a Coxcomb's life;
Dunghil, and Peas, forfook, he comes to Town,
Turus Spark, learns to be lewd, and is undone.
Nothing sutes worse with Vice, than want of sense,
Fools are still wicked, at their own expence.
This o're grown School-Boy, lost Corinna, wins,
At the first dush, to make an Asse, begins.
Pretends to like a Man, that has not known.
The Vanilies, nor Vices of the Town.
Fresh in his youth, and faithful in his love,
Eager of joys, which he does seldom prove,
Healthful, and strong, he does no pains endure,
But what the fair one, he adores, can cure:
Greateful for favours, does the Sex esteem,
And Libells none, for being kind to him.
Then of the lewdness of the Town complains,
Railes at the Witts, and Atheists, and maintains,
[Page 27] 'Tis better than good sense, than Paw'r, or Wealth,
To have a Blood, untained, youth, and health.
The ill-bred Puppy, who had never seen,
A Creature look so gay, or talk so fine;
Believes, then falls in love, and then in debt,
Mortgages all, ev'n to the Antient Seat,
To buy this Mystriss, a new House, for life;
To give her Plate, and Jewels, Robs his Wife.
And when to the height of fondness he is grown,
'Tis time to poyson him, and all's her own.
Thus meeting in her common Arms his Fate,
He leaves her Bastard, Heir to his Estate;
And as the Race of such an Owl, deserves
His own dull lawful Progeny he starves
Nature, who never made a thing in vain,
But does each Insect, to some end ordain.
VVisely provides kind-keeping Fools, no doubt
To patch up Vices, Men of Wit, were out.
Thus she ran on Two hours, some grains of sense,
Still mixt with Volleys of impertinence.
But now 'tis time I shou'd some pitty show,
To Cloe, since I cannot choose but know;
Readers, must reap the dullness, VVriters sow.
By the next Post, I will such Stories tell,
As joyn'd to these, shall to a Valume swell;
Truer than Heaven, more infamous than Hall,
But you are tir'd and so am I—

Farewel.

The Imperfect Enjoyment.

NAked she lay, claspt in my longing Arms,
I fill'd with Love, and she all over charms,
Both equally inspir'd, with eager fire,
Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.;
With Arms, Legs, Lips, close clinging to embrace,
She clips me to her Breast, and sucks me to her Face.
The nimble Tongue ( Love's lesser Lightning) plaid
Within my Mouth, and to my thoughts convey'd.
Swift Orders, that I shou'd prepare to throw,
The All-dissolving Thunderbolt below.
My flutt'ring Soul, sprung with the pointed kiss,
Hangs hov'ring o're her Balmy Limbs of Bliss.
But whilst her busie hand, wou'd guide that part,
VVhich shou'd convey my Soul, up to her Heart.
In liquid Raptures I dissolve all o're,
Melt into Sperme, and spend at ev'ry Pore:
A touch from any part of her had don't;
Her Hand, her Foot, her very look's a Cunt.
Smiling, she chids in a kind murm'ring Noise,
And from her Body wips the clammy joys;
VVhen with a Thousand Kisses, wand'ring o're,
My panting Breast, and is there then no móre?
She cries. All this to Love, and Rapture's due,
Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?
But I the most forlone, lost Man alive,
To shew my wisht Obedience vanly strive,
I sing alas! and Kiss, but cannot Swive.
[Page 29] Eager desires, confound my first intent,
Succeeding shame, does more success prevent,
And Rage, at last, confirms me impotent.
Ev'n her fair Hand, which might bid heat return
To frozen Age, and make cold Hermits burn,
Apply'd to my dead Cinder, warms no more,
Than Fire to Ashes, cou'd past Flames restore.
Trembling, confus'd, despairing, limber, dry,
A wishing, weak, unmoving lump Hy,
This Dart of love, whose piercing point oft try'd,
With Virgin blood, ten thousand Maids has dy'd.
Which Nature still directed with such Art,
That it through ev'ry C—t, reacht ev'ry Heart.
Stiffly resolv'd, twou'd carelesly invade,
Woman or Boy, nor ought its fury staid,
Where e're it pierc'd, a Cunt it found or made.
Now languid lies, in this unhappy hour,
Shrunk up, and Sapless, like a wither'd Flow'r.
Thou treacherous, base, and deserter of my flame,
False to my passion, fatal to my Fame;
By what mistaken Magick dost thou prove,
So true to lewdness, so untrue to Love?
What Oyster, Cinder, Beggar, common Whore,
Didst thou e're fail in all thy Life before?
When Vice, Disease and Scandal lead the way,
VVith what officious hast dost thou obey?
Like a Rude-roaring Hector, in the Streets,
That Scuffles, Cuffs, and Ruffles all he meets;
But if his King, or Country, claim his Aid,
The Rascal Villain, shrinks, and hides his head:
Ev'n so thy Brutal Valor, is displaid,
Breaks ev'ry Stews, does each small Whore invade,
[Page 30] But if great Love, the onset does command,
Base recreant, to thy Prince, thou darst not stand
VVorst part of me, and henceforth hated most,
Through all the Town, the common Fucking Post;
On whom each Whore, relieves her tingling Cunt,
As Hogs, on Goats, do rub themselves and grunt.
May'st thou to rav'nous Shankers, be a Prey,
Or in consuming Weepings wast away.
May Stranguries, and Stone, thy Dayes attend.
May'st thou Piss, who didst refuse to spend,
When all my joyes, did on false thee depend.
And may ten thousand abler Pricks agree,
To do the wrong'd Corinna, right for thee.

To LOVE.

O! nunquam pro me satis indignate Cupido.
OH Love! how cold, and slow to take my part,
Thou idle Wanderer, about my Heart.
Why thy Old faithful Soldier, wilt thou see,
Opprest in thy own Tents? they murder me.
Thy Flames Consume, thy Arrows Pierce thy Friends,
Rather on Foes, pursue more noble ends.
Achilles Sword, wou'd gen'rously bestow,
A Cure, as certain, as it gave the blow.
[Page 31] Hunters, who follow flying Game, give o're,
When the Prey's caught, hope still leads on before.
We thy own Slaves feel thy Tyrannick blows,
Whilst thy tame Hands unmov'd against thy Foes.
On Men disarm'd, how can you gallant prove,
And I was long ago disarm'd by Love.
Millions of dull Men, live, and scornful Maids,
Wee'll own Love valiant, when he these invades.
Rome, from each Corner of the wide World, snatch'd
A Lawrel, or't had been to this day thatch'd.
But the Old Soldier, has his resting place,
And the good batter'd Horse, is turn'd to Grass.
The harrast Whore, who liv'd a wretch to please,
Has leave to be a Bawd, and take her ease.
For me then, who have freely spent my Blood,
(Love) in thy Service, and so boldly stood.
In Celia's Trenches; wer't not wisely done,
E'en to retire, and live at peace at home?
No—might I gain a God-head, to disclaim,
My glorious Title, to my endless flame:
Divinity, with scorn, I wou'd forswear,
Such sweet, dear, tempting Devils, Women are.
When er'e those flames grow faint, I quickly find,
A fierce black Storm, pour down upon my Mind.
Head-long, I'm hurl'd, like Horse-men, who in vain,
Their (fury foaming) Coursers, wou'd restrain,
As Ships, just when the Harbour they attain.
Are snatcht by sudden Blasts, to Sea again:
So Loves fantastick storms, reduce my Heart,
Half-rescu'd, and the God resumes his Dart.
Strike here, this undefended Bosome wound,
And for so brave a Conquest be renown'd.
[Page 32] Shafts fly so fast to me from ev'ry part,
You'le scarce discern your Quiver, from my Hear
What Wretch can bear a live-long nights dull rest
Or think himself in lazy slumbers blest?
Fool—is not sleep the Image of pale Death?
There's time for rest, when fate has stopt you breath.
Me, may my soft deluding dear deceive,
I'me happy in my hopes, whilst I believe.
Now let her flatter, then as fondly chide.
Often may I enjoy, of't be deny'd.
With doubtful steps, the God of War does move
By thy example, in Ambiguous Love.
Blown to and fro like Down from thy own Wing;
Who knows, when joy, or Anguish, thou wilt brings?
Yet at thy Mothers, and thy Slaves request,
Fix an Eternal Fmpire in my Breast;
And let th' inconstant charming Sex,
Whose willful scorn, does Lovers vex;
Submit their Hearts before thy Throne,
The Vassal World, is then thy own.

The Maim'd Debauchee.

AS some brave Admiral, in former War,
Depriv'd of force, but prest with courage still;
Two Rival-Fleets, appearing from a far,
Crawles to the top of an adjacent Hill.
[Page 33] From whence (with thoughts full of concern) he views
The wise, and daring Conduct of the fight,
And each bold Action, to his Mind renews,
His present glory, and his past delight.
From his fierce Eyes, flashes of rage he throws,
As from black Clouds, when Lightning breaks away,
Transported, thinks himself amidst his Foes,
And absent, yet enjoys the Bloody Day.
So when my Days of impotence approach,
And I'm by Pox, and Wines unlucky chance,
Drov'n from the pleasing Billows of debauch,
On the dull Shore of lazy temperance.
My pains at last some respite shall afford,
Whilst I behold the Battails you maintain,
When Fleets of Glasses, Sail about the Board;
From whose Broad-sides Volleys of Wit shall rain.
Nor shall the sight of Honourable Scars,
Which my too forward Valour did procure.
Frighten new listed Souldiers from the Warrs,
Past joys have more than paid what I endure.
Shou'd hopeful Youths (worth being drunk) prove nice,
And from their fair Inviters meanly shrink,
Twou'd please the Ghost, of my departed Vice,
If at my Councel, they repent and drink,
Or shou'd some cold complexion'd Sot forbid,
With his dull Morals, our Nights brisk Alarmes,
I'll fire his Blood by telling what I did,
When I was strong, and able to bear Armes.
I'll tell of Whores Attacqu'd their Lords at home,
Bawds Quarters beaten up, and Fortress won,
Windows demolisht, Watches overcome,
And handsome ills, by my contrivance done.
Nor shall our Love-fits Cloris be forgot,
When each the well-look'd Link-boy, strove t'enjoy
And the best Kiss, was the deciding Lot,
Whether the Boy us'd you, or I the Boy.
With Tales like these, I will such heat inspire,
As to the important mischief shall incline.
I'll make them long some Antient Church to fire,
And fear no lewdness the're call'd to by Wine.
Thus States-man-like, I'll sawcily impose
And safe from danger Valiently advise,
Shelter'd in impotence, urge you to blows,
And being good for nothing else, be wise.

The Argument.

How Tall-boy, Kill-prick, Suck-Prick, did contend,
For Bridegroom Dildoe, Friend did fight with Friend;
But Man of God, by Law-Man, called Parson,
Contriv'd by turns how each might rub her Arse on.
SAy Heav'n-born Muse, for only thou canst tell,
How discord dire, between Two Widows fell?
What made the Fair one, and her well shap'd Mother,
Duty forget, and pious Nature smother?
Who was most modest, vertuous, or fair,
Was not the cause of contest I dare swear.
Nor Wit, nor breeding, rais'd this emulation;
Those things with them are trifles out of fashion.
Great was the strife, rais'd up by envious Fate,
To ruine Pegos, happy Reign and State.
When R— with every Eye beheld,
The Three dear Friends, his Heart with rancor swell'd.
That in one House, they were of one accord,
Wanton in Bed, and Riotous at Board,
Preferring Brawny G— to Spiney Lord:
He Vow'd to break this Tripple League, of Love,
And from their Breasts, sweet Friendship to remove.
In a foul day, from bawdy Bath, he flies,
To put in Act his hasted enterprise.
I th' Bow'r of Bliss, where sacred Ballocks dwells,
There lives a Hagg, deep red in Charms, and Spells;
Philters, and Potions, that my Magick skill,
Can give an Eunuch Stones, and Cunt its fill.
Babes, at her call fly from the breeding Womb,
With Neighbour T-rd, in loathsome Jakes to roame.
As oft as Finger, Dildoe, Pego, Rape,
The Virgin Hymen, she repaires the Gap:
Fam'd through the World, for the C—t. mending Trade;
To her he goes to implore her mighty Aid,
By Men she's call'd the Mother of the Maids.
Hail Worse. Dame (said he) repleat with grace.
Mother, oth' Maids, Daughter of noble Race!
Whilst Men of God to Betty B— go.
VVhist Prick, and Pen, with White, and Black does flow,
My lasting Verse, shall magnifie the fame,
And melting Tarse, adore thy holy name.
Therefore dear Mother, lend thine equal Ear,
To my complaint, and favour my just Prayer.
There is a place, a down a gloomy Vale, the Bath
VVhere burthen'd Nature, lays her nasty Tail;
Then Thousand Pilgrims, thither do resort,
For ease, disease, for letchery, and sport:
Thither two Beldames, and a jilting Wife,
Came to swive off, the tedious hours of life:
I willing to contribute to their joy,
Offer'd my Myte, to th' young unsatiate Toy,
Who banish'd Cuck, cause Cunt he cou'd not cloy.
[Page 37] Here upright Dame, Kill-prick, the wise old Jew,
Told me I must Twelve times her Womb bedew,
E're her Child Suck-prick, shou'd her Buttocks shew
Resolu'd to win like Hercules, the Prize.
Twelve times I scour'd the Kennel twixt her Thighs,
The cheating Jilt, at th' Twelft, a Dry-Bob, cryes.
My Prick and I, thus cross, bit in high rage,
Appeal'd to th' skilful sticklees on the Stage.
With that fair Tall-boy, and bold Suck-prick, come,
To squeeze my Tarse, and pass their final doom:
Saying if on Priapus, I cou'd shew,
One holy Relique, of kind Pearly Dew,
Ith' Twelth time, in Kill-pricks Arse, did Spew.
To their deriding Test, I did submit,
Priapus squeez'd, a Snow-Ball, did emit;
Yet these Two partial Dames, a dry Bob, cry,
Perform your Bargain (Peer) or frigg, and dye.
Thus was I Rook'd of Twelve substantial Fucks,
By these base stinking, over it chink Nocks.
Your aid, your aid, dear Mother me inspire,
With apt revenge to feed my raging fire.
The gracious Matron, smiling on him said.
Be it as thou desir'st my dear lov'd Lad;
For this abuse, the Rump-fed-Runts shall mourn,
Till slimey Cunt, to grimey A-se hole turn.
By her Caves Mouth, a verdant Mirtle grows,
Bearing Loves Trophies, on his sacred Boughs.
The Crowns of Kings, were offer'd to this Shrine,
Dildoes and Merkins of thy Royal Line.
Fair Ladies hearts, with Mitred Pricks transfixt,
In Mystick manner, make the Crucifix.
[Page 38] To th' Tree she leads him, from a Bough pulls down,
A mighty Tool, a Dildoe of renown;
A Dildoe, long, and large, as Hectors Launce,
Inscrib'd, Honi Soit Qui Mal y' Pence.
Knight of the Garter, made for's vast deserts,
As Modern Heroe, was for's monstrous parts.
This pious Son (said he) nail up in Box,
By Carryer, send it these salt burning Nocks,
Directed thus. To the Lady most deserving
Who's made most Slaves, and kept most Pricks from Starving.
O're-joy'd with hop'd success away he flyes,
To Bath, disguis'd, to bear the welcome Prize;
But when they saw the Image of the Blest Man!
Who can express how fast, how swift they ran!
Each for her self to seize it; no Dog at Deer,
Nor Hawk, at Herne, shew'd such a swift carri'ere.
At once they souse, on the beloved Prey
And sworn Friends do engage in Mortal Fray.
Old Kill-prick, dreadful to her Friends, and Foes,
Like Luxenburgh, in Back, and Breast-plate shows.
Gygantick Tall-boy famed in the West,
For Cornish Hugg, to th fight her self addrest;
Whilst the Child Suck-prick, hop'd to steal away,
By Stratagem, the glory of the Day.
But all in vain, Tall-Boy, with one hand held,
Joves Prize, with th' other crafty Suck-prick sell'd:
But looks, not Menaces, nor crashing blow,
Cou'd make stout Kill-prick, quit her lov'd Deldoe:
Undanted, she maintain'd a cruel fight;
For Conquest scratcht. and tore. withal her might.
[Page 39] So have I seen a crum-back Crab-louse stick,
With fervent love, to lick creating Prick;
The more he pulls, the more the loving Wretch,
Doea strive to stay, and each Hair does catch.
Till murdring Man, enrag'd from Ballocks tears,
The Nock-born-Bratt, and ends his hopeful years.
So hard it far'd with Kill-prick, had not Fate,
Sent Man of God, to end the dire debate,
What rage, what fury (said he) do ye stir
To shed the Blood of Saints, in civil War?
How well you make the Mother Church, to mourn,
And to Fanaticks be the publick scorn?
For shame, dear Souls, reserve your noble blood,
To spend with Man. Abasht the Warriers stood
To see the holy Father, in the place,
But strait on the matter putting a good face;
Thus Kill-prick spake.
To you O Reverend Sir
The justness of this Cause I will transfer,
A Cause too great for Lay-men, vile to try,
Fit for Plus Ultras, deep Divinity
A Cause, for mhich blest Saints, above wou'd dye!
The modest Tall-boy, so devote appears,
Though stealing Prick, you'd think she had her Prayer's;
And thouhg she'had almost won the bloody Field,
With Suck-prick ( Babe of Grace) to this does yield.
The case being stated, holy Man does pray,
For a Blessing on's endeavours, then does say
Whereas sage Matrones, you do all agree,
Your case to yield to my integrity,
Fitter for general Councel than weak me,
[Page 40] Dildoe's a Lawful Tool, deny't who can,
I'll prove 'tis made for a meet help for Man;
As unto Rector, Curate, is Assistant,
So Dildoe's to faln Prick, when Cunt has pist on't.
But her's th' Elect, ordain'd for Propagation,
Who trusts in this is blest in Generation;
This has done more, than Turnbridge, Bath, or Ep­som,
Though ne're so barran this is sure to help 'em.
Then pulling out the Rector, of the Females,
Nine times he bath'd him, in their piping hot Tails.
Panting (quoth he) now peace be on ye all,
VVhen I am absent then one Dildoe call;
As those in holy Church, to Image pray,
VVhen wonder-working Saint, out o'th' way,
Thus all well pleas'd to Church away they go,
To sing Te Deum, for their dear Dildoe.

An Allusion to Horace.

The 10th Satyr of the 1st. Book.
Nempe incomposito Dixi pede, &c.
VVEll Sir, 'tis granted, I said D— Rhimes,
Were stoln, unequal, nay dull many times:
VVhat foolish Patron, is there found of his,
So blindly partial, to deny me this?
[Page 41] But that his Plays, embroider'd up, and down,
With Wit, and Learning, justly pleas'd the Town,
In the same Paper, I as freely own.
Yet having this allow'd, the heavy Mass,
That Stuffs up his loose Volumns, must not pass:
For by that Rule, I might aswel admit,
Crowns, tedious Scenes, for Poetry, and Wit.
'Tis therefore not enough, when your false sense,
Hits the false Judgment, of an Audience:
Of clapping Fools, assembled a vast Crowd,
Till the throng'd Play-house, crack with the dull load;
Though ev'n that Talent, merits in some sort,
That can divert the Rabble, and the Court.
Which blundring S—, never cou'd attain,
And puzling O—, labours at in vain.
But within due proportions circumscribe
What e're you write; that with a flowing Tide,
The Style may rise, yet in its rise forbear,
With useless words, t' oppress the weary'd Ear.
Here be your Language lofty, there more light,
Your Rethorick, with your Poetry unite:
For Elegance sake, sometimes allay the force
Of Epithets, 'twill soften the discourse;
A jeast in scorn, points out, and hits the thing.
More home, than the Moros Satyrs sting.
Shake-spear, and Johnson, did herein excell,
And might in this be imitated well;
Whom refin'd E—, coppy's not at all,
But is himself, a sheer Original.
Nor that slow Drudge, in swift Pindarick strains,
F—, who C— imitates with pains,
And rides a jaded Muse, whipt with loose Rains.
[Page 42] VVhen Lee, makes temp'rate Scipio, fret, and rave
And Hannibal, a whining Amorous Slave,
I laugh, and wish the hot-brain'd Fustian Fool,
In B— hands, to be well lasht at School.
Of all our Modern Wits none seems to me,
Once to have toucht, upon true Comedy,
But hasty Shadwel, and slow Wicherley
Shadwells unfinish'd works do yet impart,
Great proofs of force of Nature, none of Art;
VVith just bold strokes he dashes here, and there,
Shewing great Mastery, with little Care;
And scorns to varnish his good Touches o're,
To make the Fools, and Women, praise'em more.
But Wicherley, earnes hard, what e're he gains,
He wants no judgment, nor he spares no pains;
He frequently excells, and at the least,
Makes fewer faults, than any of the best.
Waller, by Nature, for the Bays design'd,
With force, and fire, and fancy unconfin'd,
In Panegyricks, does excell Mankind.
He best can turn, enforce, and soften things,
To praise great Conquerors, or to fiatter Kings.
For pointed Satyrs, I wou'd Buckhurst choose,
The best good Man, with the worst natur'd Must.
For Songs, and Verses, mannerly, obscene,
That can stir Nature up, by spring unseen,
And without forcing blushes worm the Queen.
Sidley, as that prevailing, gentle Art,
That can with a resistless Charm impart,
The loosest wishes, to the chastest heart.
Raise such a conflict, kindle such a Fire,
Betwixt declining Vertue, and Desire;
[Page 43] Till the poor vanquish't Maid dissolves away,
In Dreams all Night, in Sighs, and Tears, all day.
D—, in vain try'd this nice way of wit,
For he to be a tearing Blade, thought fit,
But when he wou'd be sharp; he still was blunt,
To frisk his frollique fancy, he'd cry C—t,
Wou'd give the Ladies, a dry Bawdy bob,
And thus got the name of Poet Squab.
But to be just, 'twill to his praise be found,
His Excellencies more than faults abound,
Nor dare I from his sacred Temples tear,
That Lawrel, which he best deserves to wear,
But does not D—, find ev'n Johnson dull?
Fletcher and Beaumont, uncorrect, and full,
Olewd Lines, as he calls 'em? Shake-spears stile
Stiff and affected; to his own the while,
Allowing all the justness that his Pride,
So Arrogantly had to these deny'd?
And may not I, have leave impartially,
To search, and censure D—, Works, and try,
If those gross faults, his choice Pen does commit,
Proceed from want of Judgment, or of Wit?
Or of his lumpish fancy, does refuse,
Spirit and Grace, to his loose slattern Muse?
Five hundred Verses, ev'ry Morning writ,
Proves you no more a Poet, than a Wit:
Such scribling Authors, have been seen before
Mustapha, the English Princess, Forty more,
Were things perhaps compos'd in half an hour,
To write what may securely stand the Test,
Of being well read over thrice at least;
[Page 44] Compare each Phrase, examine ev'ry Line,
Weigh ev'ry Word, and ev'ry Thought refine;
Scorn all applause, the vile Rout can bestow,
And be content to please those few who know.
Canst thou be such a vain mistaken thing,
To wish thy Works might make a Play-house ring.
With the unthinking Laughter, and poor praise,
Of Fops, and Ladies, Factious for thy Plays?
Then send a cunning Friend to learn thy doom,
From the shrewd Judges of the drawing Room.
I've no Ambition on that idle score,
But say with Betty M—, heretofore,
When a Court Lady, call'd her B—, Whore;
I please one Man of Wit, am proud on't too,
Let all the Coxcombs, dance to Bed to you.
Shou'd I be troubled when the Pur-blind Knight,
Who squints more in his Judgment, than his sight,
Picks silly faults, and censures what I write?
Or when the poor-fed Poets of the Town
For Scraps, and Coach-room cry my Verses down?
I loath the Rabble, 'tis enough for me,
If S—, S—, S—, W—,
G—, B—, B—, B—,
And some few more, whom I omit to name,
Approve my sense, I count their censure Fame.

In defence of Satyr.

WHen Shakes. Johns. Fletcher, rul'd the Stage,
They took so bold a freedom with the Age,
That there was scarce a Knave, or Fool, in Town,
Of any note, but had his Picture shown;
And (without doubt) though some it may offend,
Nothing helps more than Satyr, to amend
Ill Manners, or is trulier Vertues Friend.
Princes, may Laws ordain, Priests gravely Preach,
But Poets, most successfully will teach.
For as a passing Bell, frights from his Meat,
The greedy Sick man: that too much wou'd Eat;
So when a Vice, ridiculous is made,
Our Neighbors shame, keeps us from growind bad.
But wholesome remedies, few Palates please,
Men rather love, what flatters their Disease;
Pimps, Parasites, Buffoons, and all the Crew,
That under Friendships name, weak Man undoe;
Find their false Service, kindlier understood,
Than such as tell bold Truths to do us good.
Look where you will, and you shall hardly find,
A Man, without some sickness of the Mind.
In vain we wise wou'd seem, while ev'ry Lust,
VVhisks us about, as VVhirlwinds do the Dust.
Here for some needless Gain, VVretch is hurl'd,
From Pole, to Pole, and Slav'd about the World;
[Page 46] While the reward of all his pains, and Care,
Ends in that despicable thing, his Heir.
There a vain Fop, Mortgages all his Land,
To buy that gawdy Play-thing a Command,
To ride a Cock-Horse, wear a Scarfe, at's Arse,
And play the Pudding, in a May-day-farce.
Here one whom God to make a Fool, thought fit,
In spight of Providence, will be a Wit.
But wanting strength, t'uphold his ill made choice,
Sets up with Lewdness, Blasphemy, and Noise,
There at his Mrs. Feet, a Lover lyes
And for a tawdrey, painted Baby dyes.
Falls on his Knees, adores, and is afraid,
Of the vain Idol, he himself has made.
These, and a thousand Fools unmention'd here,
Hate Poets all, because they Poets fear
Take heed (they cry) yonder Mad Dog will bite,
He cares not whom he falls on in his fit;
Come but in's way, and strait a new Lampoone
Shall spread your mangled Fame about the Town,
But why am I this Bug-bear to ye all?
My Pen is dipt in no such bitter Gall.
He that can rail at one he calls his Friend,
Or hear him absent wrong'd, and not defend;
Who for the sake of some ill natur'd Jeast,
Tells what he shoul'd conceal, Invents the rest;
To fatal Mid-night quarrels, can betray,
His brave Companion, and then run away;
Leaving him to be murder'd in the street,
Then put it off, with some Buffoone Conceit;
This, this is he, you shou'd beware of all,
Yet him a pleasant, witty Man, you call
[Page 47] To whet your dull Debauches up, and down,
You seek him as top Fidler of the Town.
But if I laugh when the Court Coxcombs show,
To see that Booby Sotns dance Provoe.
Or chatt'ring Porus, from the Side Box grin,
Trickt like a Ladys Monkey new made clean.
To me the name of Railer, strait you give,
Call me a Man that knows not how to live.
But Wenches to their Keepers, true shall turn,
Stale Maids of Honor, proffer'd Husbands scorn,
Great States-man, flatt'ry, and Clinches hate,
And long in Ossice dye without Estate.
Against a Bribe, Court Judges, shall decide,
The City Knav'ry want, the Clergy Pride.
E're that black Malice, in my Rhymes you find,
That wrongs a worthy Man, or hurts a Friend.
But then perhaps you'll say, why do you write?
What you think harmless Mirth, the World thinks Spight.
Why shou'd your Fingers itch to have a lash.
At Simius, the Buffoon, or Cully Bash?
What is't to you, if Alidores fine Whore,
Fucks with some Fop, whilst he's shut out of Door?
Consider pray, that dang'rous Weapon Wit,
Frightens a Million, when a few you hit.
Whip but a Curr, as you ride through a Town,
And strait his Fellow Currs the Quarrel own,
Each Knave, or Fool, that's conscious of a Crime,
Tho he scapes now, looks for't another time.
Sir, I confess all you have said is true,
But who has not some Folly to pursue?
[Page 48] Milo turn'd Quixot, fancy'd. Battails, Fights,
When the fifth Bottle, had encreas'd the Lights.
War-like Dirt Pyes, our Heroe Paris forms,
Which desp'rate Bessus, without Armour storms.
Cornus, the kind Husband, e're was born.
Still Courts the Spark, that does his Brows adorn.
Invites him home to dine, and fills his Veins,
With the hot Blood, which his dear Doxy drains.
Grandio thinks himself a Beau-Garcon,
Goggles his Eyes, writes Letters up and down;
And with his sawch Love, plagues all the Town.
While pleas'd to have his Vanity thus fed,
He's caught with G—, that old Hag a Bed.
But shou'd I all the crying Follies tell,
That rouse the sleeping Sayter from his Cell.
I to my Reader, shou'd as tedious prove,
As that old Spark, Albanus making love:
Or florid Roscius, when with some smooth flam,
He gravely on the publick, tries to sham.
Hold then my Muse, 'tis time to make an end,
Least taxing others, thou thy self offend.
The World's a Wood, in which all loose their way,
Though by a diff'rent Path, each goes Astray.

On the suppos'd Authour of a late Poem in defence of Satyr.

TO rack, and torture thy unmeaning Brain,
In Satyrs praise, to a low untun'd strain,
In thee was most impertinent and vain.
When in thy Person, we more clearly see,
That Satyr's of Divine Authority,
For God, made one on Man, when he made thee.
To shew there were some Men, as there are Apes.
Fram'd for meer sport, who differ but in shapes:
In thee are all these contradictions joynd,
That make an Asse, prodigious and refin'd.
A lump deform'd, and shapeless wert thou born.
Begot in Loves despit, and Natures scorn;
And art grown up the most ungraceful Wight,
Harsh to the Ear, and hideous to the sight,
Yet Love's thy bus'ness, Beauty thy delight.
Curse on that silly hour, that first inspir'd,
Thy madness, to pretend to be admir'd;
To paint thy grizly Face to dance, to dress,
And all those Awkward Follies that express,
Thy loathsome Love, and filthy daintiness.
Who needs will be a Ugly Beau-Garcon,
Spit at, and shun'd, by ev'ry Girl in Town;
Where dreadfully LovesScare-Crow, thou art plac'd
To fright the tender Flock, that long to taste:
While ev'ry coming Maid, when you appear,
Starts back for shame, and strait turns chaste for fear.
[Page 50] For none so poor, or Prostitute have prov'd,
Where you made love, t'endure to be belov'd.
'Twere-labour lost, or else I wou'd advise.
But thy half Wit, will ne're let thee be wise.
Half-witty, and half-mad, and scarce half-brave,
Half-honest (which is very much a Knave.)
Made up of all these halfs, thou can'st not pass
For any thing intirely, but an Ass.

The Answer.

RAile on poor feeble Scribler, speak of me,
In as bad Terms, as the World speaks o thee.
Sit swelling in thy Hole, like a vext Toad,
And full of Pox, and Malice, spit abroad.
Thou can'st hurt no Mans Fame, with thy ill word
Thy Pen, is full as harmless as thy Sword.

Seneca's Troas, Act. 2. Chorus.

AFter Death, nothing is, and nothing, Death
The utmost Limits of a gasp of Breath:
Let the ambitious Zealot, lay aside,
His hopes of Heav'n (where Faith is but his pride)
Let Slavish Souls, lay by their Fear,
Nor be concern'd, which way, nor where.
After this life they shall be hurl'd,
Dead, we become the Lumber of the world;
And to that Mass of Matter shall be swept,
Where things destroy'd, with things Unborn, are kept.
Devouring time swallows up whole,
Impartial Death confounds Body and Soul.
For Hell, and the foul Fiend, that rules,
Gods everlasting fiery Goales,
Devis'd by Rogues, dreaded by Fools;
(With his grim griezly Dog, that keeps the Door)
Are senseless Stories, idle Tales,
Dreams, Whimseys, and no more.

Vpon Nothing.

1
NOthing thou Elder Brother ev'n to shade,
Thou hadst a Being, e're the World was made,
And (well fixt) art alone of ending not afraid,
2
E're time, and place, were, time, and place, were not
When Primitive Nothing, something strait begot,
Then all Proceeded from the great united—What?
3
Something, the gen'ral Attribute of all,
Sever'd, from thee, it's sole Original,
Into thy boundless self, must undistinguish'd fall.
4
Yet something did thy mighty pow'r command.
And from thy fruitful emptinesses hand,
Snatcht Men, Beasts, Birds, Fire, Aire, and Land.
5
Matter, the wicked'st Off-spring of thy Race,
By forme assisted, flew from thy embrace,
And Rebel Light, obscur'd thy reverend dusky Face.
6
With form and Matter, time, and place, did join,
Body, thy Foe, with thee did Leagues combine,
To spoil thy peaceful Realm, and ruine all thy Line.
7
But Turn-Coat-Time, assists the Foe in vain,
And brib'd by thee, assists the short liv'd Reign,
And to thy hungry VVomb, drives back thy Slaves again.
8
Tho Mysteries are barr'd from Laich-Eyes,
And the Divine alone, with VVarrant pryes,
Into thy Bosome, where thy truth in private lyes.
9
Yet this of thee, the wise may freely say,
Thou from the Virtuous, nothing tak'st away,
And to be part of thee, the VVicked wisely pray.
10
Great Negative, how vainly wou'd the Wise,
Enquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise,
Didst thou not stand to point their dull Philosophies
11
Is, or is not, the two great ends of Fate,
And true, or false, the Subject of debate,
That pefect, or destroy, the vast designs of Fate.
12
When they have rack'd the Politicians Breast,
Within thy Bosome, most securely rest,
And when reduc'd to thee, are least unsafe, & best.
13
But Nothing, why does something still permit,
That Sacred Monarchs, shou'd at Councel sit,
With Persons highly thought, at best, for Nothing fit.
14
Whil'st weighty Something, modestly abstains,
From Princes Coffers, and from States-Mens Brains,
And Nothing there, like stately Nothing reings.
15
Nothing who dwellst with Fools, in grave disguise,
For whom they Reverend shapes, & formes devise.
Lawn-sleeves, & Furrs, & Gowns when they like thee look wise.
16.
French Truth, Dutch Prowess, British Policy,
Hybernian Learning, Scotch Civility,
Spaniards dispatch, Danes Wit, are mainly seen in thee.
17
The great Mans gratitude, to his best Frend,
King Promises, Whores Vows, towards thee they bend,
Flow swiftly into thee, and in thee ever end.

Vpon his leaving his Mistriss.

TIs not that I'm weary grown,
Of being yours, and yours alone,
But with what Face can I incline,
To damn you to be only mine?
You whom some kinder Pow'r did fashion,
By merit, and by inclination,
The joy at least of one whole Nation.
Let meaner Spirits of your Sex
With humbler aims, their thoughts perplex,
And boast, if by their Arts they can,
Contrive to make one happy Man;
Whilst mov'd by an impartial Sense,
Favours like Nature you dispence,
With Universal influence.
See the kind Seed-receiving Earth,
To ev'ry Grain affords a Birth;
On her no Show'rs unwelcome fall,
Her willing Womb, retains 'em all,
And shall my Celia be confin'd?
No, live up to thy mighty Mind,
And be the Mistriss of Mankind.

Song.

IN the Fields of Lincolns Inn,
Underneath a tatter'd Blanket,
On a Flock-Bed, God be thanked,
Feats of Active Love were seen.
Phillis, who you know loves Swiving,
As the Gods love pious Pray'rs;
Lay most pensively contriving,
How to Fuck with Pricks by pairs.
Coridon's aspiring Tarse,
Which to Cunt, had ne're submitted;
Wet with Am'rous Kiss she fitted,
To her less frequented Ar—
Strephon's, was a handful longer,
Stiffly propt with eager Lust;
None for Champion, was more stronger,
This into her Cunt he thrust.
Now for Civil Wars prepare,
Rais'd by fierce intestine bustle.
When these Heroes meeting justle,
In the Bowels of the fair.
They tilt, and thrust with horrid pudder,
Blood, and slaughter is decreed;
Hurling Souls at one another,
Wrapt in flakey Clotts of Seed.
Nature had 'twixt C—t and A-se,
Wisely plac'd firm separation;
God knows else what desolation
Had ensu'd from Warring Tarse.
Though Fate, a dismal end did threaten,
It prov'd no worse than was desir'd.
The Nymph was sorely Ballock beaten,
Both the Shepherds soundly tir'd.

Vpon his drinking a Bowl.

VVlean contrive me such a Cup,
As Nestor us'd of old;
Shew all thy skill to trim it up,
Damask it round with Gold.
Make it so large, that fill'd with Sack,
Up to the swelling brim;
Vast Toasts, on the delicious Lake,
Like Ships at Sea may swim.
Engrave not Battail on his Cheek,
With VVar, I've nought to do;
I'm none of those that took Mastrich,
Nor Yarmouth Leager knew.
Let it no name of Planets tell,
Fixt Stars, or Constellations;
For I am no Sir Sydrophell,
Nor none of his Relations.
But carve thereon a spreading Vine,
Then add Two lovely Boys;
Their Limbs in Amorous folds intwine,
The Type, of future joys.
Cupid, and Bacchus, my Saints are,
May drink, and Love, still reign,
With VVine, I wash away my cares,
And then to Cunt again.

Song.

AS Cloris full of harmless thoughts,
Beneath a Willow lay;
Kind Love a youthful Shepherd brought,
To pass the time away.
She blusht to be encounter'd so,
And chid the Amorous Swain;
But as she strove to rise and go,
He pull'd her down again.
A sudden Passion seiz'd her Heart,
In spight of her disdain;
She found a Pulse in ev'ry part,
And Love in ev'ry Vain.
Ah you (said she) what Charmes are these,
That conquer and surprise;
Ah let me—for unless you please,
I have no Pow'r to rise.
She fainting spoke, and trembling lay,
For fear he shou'd comply;
Her lovely Eyes, her Heart betray,
And gives her Tongue the lye.
Thus she, whom Princes had deny'd,
With all their Pomp and Train;
Was in the lucky Minute try'd,
And yielded to the Swain.

Song.

QUoth the Dutchess of Cl—, to Mrs. Kn—
I'd fain have a Prick, but how to come by't;
I desire you'le be secret, and give your advice,
Though Cunt be not coy, Reputation is nice.
To some Cellar, in Sodom, your Grace must retire,
There Porters, with Black-pots, sit round a Coal-fire;
There open your Case, and your Grace cannot fail,
Of a douzen of Pricks, for a douzen of Ale.
Is't so quoth the Dutchess? Ah by God, quoth the Whore.
Then give me the Key, that unlocks the Back-dore;
For I had rather be fuckt by Porters, and Car-men,
Then thus be abus'd by C—, and G—

Song.

I Rise at Eleven, I Dine obout Two,
I get drunk before Seven, and the next thing I do;
I send for my Whore, when for fear of a Clap,
I Spend in her hand, and I Spew in her Lap:
There we quarrel, and scold, till I fall asleep,
[Page 60] When the Bitch, growing bold, to my Pocket does creep;
Then slyly she leaves me, and to revenge th' af­front,
At once she bereaves me of Money and Cunt.
If by chance then I wake, hot-headed, and drunk
What a coyle do I make for the loss of my Punk?
I storm, and I roar, and I fall in a rage,
And missing my Whore, I bugger my Page:
Then crop-sick, all Morning, I rail at my Men,
And in Bed I lye Yawning, till Eleven again.

Song.

LOve a Woman! y'are an Ass,
'Tis a most insipid Passion
To choose out for your happiness!
The idlest part of Gods Creation.
Let the Porter, and the Groome,
Things design'd for dirty Slaves,
Drudge in fair Aurelias Womb,
To get supplies for Age, and Graves.
Farewel Woman, I intend,
Henceforth, ev'ry Night to sit,
With my lewd well natur'd Friend,
Drinking, to engender Wit.
Then give me Health, Wealth, Mirth, and Wine,
And if busie Love, intrenches,
There's a sweet soft Page, of mine,
Does the trick worth Forty Wenches.

Song to Cloris.

FAir Cloris in a Pig-Stye, lay,
Her tender Herd, lay by her,
She slept in murm'ring gruntlings, they
Complaining of the scorching Day,
Her slumbers thus inspire.
She dreamt, while she with careful pains,
Her snow Arms employ'd,
In Ivory Pailes, to fill out Grains,
One of her Love convicted Swaynes,
Thus hasting to her cry'd.
Fly Nymph! O fly! e're 'tis too late,
A dear lov'd life to save,
Rescue your Bosom Pig, from Fate,
Who now expires, hung in the Gate,
That leads to yonder Cave.
My self had try'd to set him free,
Rather than brought the News,
But I am so abhorr'd by thee,
That ev'n thy Darlings life from me,
I know thou woud'st refuse.
Struck with the News, as quick the flyes,
As blushes to her Face;
Not the bright Lightning from the Skies,
Nor Love, shot from her brighter Eyes,
Move half so swift a pace.
This Plot, it seems the lustful, Slave,
Had laid against her Honor,
Which not one God, took care to save,
For he pursues her to the Cave,
And throws himself upon her.
Now pierced is her Virgin Zone,
She feels the Foe within it,
She hears a broken Am'rous groan,
The panting Lovers fainting moan,
Just in the happy Minute.
Frighted she wakes, and waking Friggs,
Nature thus kindly eas'd,
In dreams rais'd by her murm'ring Piggs,
And her own Thumb between her Legs,
She innocent and pleas'd.

Song.

GIve me leave to rail at you,
I ask nothing but my due;
To call you false, and then to say,
You shall not keep my Heart a day.
But alas! against my will,
I must be your Captive still.
Ah! be kinder then, for I
Cannot change, and wou'd not dye.
Kindness has resistless charmes,
All besides, but weakly move,
Fiercest Anger it disarmes,
And clips the Wings of flying love.
Beauty, does the Heart invade,
Kindness only can perswade;
It guilds the Lovers, servile Chain,
And makes the Slave, grow pleas'd again.

The Answer.

NOthing adds to your fond Fire,
More than scorn, and cold disdain,
I to cherish your desire,
Kindness us'd, but 'twas in vain.
You insulted on your Slave,
Humble love you soon refus'd,
Hope not then a pow'r to have,
When ingloriously you us'd.
Think not Thirsis, I will e're,
By my love my Empire loose;
You grow constant through despair,
Love return'd, you wou'd abuse.
Though you still possess my Heart,
Scorne, and rigor, I must feign.
Ah! forgive that only Art,
Love has left, your love to gain.
You that cou'd my Heart subdue,
To new Conquests ne're pretend,
Let your example make me true,
And of a Conquer'd Foe, a Friend:
Then if e're I shou'd complain,
Of your Empire, or my Chain,
Summon all your pow'rful Charmes,
And sell the Rebel, in your Armes.

Song.

PHilis, be gentler I advise,
Make up for time mispent,
When Beauty, on its Death-bed lyes
'Tis high time to repent.
Snch is the Malice of your Fate,
That makes you old so soon,
Your pleasure ever comes too late,
How early e're begun.
Think what a wretched thing is she,
Whose Stars, contrive in spight,
The Morning of her love shou'd be,
Her faiding Beauties Night.
Then if to make your ruin more,
You'll peevishly be coy,
Dye with the scandal of a Whore,
And never know the joy.

Song.

VVHat cruel pains Corinna, takes,
To force that harmless frown,
[Page 66] When not a Charme her Face, forsakes;
Love, cannot loose his own.
So sweet a Face, so soft a Heart,
Such Eyes, so very kind,
Betray alas! the silly Art,
Virtue had ill design'd.
Poor feeble Tyrant, who in vain,
Wou'd proudly take upon her,
Against kind Nature, to maintain,
Affected Rules of Honor.
The scorn she bears, so helpless proves
When I plead passion to her,
That much she fears, but more she loves,
Her Vassal shou'd undo her.

Womans Honor.

L Ove, bad me hope, and I obey'd,
Philis continu'd still unkind,
Then you may e'ne despair he said
In vain I strive to change her Mind.
Honor's got in, and keeps her Heart;
Durst he but venture once abroad,
In my own right I'd take your part,
And shew my self the mightier God,
This huffing Honour domineers,
In Breast alone, where he has place;
But if true gen'rous Love appears,
The Hector dare not shew his Face
Let me still Languish and complain,
Be most unhumanely deny'd,
I have some pleasure in my pain,
She can have none with all her Pride.
I fall a Sacrifice to Love,
She lives a VVretch for Honours sake,
Whose Tyrant does most cruel prove,
The difference is not hard to make.
Consider real Honour then,
You'll find hers cannot be the same,
'Tis Noble confidence in Men,
In VVomen, mean mistrustful shame.

Song.

TO this moment a Rebel I throw down my Arms,
Great Love, at first sight [...]f Olindas, bright charmes,
Made proud, and secure, by such [...]orces as these,
You may now play the Tyrant, as soon as you please.
When Innocence Beauty, and VVit do conspire,
To betray, aud engage, and inflame my desire.
Why shou'd I decline, what I cannot avoid;
And let pleasing hope, by base fear be destroy'd.
Her innocence cannot contrive to undo me,
Her Beauty's inclin'd, or why shou'd it persue me?
And VVit, has to pleasure, been ever a Friend,
Then what room for despar, since delight is Loves end.
There can be no danger in sweetness, and youth,
Where Love, is secur'd by good nature and truth.
On her Beauty I'll gaze, and of pleasure complain,
While ev'ry kind look adds a Link to my Chain.
Tis more to maintain, that in was to surprize,
But het VVit leads in triumph the Slave of her Eyes,
I beheld, with the loss of my freedom before,
But hearing, for ever must serve and adore.
Too bright is my Goddess, her Temple too weak,
Retire Divine Image, I feel my Heart break,
Help Love! I dissolve in a Rapture of Charms,
At the thought of those joys, I shou'd meet in her Armes.

Song.

HOw happy Cloris (were they free)
Might our enjoyments prove?
But you with formal Jealousie,
Are still tormenting Love.
Let us (since Wit instructs us how)
Raise Pleasure to the top,
If Rival Bottle, you'll allow,
I'll suffer Rival Fop.
Ther's not a brisk insipid Spark,
That flutters in the Town,
But with your wanton Eyes you mark,
The Coxcomb for your own.
You never think it worth your care,
How empty, nor how dull,
The Heads of your admirers are,
So that their Cods be full.
All this you freely may confess,
Yet we'll not disagree;
For did you love your pleasure less,
You were not fit for me.
While I my passion to persue,
Am whole Nights taking in,
The lusty Juice of Grapes, take you
The lusty Juice of Men.

Love and Life, a Song.

ALL my past Life is mine no more,
The flying hours are gone;
Like transitory Dreams giv'n o're,
Whose Images are kept in store,
By Memory alone.
What ever is to come, is not,
How can it then be mine?
The present Moment's all my Lot,
And that as fast as it is got,
Phillis, is wolly thine.
Then talk not of inconstancy,
False Hearts, and broken Vows,
If I by Miracle can be,
This live-long Minute true to thee,
'Twas all that Heav'n allows.

The Fall, a Song.

HOw blest was the Created State,
Of Man, and Woman, e're they fell,
Compar'd to our unhappy Fate;
We need not fear another Hell.
Naked beneath cool Shades they lay,
Enjoyment waited on desire.
Each Member did their wills obey,
Nor cou'd a wish, set pleasure higher.
But we poor Slaves, to hope and fear,
Are never of our joys secure.
They lessen still as they draw near.
And none but dull delights endure.
Then Cloris, while I duty pay,
The Noble Tribute of my Heart.
Be not you so severe to say,
You love me for a frailer part.

Song.

VVHile on those lovely looks I graze,
To see a Wretch pursuing,
In Raptures of a blest amaze.
This pleasing happy ruin.
Tis not for pitty, that I move,
His Fate is too aspiring,
Whose Heart, broke with a Load of love,
Dyes wishing, and admiring.
But if this Murder you'd forgo,
Your Slave from Death removing.
Let me your Art of Charming know,
Or learn you mine of Loving.
But whether Life, or Death betide,
In love, 'tis equal measure.
The Victor lives with empty pride,
The Vanquisht dye with pleasure.

Song.

BY all Loves soft, yet mighty Pow'rs.
It is a thing unfit,
That Men shou'd Fuck in time of Flow'rs;
Or when the Smock's beshit.
Fair nasty Nymph, be clean and kind,
And all my joys restore;
By using Paper still behind,
And Spunges for before,
My spotless Flames can ne're decay,
If after ev'ry close,
My smoaking Prick escape the Fray,
Without a Bloody Nose.
If thou wou'dst have me true, be kind,
And take to cleanly sinning;
None but fresh Lovers Pricks can rise,
At Fillis in foul linnen.

Song.

ROom, room, for a Blade of the Town,
That takes delight in Roaring,
And daily Rambles up and down,
And at Night in the Street lyes Snoaring,
[Page 73] That for the noble name of Spark,
Dares his Companions rally;
Commits an out-rage in the dark,
Then slinks into an Alley.
To ev'ry Female that he meets,
He swears he bares affection,
Defies all Laws, Arrests, and Feats,
By the help of a kind Protection.
Then he intending further wrongs:
By some resenting Cully,
Is decently run through the Lungs,
And there's an end of Bully.

Song.

AGainst the Charmes our Ballocks have,
How weak all humane skill is?
Since they can make a Man a Slave,
To such a Bitch as Phillis.
Whom that I may describe throughout,
Assist me Bawdy Pow'rs,
I'll write upon a double Clout,
And dip my Pen in Flowr's,
Her look's demurely impudent,
Ungainly Beautiful,
Her Modesty is insolent,
Her Mirth is pert and dull.
A Prostitute, to all the Town,
And yet with no Man Friends,
She rails, and scolds, when she lyes down,
And curses when she spends.
Bawdy in thoughts, precise in words,
Ill natur'd, and a Whore,
Her Belly, is a Bag of T-rds,
And her C—t, a common shore.

Song.

I Cannot change as others do
Though you unjustly scorn
Since that poor Swayne that sighs for you
For you alone was born.
No Phillis, no, your Heart to move,
A surer way I'll try
And to revenge my slighted love
Will still love on, will still love on, and dye.
When kill'd with grief Amyntas lyes
And you to mind shall call,
The sighs that now unpitty'd rise
The Tears that vainly fall;
That welcome hour that ends this smart
Will then begin your pain,
For such a faithful tender Heart
Can never break, can never break in vain.

The Mock Song.

I Swive as well as others do,
I'm young, not yet deform'd,
My tender Heart, sincere, and true,
Deserves not to be scorn'd.
Why Phillis then, why will you swive,
With Forty Lovers more?
Can I (said she) with Nature strive,
Alas I am, alas I am a Whore.
Were all my Body larded o're,
With Darts of love, so thick,
That you might find in ev'ry Pore,
A well stuck standing Prick;
Whilst yet my Eyes alone were free,
My Heart, wou'd never doubt,
In Am'rous Rage, and Extasie,
To wish those Eyes, to wish those Eyes suckt out.

Actus Primus Scena Prima.

Enter Tarsander and Swiveanthe.

The Scene.

A Bed-Chamber.
Tar.
FOr standing Tarses we kind Nature thank,
And yet adore those Cunts that make 'em lank;
Unhappy Mortals! whose sublimest joy,
Preys on it self, and does it self destroy.
Swi.
Do not thy Tarse, Natures best gift, despise,
That C—t, that made it fall, will make it rise;
Though it a while the Amorous Combat shun,
And seems from mine, into thy Belly run;
Yet 'twill return, more vig'rous, and more fierce;
Than flaming Drunkard, when he's dy'd in Tierce,
It but retires, as loosing Gamesters do,
Till they have rais'd a Stock to play a new.
Tar.
What pleasure has a Gamster, if he knows,
When e're he plays, that he must always loose?
Swi.
What Pego looses, 't were a pain to keep,
We say not that our Nights are lost in sleep;
What pleasures we in those soft Wars employ,
We do not wast, but to the full enjoy.
[ex Tarsander,
[Page 77] Enter Celia.
Cel.
Madam, methings those sleepy Eyes declare,
Too lately you have eas d a Lovers care;
I fear you have with interest repaid,
Those eager thrusts, which at your Cunt he made.
Swi.
With force united, my soft Heart he storm'd,
Like Age he doated, but like Youth perform'd.
She that alone her Lover can withstand,
Is more than Woman, or he less than Man.
[Exeunt.

The first Letter from B. to Mr. E.

DReaming last Night on Mrs Farley,
My Prick was up this Morning early;
And I was fain without my Gown,
To rise i'th cold, to get him down.
Hard shift alas, but yet a sure,
Although it be no pleasing cure.
Of Old, the fair Aegyptian Slattern,
For Luxury, that had no Pattern,
To fortifie her Roman Swinger,
Instead of Nutmegs, Mace and Ginger,
Did spice his Bow'ls (as Story tells)
With Warts of Rocks, and Spawn of Shells.
It had been happy for her Grace,
Had I been in the Rascalls place.
I who do scorn that any Stone,
Shou'd raise my Pintle, but my own.
[Page 78] Had laid her down on ev'ry Couch,
And spard'd her Pearl, and Diamond Brouch,
Until her Hot-taild Majesty,
Being happily reclaim'd by me,
From all her wild expensive ways,
Had worne her Gems on Holy Days.
But since her C— has long done itching,
Let us discourse of Modern Bitching.
I must intreat you by this Letter,
To enquire for Whores, the more the better:
Hunger makes any man a Glutton,
If Roberts, Thomas, Mrs. Dutton.
Or any other Bawd of note,
Inform of a fresh Petticoat.
Enquire, I pray, with Friendly care,
Where their respective Lodgings are.
Some do compare a Man t' a Barque,
A pretty Metaphor, pray mark,
And with a long and tedious story,
Will all the Tackling lay before ye.
The Sails are Hope, the Masts desire,
Till they the gentlest Reader tire.
But howso'ere they keep a pudder,
I'm sure the Pintle is the Rudder.
The pow'rful Rudder, which of force,
To Town, must shortly steer my Course;
And if you do not there provide
A Port, where I may safely ride.
Landing in haste, in some foul Creek,
'Tis ten to one, I spring a Leak.
Next, I must make it my request,
If you have any interest;
[Page 79] Or can by any means discover,
Some lamentable Rhyming Lover,
Who shall in Numbers harsh and vile,
His Mistriss, Nymph, or Goddess stile.
Send all his Labours down to me,
By the first opportunity.
Or any Knights of your round Table
To other Scriblers formidable.
Guilty themselves of the same Crime,
Dress Nonsense up in ragged Rhyme,
As once a Week, they seldome fail,
Inspir'd with Love, and Grid-Iron Ale.
Or any paultery Poetry,
Tho from the Vniversity.
Who when the K— and Q— were there,
Did both their Wit and Learning spare;
And have (I hope) endeavour'd since,
To make the World some recompence.
Such damn'd Fustian, when you meet,
Be not too rash, or indiscreet;
Tho they can find no just excuses,
To put 'em to their proper uses;
Tho fatal Privy, or the Fire,
Their Nobler Foe, at my desire.
Restrain your nat'rall profuseness,
And spare'em, though you have a looseness.

Mr. E—s Answer.

AS crafty Harlots, use to shrink,
From Letchers, dos'd with sleep and drink
When they intend to make up Pack,
By silching Sheets, or Shirt from Back,
So were you pleas'd to steal away
From me, whilst on your Bed I lay:
But long you had not been departed,
When pincht with cold from thence I started;
Where missing you, I stampt and star'd,
Like Bacon, when he wak'd and heard,
His Brazen Head, in vain had spoke,
And saw it lye in pieces broke,
Sighing, I to my Chamber make,
And ev'ry Limb, was stiff as Stake.
Unless poor Pego, which did feel,
Like slimey Skin of new stript Eele,
Or Pudding, that mischance had got;
And spent it self half in the Pot.
With care, I cleans'd the sneaking Varlet,
That late had been in Pool of Harlot.
But neither Shirt, nor Water cou'd,
Remove the stench of Leach'rous Mud.
The Queen of Love from Sea did spring,
Whence the best C—ts still smell like Ling.
But sure this damn'd notorious Bitch,
Was made o'th froth of Jane Shores Ditch,
Or else her C—t cou'd never stink,
Like Pump that's foul, or nasty Sink.
When this was done, to Bed I went,
And the whole Day, in sleep I spent;
But the next Morning, fresh and gay,
As Citizen, on Holy Day;
I wander'd in the spacious Town,
Amongst the Bawds, of best renown!
To Temple I a visit made,
Temple! the Beauty of her Trade!
The only Bawd that ever I,
For want of Whore cou'd occupy?
She made me Friends with Mrs. Cuffley,
Whom we indeed had us'd too roughly;
For by a gentler way I found,
The Whore, wou'd Fuck under ten Pound.
So resty Jades, which scorn to stir,
Though oft provok'd by Switch, and spur:
By milder usage may be got,
To fall into their wonted Trot.
But what success I further had,
And what discov'ries good, and bad,
I made roving up, and down,
I'll tell you when you come to Town.
Further, I have obey'd your motion,
Though much provok'd by Pill, and Potion,
And sent you down some paultry Rhymes,
The greatest grievance of our times;
When such as Nature, never made
For Poets dayly will invade
Wits Empire, both the Stage, and Press,
And which is worse, with good success.

The Second Letter from B— to Mr. E—

IF I can guess the Devil choak me,
What horrid fury cou'd provoke thee,
To use thy railing, scurr'lous Wit,
'Gainst C—t, and Pr—k, the source of it:
For what but C—t, and Pr—k, does raise
Our thoughts to Songs, and Roundelays?
Enables ns to Annagrams
And other Amorous flim flams?
Then we write Plays, and so proceed,
To Bays, the Poets sacred Weed
Hast no respect for God Priapus?
That Antient Story, shall not scape us.
Priapus, was a Roman God,
But in plain English, Pr—k, and Cod,
That pleas' their Sisters, Wives, and Daughters,
Guarded their Pippins, and Pomwaters,
For at the Orchards utmost entry,
This mighty Deity stood Centry;
Invested in a tatter'd Blanket,
To scare the Mag-Pyes, from their Banquet:
But this may serve to shew we trample,
On Rule, and Method, by example.
Of Modern Authors, who do snap at all,
Will talk of Caesar, in the Capitol,
Of Cimhius, Beams, and Sols, bright Ray,
Known Foe, to Butter-milk, and Whey,
Which softens Wax, and hardens Clay.
[Page 83] All this without the least connexion,
Which to say truth's enough to vex one;
But farewel all Poetique dizziniss,
And now to come unto the business.
Tell the bright Nymph, how sad, and pensively
E're since we us'd her so offensively,
In dismal shades, with Armes a cross,
I sit lamenting of my loss;
To Eccho, I her Name commend,
Who has it now at her Tongues end,
And Parrot-like, repeats the same,
For shou'd you talk of Tamberlyn,
Cussley! she cryes at the same time,
Though the last Accents do not Rhyme:
Far more than Eccho, e're did yet,
For Phillis, or bright Amoret.
With Pen-knife keen, of mod'rate size,
As bright and piercing as her Eyes;
A glitt'ring Weapon, which wou'd scorne,
To pair a Nail, or cut a Corn;
Upon the Trees, of smoothest Bark,
I carve her Name, or else her mark,
Which commonly's a bleeding Heart,
A weeping Eye, or flaming Dart.
Here on a Beech, like Am'rous Sot,
I sometimes carve a True-loves Knot;
There a tall Oake, her name does bear,
In a large spreading Character.
I chose the fairest, and the best
Of all the Grove, among the rest.
I carv'd it on a Lofty Pine,
Which who wept a pint of Turpentine;
[Page 84] Such was the terror of her Name,
By the report of evil Fame
Who tir'd with immoderate flight,
Had lodg'd upon its Boughs all Night.
The wary Tree, who fear'd a Clap,
And knew the vertue of his Sap,
Dropt Balsom into ev'ry Wound,
And in an hours time was sound.
But you are unacquanted yet,
With half the pow'r of Amoret,
For the can drink, as well as swive,
Her growing Empire, still must thrive,
Our Hearts weak Forts, we must resign,
When Beauty does it's forces joyn
With Mans strong Enemy, good Wine:
This I was told by my Lord O B—,
A Man whose word, I much relie on,
He kept touch, and came down hither,
When thou wert scar'd with the foul Weather:
But if thou wou'dst forgiven be,
Say that a Cunt detained thee.
Cunt! whose strong Charmes, the World bewitches,
The joy of Kings! the Beggars Riches!
The Courtiers, business, States-mans leisure!
The tyr'd Tinkers, ease, and pleasure!
Of which alas I've leave to prate,
But oh the rigor of my Fate!
For want of bouncing Bona Roba!
Lasciva est nobis pagina vita proba.
For that Rhyme, I was fain to fumble,
When Pegasus, begins to stumble,
'Tis time to rest, your very humble.

Mr. E—s. Answer.

SO soft, and Am'rously you write,
Of Cunt, and Pr—k, the Cunts delight;
That were I still in Lanthorn sweating,
Swallowing of Bolus, or a spitting,
I shou'd forget each injury,
The Pockey Whores, have offer'd me,
And only of my Fate complain,
Because I must from C—t abstain.
The pow'rfull Cunt! Whose very name?
Kindles in me an amorous flame!
Begins to make my Pintle rise,
And long again to fight Loves Prize!
Forgetful of those many Scarrs,
He was received in those Wars.
This shews Loves chiefest Magick lyes,
In Womens C—ts, not in their Eyes,
There Cupid, does his Revells keep,
There Lovers, all their sorrows steep,
For having once but tasted that,
Our myseries are quite forgot.
This may suffice to let you know,
That I to C—t, am not a Foe,
Though you are pleas'd to think me so:
'Tis strange his Zeal shou'd be in suspition.
Who dyes a Martyr, for's Religion.
But now to give you an account
Of Cussley, that Whore Paramount!
[Page 86] Cuffley! whose Beauty warmes the Age,
And fills our Youth, with Love, and Rage,
Who like fierce Wolves, pursue the Game,
While secretly the Lech'rous Dame,
With some choice Gallant, takes her flight,
And in a Corner Fucks all Night.
Then the next Morning, we all hunt,
To find whose Fingers, smell of Cunt.
With jealousie, and Envy mov'd,
Against the Man that was belov'd.
Whilst you within some Neighb'ring Grove,
Indite the Story of your love,
And with your Pen-knife, keen, and bright,
On stately Trees, your passion write,
So that each Nymph that passes through,
Must envy her, and pity you;
We at the Fleece, or at the Bear,
With good Case-knife, well whet on Stair:
A gentle Weapon, made to feed
Mankind, and not to make 'em bleed;
A thousand am'rous fancies scrape,
There's not a Pewter-dish, can scape,
Without her name, or Armes, which are,
The same that Love, himself, does bear.
Here one to shew you Love's no Glutton,
I'th midst of Supper, leaves his Mutton,
And on a greasie Plate, with care,
Carves the bright Image of the Fair.
Another, though adrunken Sot,
Neglects his Wine, and on the Pot,
A band of naked Cupids draws,
With Pr—ks, no bigger than Wheat Straws.
[Page 87] Then on a nasty Candlestick,
One figures Loves Hierogliphick,
A Couchant Cunt, and Rampant Prick.
And that the sight may more inflame,
The lookers on, subscribe her name,
Cuffley! her Sexes Pride, and shame.
There's not a Man but does discover.
By some such Action he's her Lover,
But now 'tis time to give her over,
And let your Lordship, know, you are
The Mistriss, that employs our care;
Your absence makes us Melancholly,
Nor drink, nor C—t, can make us jolly;
Unless wa've you within our Arms,
In whom there dwells diviner Charmes!
Then quit with speed the pensive Grove,
And here in Town, pursue your love;
Where at your coming, you shall find,
Your Servants glad, your Mistriss kind,
And all things devoted to your Mind.

With your very Hum­ble Servant.

On Mr. E—H— upon his B—P—

COme on ye Criticks! find one fault who dare,
For read it backward, like a Witches Pray'r.
'Twill do as well; throw not away your jeasts,
On solid Nonsense, that abides all Tests.
Wit, like Tierce Clarret, when't begins to pall,
Neglected lyes, and's of no use at all;
But in its full perfection of decay,
Turns Vinegar, and comes again in play.
This Simile, shall stand in thy defence,
'Gainst such dull Rogues, as now and then write sense.
He lyes dear Ned, who says thy Brain, is barren,
Where deep conceits, like Vermin, breed in Carrin;
Thou hast a Brain, such as thou hast indeed,
On what else, shou'd thy Worm of Fancy feed?
Yet in a Philbert, I have often known,
Maggots, survive, when all the Kernell's gone.
Thy Stile's the same, what ever be the Theame,
As some digestions, turn all Meat to Phlegm.
Thy stumbling Founder'd Jade, can Trot as high,
As any other Pegasus, can fly.
As skillful Dyvers, to the bottom fall,
Sooner than those, that cannot swim at all;
So in this way of writing, without thinking,
Thou hast a strange Alacrity, in sinking.
[Page 87] Thou writ'st below, even thy own nat'ral parts,
And with acquir'd dullness, and new Arts,
Of study'd Non-sense, tak'st kind Readers hearts,
So the dull Eele, moves nimbler in the Mud,
Than all the swift Finn'd Racers, of the Flood.
Therefore dear Ned, at my advice forbear,
Such loud complaints 'gainst Criticks to prefer,
Since thou art turn'd an Arrant Libeller:
Thou sett'st thy Name, to what thy self does write,
Did ever Libell, yet so sharply bite?

On the same Author upon his B—P—

AS when a Bully, draws his Sword,
Though no Man gives him a cross word;
And all perswasions are in vain,
To make him put it up again;
Each Man draws too and falls upon him,
To take the wicked Weapon from him:
Ev'n so dear Ned, thy drsp'rate Pen,
No less disturbs all witty Men:
And makes 'em wonder what a Devil,
Provokes thee to be so uncivil;
When thou and all thy Friends must know 'em,
Thou yet wilt dare to Print thy Poem.
That poor Currs fate, and thine are one,
Who has his Tail pegg'd in a Bone;
[Page 90] About he runs, no body,ll own him.
Men, Boys, and Dogs, are all upon him.
And first the greater Wtts, were at thee,
Now ev'ry little Fool, will pat thee.
Fellows, that ne're were heard, or read of,
(If thou writ'st on) will write thy head off.
Thus Mastives, only, have the knack,
To cast the Bear, upon his Back;
But when th' unwildy Beast, is thrown,
Mu [...]grills, will serve to keep him down.

On the same Author upon his New Vt—

THou damn'd Antipodes to common sense,
Thou Foyle to Fluence! prethee tell from whence,
Does all this mighty Rock of dullness spring,
Which in such Loads thou to the Stage dost bring?
Is't all thy own? or hast thou from Snow-hill,
Th' assurance of some Ballad making Quill?
No, they fly higher yet; thy Plays are such,
I'd swear they were translated uot of Dutch:
And who the Devil, was e're yetso drunk,
To read the Volumes of Myn-Heer-Van Dunk?
Fain wou'd I know what Dyet thou dost keep,
If thou dost always, or dow never sleep?
Sure Hasty Pudding, is thy chiefest Dish,
With Lights, and Livers, and with stinking Fish.
[Page 91] Ox-cheek Tripe, Garbage, thou dost treat thy Brain
Which nobly pays this Tribute back again.
With Dazy Roots, thy dwafish Muse is fed,
A Gyants Body, with a Pigmyes Head.
Canst thou not find 'mongst thy num'rous Race,
One Friend, so kind, to tell thee that thy Play's;
Laught at by Box, Pit, Gallery, nay Stage,
And grown the naus'ous grievance of this Age!
Think on't a while, and thou wilt quickly find,
Thy Body made for labour, not thy Mind.
Nor other use of Paper, thou shou'dst make,
But carry Loads of Rhymes, upon thy Back;
Carry vast Burthens till thy Shoulders shrink,
But curst be he, that giues thee Pen, and Ink,
Those dang'rous Weapons, shou'd be kep from Fools,
As Nurse from their Children, keep Edge-tools.
For thy dull Muse, a Muckender were fit,
To wipe the slav'rings of her Infant Wit:
Which though 'tis late (if Justice cou'd be found.
Shou'd like blind, new born Puppy's, yet be drown'd)
For were it not we must respect afford,
To any Muse, that's Grand-chil, to a Lord;
Thine, in the Ducking-stool, shou'd take her Seat,
Drencht like her self, in a great Chair of State,
Where like a Muse, of Quality, she'll dye,
And thou thy self, shalt make her Elegy,
In the same Strain, thou writ'st thy Comedy.

The Disappointment.

1.
ONe Day the Am'rous Lisander,
By an impatient passion sway'd,
Surpriz'd Fair Cloris, that lov'd Maid,
Who cou'd defend her self no longer;
All things did with his love conspire,
The guilded Planet of the Day,
In his gay Charriot, drawn by Fire,
Was now desending to the Sea,
And left no light to guide the World,
But what from Cloris brighter Eyes was hurl'd
2.
In a lone Ticket, made for love,
Silent, as yeelding Maids consent,
She with a charming languishment,
Permits his force; yet gently strove;
Her hands, his Bosome, softly meet,
But not to put him back design'd,
Rather to draw him on inclin'd,
Whilst the lay trembling at her Fect;
Resistance, 'tis too late to shew,
She wants the pow'r to say—Ah! what d'you do?
3.
Her bright Eyes sweet, and yet severe,
Wher Love, and shame, confus'dly strive,
[Page 93] Fresh vigor, to Lisander give;
And whisp'ring softly in his Ear,
She cry'd—cease—cease—your vain desire,
Or I'll call out what wou'd you doe?
My dearer Honor, ev'n to you,
I cannot—must not give—retire,
Or take that life, whose chiefest part,
I gave you with the Conquest of my Heart.
4
But he, as much unus'd to fear,
As he was capable of Love,
The blessed Minutes to improve,
Kisses her Lips, her Neck, her Hair!
Each touch! her new desires Allarmes!
His burning trembling hand he prest,
Upon her melting Snowy Breast,
While he lay panting in his Armes!
All her ungarded Beauties lye,
The spoiles, and Trophies, of the Enemy,
4
And now without respect, or fear,
He seeks the Object of his Vows.
His love no modesty allows.
By swift degrees, advancing where.
His daring Hand that Altar seiz'd,
Where Gods of Love, do Sacrifice!
That awful Thorne! that Paradice!
Where Rage is tam'd, and Anger pleas'd?
That living Fountain, from whose Trills,
The melted Soul, in liquid drops destils!
6.
Her Balmey Lips, encountring his,
Their Bodies, as their Souls they joyn'd,
Where both in transports unconfin'd,
Extend themselves upon the Moss!
Cloris, half dead, and breathless lay,
Her Eyes appear'd like Humid light,
Such as divides the Day, and Night,
Or falling Stars, whose Fires decay;
And now no signs of life she shows,
But what in short-breath'd sighs, returns and goes.
7.
He saw how at her length she lay,
He saw her rising Bosome bare;
Her loose thine Robes, through which appear,
A shape design'd, for love, and play
Abandon'd by her Pride, and shame:
She does her softest sweets dispence,
Off ring her Virgin, innocence,
A Victim, to Loves sacred flame.
Whilst th' o're ravisht Shepherd, lyes,
Unable to perform the Sacrifice.
8
Ready to tast a Thousand joys,
The too transported hapless Swayne,
Found the vast pleasure, tur'd to rain:
Pleasure! which too much love destroys!
The willing Garment by he laid,
And Heav'n all open to his view.
[Page 95] Mad to possess, himself he threw,
On the defenceless lovely Maid!
But oh! what enviours Gods conspire!
To snach his pow'r, yet leave him the desire!
9.
Natures support, without whose Aid,
She can no humane being give;
It self now wants the Art to live;
Faintness, its slacken'd Nerves Invade,
In vain th' enraged Youth assay'd,
To call his fleeting Vigor back;
No motion, 'twill from motion take,
Excess of love, his love betray'd,
In vain he toyles, in vain commands.
Th' Insensible, fell weeping in his Hands.
10.
In this so Am'rous cruel strife,
Where Love, ond Fate, were too severe.
The poor Lisander, in despair,
Renounc'd his Reason, with his life.
Now all the brisk, and Active fire,
That shou'd the nobler part in flame,
And left no spark for new desire;
Not all her naked Charmes cou'd move,
Our calme that Rage, that had debauch'd his love.
11.
Cloris, returning from the Trance,
Which love and soft desire, had bred,
[Page 96] Her tim'rous hand, she gently laid,
Or guided by design, or chance
Upon that Fabulous Priapus,
That Potent God (as Poets feign)
But never did young Shepherdess,
(Gath'ring of Fern, upon the Plain)
More nimbly draw her Fingers back,
Finding beneath the Verdent Leaves a Snake;
12.
Then Cloris, her fair hand withdrew,
Finding that God, of her defiers,
Lisa [...]m'd of all his pow'rful Fires;
And cold as Flow'rs bath'd in the Morning Dew;
Who can the Nymphs confusion guess?
The blood forsook the kinder place,
And strew'd with blushes all her Face,
Which both disdain, and shame express;
And from Lisanders, Armes she fled,
Leaving him fainting, on the gloomy Bed.
13.
Like Lightning, through the Grove, she hyes,
Or Daphne, from the Delphick God,;
No print upon the Grassy Rcad,
She leaves, t'instruct pursuing Eyes;
The Wind, that wanton'd in her Hair,
And with her ruffled Garments plaid,
Discover'd in the flying Maid;
All that the Gods e're made of Fair.
So Venus, when her Love, was slain,
With fear, and hast, flew o're the Fatal Plain,
14.
The Nymphs resentments, none but I,
Can well imagine, and Condole;
But none can guess Lisanders, Soul,
But those who sway'd his Distiny:
His silent griefs, swell up to Storms,
And not one God, his fury spares,
He curst his Berth, his Fate, his Stars,
But more the Sheherdesses Charmes;
Whose soft bewitching influence,
Had damn'd him to the Hell, of Impotence.

On a Giniper Tree now cut down to make Busks.

VVHilst happy I triumphant stood,
The pride and glory of the Wood,
My Aromatick Boughs, and Fruit,
Did with all other Trees dispute;
Had right by Nature, to excell,
In pleasing both the Tast, and smell.
But to the touch, I must confess,
Bore an unwilling fullenness:
My VVelth, like bashful Vergins, I,
Yeelding with some reluctancy;
For which my value shou'd be more,
Not giveing easily my store.
[Page 98] My Verdent Branches, all the year,
Did an Eternal Beauty were,
Did ever young, and gay appear,
Nor needed any Tribute pay,
For Bounties from the God of Day.
Nor do I hold Supremacy,
In all the VVood, or'e ev're Tree,
But ev'n those to of my own Race,
That grew not in this happy place;
But that in which I glory most,
And do my self with reason bost,
Beneath my snade the other Day,
Young Philocles, and Cloris, lay
Upon my Root, he plac'd her Head,
And where I grew, he made her Bed;
There trembling Limbs, did gently press,
The kind suporting, yeelding Moss;
Ne're half so blest, as now to bear,
A Swayne, so young, a Nymph, so fair.
My grateful Shade, I kindly lent
And ev'ry aiding Bough I bent,
So low, as somtimes had the Bliss,
To rob the Shepherd of a Kiss.
Whilst he in pleasures far above!
The sense of that degree of love!
Permitted ev'ry stelth I made,
Uujealous of his Rival shade.
I saw 'em kindle to desire!
Whilst with soft sighs, they blew the Fire!
Saw the approaches of their joy,
He growing more fierce, and she less coy!
[Page 99] Saw how they mingled melting Rays!
Exchanging love a Thousand ways!
Kind was the force on ev'ry side.
Her new desires, she cou'd not siide,
Nor wou'd the Shepherd be deny'd!
Impatient, he waits no consent,
But what she gave by languishment.
The blessed Minute he persu'd,
Whilst Love, her fere, and shame subdu'd
And now transported in his Armes,
Yieelds to to the Conqueror, all her Charmes!
His panting Brest, to hers now joyn'd,
They feast on Raptures, unconfin'd!
Vast and luxuriant, such as prove,
The immortality of love!
For who but a Divinity!
Cou'd mingle Souls to that degree,
And melt 'em into Extasie!
Where like the Pooenix both expire,
Whilst from the Ashes of their Fire,
Sprung up a New, and soft desire,
Like Charmers, Thrice thay did invoke
The God, and Thrice new vigor took
And had the Nymph, been half so kind,
As was the Shepherd, well inclin'd;
The Myst'ry had not ended thear;
But Cloris, reassum'd her fear,
And chid the Swayne, for having prest,
What shee (alas) cou'd not resist:
Whilst he, in whome Loves sacred flame,
Before, and after was the same,
[Page 100] Humbly implores she wou'd forget
That fault, which he wou'd yet repeat,
From active joyes with shame they hast,
To a reflection on the past;
A Thousand times the Covert blses,
That did secure their happyness;
Their gratitude, to ev'ry Tree
They pay, most to happy me!
The Shepherdess, my Bark carrest,
Whilst he my Root (Loves Pillow) kist,
And did with sights their Fate deplore,
Since I must shelter 'em no more.
And if before, my joyes were such,
In having seen, and herd so much;
My griefs, must be as great, and high,
When all abandon'd I must lye,
Doom'd to a silent Destiny:
No more the Am'rous strife to hear,
The Shepherds, Vous, the Virgins fear;
No more a joyful looker on,
Whilst Loves soft Battl's lost and won.
With grief I bou'd my murm'ring Head,
And all my Christal Dew, I shed,
Which did in Cloris pity move;
Cloris whose Soul is made of love.
She cut me down, and did translate,
My being to a happier State:
No Martyr, for Religion dy'd,
With half that unconsid'ring pride;
My Top was, on the Alter laid,
Where Love, his softest Offrings paid,
[Page 101] And was as fragrant Incence burn'd;
My Body, into Busks, was turn'd.
Where I still guard the sacred Store,
And of Loves Temple, keep the Door.

On the Death of Mr. Grnehill The Famous Painter.

VVHat doleful cryes are these that fright my sense,
Sad, as the grones of dying innocence!
The killing Accents, now more near approach,
And the infectious sound,
Spreads, and enlarges all around,
And does all Hearts, with grief, and wonder touch!
The famous Grnehill's dead! ev'n he,
That cou'd to us give immortality,
Is to th' Eternal, silent Groves, withdrawn,
Those sullen Groves, of Everlasting Dawn;
Youthful as Flow'rs scarce blown, whose opening
Leaves,
A wond'rous and a fragrant Prospect gives,
Of what its Elder Beauties wou'd display,
When it shou'd slorish up to ripening May!
Witty! as Poets, warm'd with Love, and VVine,
Yet still spar'd Heav'n and his Friend;
For Both to him, were sacred, and divine,
Nor could he this, no more than that offend.
[Page 102] Fixt as a Martyr, where he Friendship paid,
And gen'rous as a God!
Distributing his Bounties all abroad,
And soft, and gentle, as a Love-sick Maid.
Great Master, of the Noble Mystery,
That ever happy knowledge did inspire;
Sacred as that of Poetry!
And which, the wond'ring VVorld, does equally admire!
Great Natures works we do contemn,
When on his glorious Births, we meditate,
The Face, and Eyes, more Darts reciv'd from him,
Then all the Charmes she can create:
The diff [...]rence is, his Beauties do beget,
In the Enamer'd Soul, a vertuous heat,
Whilst Natures grosser pieces move,
In the course Road, of common love.
So bold, yet soft, his touches were.
So round each part, so sweet, and fair,
That as his Pencil mov'd Men thought it prest,
The lively imitated Breast,
Which yields like Clouds, where little Angels rest!
The Limbs all easie, as his temper was,
Strong at his Mind and Manly too;
Large as his Soul, his fancy was, and new;
And from himself he coppy'd ev'ry grace,
For he had all that cou'd adorn a Face,
All that cou'd either Sex, subdue.
Each excellence he had, that Youth has in its pride,
And all experienc'd Age, can teach;
[Page 103] At once the vig'rous Fire of this,
And ev'ry Virtue, which that can express,
In all the height that both cou'd reach!
And yet (alas) in this perfection dy'd!
Dropt like a Blossom, with a Northern blast,
When all the scatter'd Leaves, abroad are cast,
As quick! as If his Fate, had been in hast!
So have I seen an unfixt Star,
Out-shine the rest of all the num'rous Train
(As bright as that which guides the Marriner)
Dart swiftly from its darkn'd Sphear,
And ne're shall light the World again!
Oh why shou'd so much knowledge dye!
Or with his last kind Breath,
Why cou'd he not to some one Friend, bequeath
The mighty Legacy
But 'twas a knoledge giv'n to him alone,
That his Eterniz'd name might be,
Admir'd to all Posterity,
By all to whom his grateful name was known!
Come all ye softer Beauties, come!
Bring Wreths of Flow'rs, to deck his Tomb,
Mixt with the dismal Cypress, and the Yew,
For he still gave your Charmes their due;
And from the injuries of Age, and Time,
Scur'd the sweetness of your prime,
And best knew how t' adore that sweetness too!
Bring all your mornful Tributes here,
And let your Eyes, a silent sorrow wear,
Till ev'ry Virgin, for a while become,
Sad as his Fate, and like his Pictures dumb.

To all curious Criticks and Ad­mirers of Meeter.

HAve you seen the rageing Stormy Main
Toss a Ship up, then cast her down again?
Sometimes she seems to touch the very Skies.
And then again upon the Sand she lyes.
Or have you seen a Bull, when he is jealous,
How he does tear the ground, and Rores and Bel­lows?
Or have you seen the pretty Turtle Dove,
When she laments the absence of her love!
Or have you seen the Fairyes, when they sing,
And dance with mirth together in a Ring?
Or have you seen our Gallants, keep a pudder,
With Fair and Grace, and Grace, and Fair Anstrud­der?
Or hove you seen the Daughter of Apollo,
Pow'r down their rhyming Liquors in a hollow Cane?
In spungy Brain, congealing into Verse;
If you have seen all this, then kiss mine A—se.

Satyr.

A. VVHat Timon does old Age begin t' ap­proach
That thus thou droop'st under a nights debauch?
Hast thou lost deep to needy Rogues on Tick
Who ne're cou'd pay, and must be paid next VVeek?
Tim. Neither alas, but a dull dining Sot;
Seiz'd me ith' Mall, who just my name had got;
He runs upon me, cries dear Rogue I'm thine,
With me some Wits, of thy acquaintance dine.
I tell him I'm engag'd but as a Whore,
With mdesty enslaves her Spark, the more.
The longer I deny'd, the more he prest,
At last I e'ne consent to be his Guest.
He takes me in his Coach, and as we go;
Pulls out a Libil, of a Sheet, or two;
Insipid, as, The praise of pious Queens,
Or S—, unassisted former Scenes;
Which he admir'd, and praisd at ev'ry Line,
At last it was so sharp, it must be mine.
I vow'd I was no more a VVit, then he,
Unpractic'd, and unblest in Poetry:
A Song to Phillis, I perhaps might make,
But never Rhym'd, but for my Pintles sake:
I envy'd no Mans fortune, nor his fame,
Nor ever thought of a revenge so tame.
He knew my Stile, he swore, and 'twas in vain,
Thus to deny the Issue of my Brain.
[Page 106] Choak'd with his flatt'ry, I no answer make,
But silent leave him to his dear mistake.
Of a well meaning Fool, I'm most afraid,
Who sillily repeats, what was well said.
But this was not the worst, when he came home,
He askt are Sidley, Buchurst, Savil, come?
No, but there were above Halfwit and Huffe,
Kickum, and Dingboy. Oh 'tis well enough,
They're all brave Fellows cryes mine Host, let's Dine,
I long to have my Belly full of VVine,
They'll write, and fight I dare assure you,
They're Men, Tam Marte quam Mercurio.
I saw my error, but twas now too late,
No means, nor hopes, appears of a retreat.
Well we salute, and each Man takes his Seat.
Boy (says my Sot) is my VVife ready yet!
A Wife good Gods! a Fop and Bullys too!
For one poor Meale, what must I undergo?
In comes my Lady strait, she had bin Fair.
Fit to give love, and to prevent despair,
But Age Beauties incureable Disease,
Had left her more desire, then pow'r to please.
As Cocks, will strike, although their Spurrs be gone.
She with her old bleer Eyes to smight begun:
Though nothing else, she (in despight of time)
Preserv'd the affectation of her prime;
How ever you begun, she brought in love,
And hardly from that Subject wou'd remove.
We chanc'd to speak of the French Kings, success;
My Lady wondr'd much how Heav'n cou'd bless,
[Page 107] A Man, that lov'd Two VVomen at one time;
But more how he to them excus'd his Crime.
She askt Huffe, if Loves flame he never felt?
He answer'd bluntly—do you think I'm gelt?
She at his plainness smil'd, then turn'd to me,
Love in young Minds, proceeds ev'n Poetry.
You to that passion can no Stranger be,
But VVits are giv'n to inconstancy.
She had run on I think till now, but Meat
Came up, and suddenly she took her seat.
I thought the Dinner wou'd make some amends,
When my good Host crys out, y'are all my Friends,
Our own plain Fare, and the best Terse the Bull
Affords, I'll give you and your Bellies full:
As for French Kickshaws, Cellery, and Champoon
Ragous and Fricasses, in troath we'ave none.
Here's a good Dinner towards thought I, when strait
Up comes a piece of Beef, full Horsmans weight;
Hard as the Arse of M—, under which,
The Coachman sweats, as wridden by a Witch.
A Dish of Carrets, each of 'em as long,
As Tool, that too fair Countess, did belong;
Which her small Pillow, cou'd not so well hide,
But Visiters, his flaming Head espy'd.
Pig, Goose, and Capon, follow'd in the Rear,
With all that Country Bumpkins, call good Cheer:
Serv'd up with Sauces all of Eighty, Eight,
When our tough Youth, wrestled, and threw the Weight.
And now the Bottle, briskly flyes about,
Instead of Ice, wrapt in a wet Clowt.
[Page 108] A Brimmer follows the third bit we eat,
Small Bear, becomes our drink, and Wine, our Meat
The Table was so large, that in less space,
A Man might save, six old Italians place:
Each Man had as much room, as Porter B—,
Or Harris, had, in Cullens, Bushel C—t.
And now the Wine began to work, mine Host
Had been a Collonel we must hear him boast
Not of Towns won, but an Estate he lost
For the Kings Service, which indeed he spent
Whoring, and Drinking, but with good intent
He talkt much of a Plot, and Money lent
In Cromwells time. My Lady she
Complain'd our love was course, our Poetry,
Unfit for modest Eares, small Whores, and Play'rs.
Were of our Hair-brain'd Youth, the only cares;
Who were too wild for any virtuous League,
Too rotten to consummate the Intrigue.
Falkland, she prais'd, and Sucklings, easie Pen,
And seem'd to taste their former parts again.
Mine Host, drinks to the best in Christendom,
And decently my Lady, quits the Room.
Left to our selves, of several things we prate,
Some regulate the Stage, and soem the State,
Halfwit, cries up my Lord of O—,
Ah how well Mustapha, and Zanger dye!
His sense so little forc'd, that by one Line,
You may the other easily divine.
And which is worse, if any worse can be,
He never said one word of it to me.
There's fine Poetry! you'd swear 'twere Prose,
So little on the Sense, the Rhymes impose.
[Page 109] Damn me (says Dingboy) in my mind Gods-swounds
E—, writes Airy Songs, and soft Lampoons,
The best of any Man; as for your Nowns,
Grammar, and Rules of Art, he knows 'em not,
Yet writ two talking Plays, without one Plot.
H—, was for S—, and Morocco, prais'd,
Said rumbling words, like Drums, his courage rais'd.
Whose broad-built-bulks, the boyst'rous Billows, bear,
Zaphee and Sally, Mugadore, Oran,
The fam'd Arzile, Alcazer, Tituan.
Was ever braver Language writ by Man?
Kickum for Crown declar'd, said in Romance,
He had out done the very Wits, of France.
Witness Pandion, and his Charles the Eight;
Where a young Monarch, careless of his Fate,
Though Forreign Troops, and Rebels, shock his State,
Complains another sight afflicts him more.
(Videl.) The Queens Galleys rowing from the Shore,
Fitting their Oars and Tackling to be gon
Whilst sporting Waves smil'd on the rising Sun.
Waves smiling on the Sun! I am sure that's new,
And 't was well thought on, give the Devil his due.
Mine Host, who had said nothing in an hour.
Rose up, and prais'd the Indian Emperor.
As if our old World, modestly withdrew,
And here in private had brought forth a New.
There are two Lines! who but he durst presume
To make the old World, a new withdrawing Room,
Where of another VVorld she's brought to Bed!
What a brave Midwife is a Laureats head!
[Page 110] But pox of all these Scriblers, what do'e think.
Will Souches this year any Champoon drink?
Will Turene fight him? without doubt says Huffe,
If they two meet, their meeting will be rough.
Damn me (says Dingboy) the French, Cowards are,
They pay, but the English, S [...]ots, and Swiss make War:
In gawdy Troops, at a review they shine,
But dare not with the Germans, Battel joyn;
What now appears like courage, is not so,
Tis a short pride, which from success does grow;
On their first blow, they'll shrink into those fears,
They shew'd at Cressy, Agincourt, Poytiers;
Their loss was infamous, Honor so stain'd,
Is by a Nation not to be regain'd.
What they were then I know not, now th'are brave,
He that denyes it-lyes and is a Slave,
(Says Huffe and frown'd) says Dingboy, that do I,
And at that word, at t'others Head let fly
A greasie Plate, when suddenly they all,
Together by the Eares in Parties fall.
Halfwit, with Dingboy joynes, Kickum with Huffe,
Their Swords were safe, and so we let 'em cuff
Till they mine Host, and I, had all enough.
Their rage once over, they begin to treat,
And six fresh Bottles, must the peace compleat.
I ran down stairs, with a Vow never more
To drink Bear Glass, and hear the Hectors roar.

A Session of the Poets.

SInce the Sons of the Muses, grew mum'rous, and loud,
For th'appeasing so factious, and clam'rous a Crowd;
Apollo, thought fit in so weighty a cause,
T' Establish a Government, Leader, and Laws.
The hopes of the Bays, at this summoning call,
Had drawn em together, the Devil and all;
All thronging and listning, they gap'd for the Blessing,
No Presbyter Sermon, had more crowding, and pressing.
In the Head of the Gang J—D—, appear'd,
That Antient grave Wit, so long lov'd, and fear'd,
But Apollo, had heard a Story'ith' Town,
Of his quitting the Muses, to wear the black Gown,
And so gave him leave now his Poetrys done,
To let him turn Priest, now R—, is turn'd Nun.
This Reverend Author was no sooner set by,
But Apollo, had got gentle George in his Eye,
And frankly confest, of all Men that writ,
Ther's none had more sancy, sense Judgment, and Wit.
But 'th' crying Sin, idleness, he was so harden'd,
That his long Seav'n years silence, was not to be pardon'd
Brawny W—, was the next Man shew'd his Fa1ce,
But Apollo, e'ne thought him too good for the Place;
[Page 112] No Gentleman Writer, that office shou'd bear
'Twas a Trader in Wit, the Lawrel shou'd wear.
As none but a Citt, e're makes a Lord Major.
Next into the Crowd, Tom S—, does wallow,
And Swears by his Guts, his Paunch, and his Tallow,
'Tis he that alone best pleases the Age,
Himself, and his Wife have supported the Stage.
Apollo, well pleas'd with so bonny a Lad,
T' oblige him, he told him she shou'd be huge glad,
Had he half so much VVit, as he fancy'd he had.
How ever to please so Jovial a Wit,
And to keep him in humour, Apollo, thought fit,
To bid him drink on, and keep his Old Trick,
Of railing at Poets, and shewing his Prick.
N—L—, step in next, in hopes of a Prize,
Apollo, remember'd he had hit once in Thrice;
By the Rubyes in's Face, he cou'd not deny,
But he had as much Wit, as Wine cou'd supply;
Confest that indeed he had a Musical Note,
But sometimes strain'd so hard, that he rattled ith' Throat;
Yet owning he had Sense, t'encourage him for't,
He made him his Ovid in Augustus's Court.
Poet S—, his Tryal, was the next came about,
He brought him an Ibrahim, with the Preface torn out;
And humbly desir'd, he might give no offence;
God damne, cryes S.— he cannot write sense,
And Ballocks cru'd Newport, I hate that dull Rogue;
Apollo, consid'ring he was not in vogue,
Wou'd not trust his dear Bays, with so modest a Fool,
And bid the great Boy, shou'd be sent back to School,
Tom O—, came next Tom S—, dear Zany;
And swears for Heroicks, he writes best of any;
Don C—, his Pockets so amply had fin'd,
That his Mange was quite cur d, and his Lice were all kill'd.
But Apollo, had seen his Face on the Stage,
And prudently did not think fit to engage,
The scum of a Play-house, for the Prop of an Age.
In the numerous Herd, that encompast him round
Little starcht Jonny C— at his Elbow he found,
His Crevat-string, new Iron'd, he gently did stretch,
His Lilly white hand out, the Lawrel to reach;
Alledging that he had most right to the Bays,
For writing Romances, and shiting of Plays.
Apollo, rose up, and gravely confest,
Of all Men that writ, his Tallent was best:
For since pain, and dishonor, Mans life only damn,
The greatest felicity, Mankind can claim,
Is to want sense of smart, & be past sense of shame:
And to perfect his Bliss, in Poetical Rapture,
He bid him be dull to the end of the Chapter.
The Poetress Afra, next shew'd her sweet face,
And swore by her Poetry, and her black Ace,
The Lawrel, by a double right was her own,
For the Plays she had writ, and the Conquests she had won:
Apollo, acknowledg'd 'twas hard to deny her,
Yet to deal franckly, and ingeniously be her,
He told her were Conquests, and Charms her pre­tence,
She ought to have pleaded a Dozen years since.
[Page 114] Anababaluthu put in for a share,
And little Tom Essences Author, was there.
Nor cou'd D—, forbear for the Lawrel to stickle,
Protesting he had had the Honor to tickle,
The Ears of the Town, with his dear Madam Fickle.
With other pretenders, whose namesl'd rehearse,
But that they're too long to stand in my Verse.
Apollo, quite cir'd with their tedious Harrangue,
Finds at last Tom B—, face in the gang,
And since Poets, with the kind Play'rs, may hang,
By his own light, he solemnly swore,
That in search of a Laureat, he'd look out no more.
A general murmur run quite through the Hall,
To think that the Bays, to an Actor shou'd fall,
But Apollo, to quiet, and pacifie all;
E'ne told 'em to put his desert to the Test,
That he had made Plays, as well as the best;
And was the greatest wonder, the Age ever bore,
For of all the Play-Scriblers, that e're writ before,
His wit, had most worth, and most modesty in't,
For he had writ Plays, yet ne're came in print.

Satyr.

Aude aliquid brevibus Gyaris aut carcere dignum
Sivis esse aliquis—indem sat.

Suppos'd to be spoken by a Court Hector.

Pindarique,
Now curses on ye all, ye vertuous Fools.
Who think to fetter free born Souls,
And tye 'em up to dull Morality, and Rules,
The Stagyrite, be damn'd, and all the Crew,
Of learned Idiots, who his steps persue;
And those more silly Proselites, whom his fond Pre­cepts drew!
Oh had his Ethicks, been with their wild Author drown'd
Or a like fate, with those lost Writings found,
Which that grand Plagiary, doom'd to Fire,
And made by unjust Flames expire,
They ne're had then seduc'd Mortality,
Ne're lasted to debauch the World, with their lewd Pedantry.
But damn'd and more (if Hell can do`t) be that
Thrice cursed name,
Who e`re the rudiments of Law design`d;
Who e`re did the First Model of Religion, frame,
[Page 116] And by that double Vassalage enthrall'd Mankind;
By nought before, but their own pow'r, or will confin'd:
Now quite abridg'd of all their Primitive liberty.
And Slaves, to each capricious Monarchs, Tyranny.
More happy Bruits! who the great Rule of sense observe,
And nere from their First Charter swerve.
Happy whose lives are meerly to enjoy,
And feel no stings of Sin, which may their Bliss an­noy;
Still unconcern'd, at Epithets of ill, or good,
Distinctions unadult'rate Nature, never under­stood.
2
Hence! hated Vertue, from our goodly Isle!
No more our joys beguile!
No more, with thy loath'd presence plague our happy State;
Thou Enemy to all, that's brisk, or gay, or brave, or great!
Begon! with all thy pious meager Train,
To some unfruitful, unfrequented Land,
And there an Empire gain,
And there extend thy rigor command:
There where illib'ral Natures nigradice,
Has set a Tax on Vice!
Where the lean barren Region, does enhance,
The worth of dear intemperance!
And for each pleasurable Sin, exacts Excise!
We (thanks to Heav'n) more cheaply can offend,
[Page 117] And want to tempting Luxuries.
No good convenient Sinning opportunities,
Which Natures bounty cou'd bestow, or Heav'ns kindness lend!
Go follow that nice Goddess, to the Skies!
Who heretofore disgusted at encreasing Vice,
Dislik'd the World, and thought it to prophane,
And timely hence retir'd, and kindly ne're returnd, again,
Hence! to those Airy Mansions rove,
Converse with Saints, and holy Folks above!
Those may thy presence woe,
Whose lazy ease, offords 'em nothing else to do.
Where haughty scornful I,
And my great Friends, will ne're vouch safe thee Company.
Thou art now a hard unpracticable good,
Too difficult for Flesh, and Blood,
Where all Soul like them, perhaps I'd learn to practice thee.
3
Vertue! thou solemn grave impertinence,
Abhorr'd by all the Men of Wit, and Sence!
Thou dam'd Fatigue! that clogg'st lifes Journey here,
Tho thou no weight of Wealth, or profit bear!
Thou puling, fond Green-sicknes of the Minds,
That maks up prove to our own selves unkind;
Whereby we Coales, and Dirt, for Diet, choose,
And pleasures better Food refuse.
[Page 118] Curst Jilt! that leadst deluded Mortals on,
Till they too late perceive themselves undone,
Chows'd by a Dowry, in Reversion!
The greatest Votary, thou e're coud'st boast,
Pitty so brave a Soul, was in thy service lost,
What wonders he in wickedness had done!
Whom thy weak pow'r, cou'd so inspire alone!
Though long with fond Amors he courted thee,
Yet dying did recant his vain Idolatry;
At length (tho late) he did repent with shame:
Forc'd to confess thee nothing but an empty name.
So was that Letcher, gull'd, whose haugty love,
Design'd a Rape, on the Queen Regent of the Gods above.
When he a Goddess, thought he had in chase,
He found a gawdy Vapor in the place,
And with thin Aire, beguild his starv'd embrace;
Idly he spent his Vigor! spent his blood,
And ty d himself, t'oblige an unperforming Cloud.
4
If Humane kind to thee e're Worship paid,
Then were by ignorance misled;
That only them devout, and thee a Goddess made:
Known hap'ly in the Worlds rude, untaught, In­fancy,
Before it had out-grown its Childish innocence;
Before it had arriv'd at sense,
Or reach'd the Manhood, and discretion of De­bauchery:
Known in those Antient Godly duller times,
When crafty Pagans, had engros'd all Crimes:
[Page 119] When Christian Fools, were obstinately good,
Nor yet their Gospel freedom understood.
Tame easie Fops, who cou'd so prodigally bleed,
To be thought Saints, and dye a Kalender with red
No prudent Heathea, e're seduc'd cou'd be,
To suffer Martyrdom for thee,
Only that Arrant Asse, whom the false Oracle cal'ld wise:
(No wonder if the Devil utter'd Lyes)
That sniv'ling Puritan, who spight of all the Mode.
Wou'd be unfashionably good;
And exercis'd his whining gifts, to rail at Vice,
Him all the Wits, of Athens damn'd.
And justly with Lampoones, defam'd.
But when the mad Fanatick, cou'd not filenc'd be,
From broaching dangerous Divinity,
The wise Republick, made him for prevension dye,
And kindly sent him to the Gods, and better Com­pany.
5
Let fumbling Age, be grave, and wise,
And Virtues poor contemn'd Idea prize,
Who never knew, now are past the sweets of Vice;
Whilst we whose Active Pulses beat,
With lusty youth and vig'rous heat,
Can all their Birds, and Moralls too despise?
Whilst my plump Veines, are fill'd with lust and
Blood,
Let not one thought of her intrude,
Or dare approach my Breast;
But know 'tis all possest,
[Page 120] By a more welcome Guest;
And know, I have not yet the leisure to be good.
If ever unkind Desteny,
Shall force long life on me;
If e're I must the curse of Dotage bear,
Perhaps I'll dedicate those Dregs of time, to her,
And come with Crutches, her most humble Votary.
When Sprightly Vice, retreats from hence,
And quits the ruines of decayed sense,
She'll serve to Usher in a fair pretence,
And varnish with her Name, a well dissembled Im­potence!
When Ptisick, Rheums, Catarrhs, and Palsies, seize,
And all the Bill of Maladies,
Which Hav'n to punish over-living Mortals sends;
Then let her enter, with th' num'rous infirmitis,
Her self the greatest plague, which wrinckles, and gray Hairs, attends.
6
Tell me ye Venerable Sots who court her most,
What small advantage can she boast,
Which her great Rival, has not in a greater store engross'd?
Her quiet, calm, and peace of Mind,
In Wine, and Company, we better find,
Find it with pleasure, to combind!
In mighty Wine, where we our Senses steep:
And lull our cares, and Consciences asleep!
But why do I, that wild Chimera name?
Conscience! that giddy Airy Dream;
[Page 121] Which does from Brain-sick-heads, or ill digesting
Stomachs, steam.
Conscience! the vain fantastick fear,
Of punishments, we know not when, or where:
Project of crafty States-men, to support weak Law,
Whereby they slavish Spirits awe,
And dastard Souls, to forc'd obedience draw.
Grand Wheadle! which our Gownd-Impostors use,
The poor unthinking Rabble, to abuse:
Scare-Crew, to fright from the forbidden fruit of
Vice,
Their own beloved Paradice!
Let those vile Canters, wickedness decry,
Whose Mercenary Tongues take pay
For what they say;
And yet commend in practice, what their words deny.
While we discerning Heads, who farther pry,
Their Holy Cheats desie,
And scorn their frauds, and scorn their sanctify'd
Cajollery.
None but dull unbred Fools, discredit Vice,
VVho act their wickedness, with an ill grace;
Such their profession scandalize,
And justly forfeir all their praise,
All that esteem, that credit, and applause.
VVhich we by our wise Manage, from a Sin can raise.
A true, and brave transgressor ought,
To Sin with the same height of Spirit, Caesar fought.
Mean-soul'd, Offenders, now no Honor gain,
Only Debauchees of the Noble strain;
[Page 122] Vice, well improv'd, yeelds Bliss, and Fame beside,
And some for Sinning have been Deify'd!
Thus the lewd Gods, of old, did move,
By these brave Methods, to the Seats above!
Ev'n Jove himself, the Sov'raign Deity,
Father, and King, of all th'immortal Progeny,
Ascended to that high degree,
By Crimes above the reach of weak Mortality:
He Heav'n, one large Seraglio, made,
Each Goddess, turn'd a glorious Punk, 'oth Trade,
And all that sacred place,
Was fill'd with Bastard Gods, of his own Race!
Almighty Letch'ry got his first repute,
And everlasting Whoring, was his chiefest Attri­bute.
8
How gallant was that Wretch, whose happy guilt,
A fame upon the ruines of a Temple built?
Let Fools, (saith he) impiety alledge,
And urge the no great fault of Sacriledge?
I'll set the sacred Pile, on flame,
And in its Ashes, write my lasting name!
My Name! which thus shall be,
Deathless, as its own Deity!
Thus the vain glorious Carian, I'll out do,
And Egypts, proudest Monarchs too!
Those lavish Prodigals, who idely did consume,
Their lives, and Treasures to erect a Tomb,
And only great, by being buried wou'd become.
[Page 123] At cheaper rates than they, I'll buy renown,
And my lowd Fame, shall all their silent glories drown!
So spake the daring Hector, so did Prophecy,
And so it prov'd—in vain did envious Fate,
By fruitless Methods try:
To raise his well built Same, and Memory
Amongst Posterity:
The Beautifeu, can now immortal write,
While the inglorious Founder, is forgotten quite.
9
Yet greater was that mighty Emperor,
(A greater Crime, befitted his high pow'r)
Who sacrific'd a City, to a jeast,
And shew'd he knew the grand Intrigues of humor best!
He made all Rome, a Bonfire to his Fame!
And sung, and plaid, and danc'd amidst the
Flame!
Bravely begun! yet pitty there he staid,
One step to glory more he shou'd have made!
He shou'd have heav'd the noble Frollick higher!
And made the People, on that Fun'ral Pile expire!
Or providently with their Blood put out the Fire!
Had this been done,
The utmost pitch of glory he had won!
No greater Monument cou'd be,
To consecrate him to Eternity!
Nor shou'd there need another Herald, of his praise but me!
10
And thou yet greater Faux, the glory of our Isle
Whom baffled Hell, esteems its chiefest Foyle;
(Twere injury, shou'd I omit thy name)
Whose Action, merits all the breath of Fame!
Methinks I see the trembling Shades below,
Around in humble rev'rence how,
Doubtful they seem, whether to pay their Loyalty,
To their dread Monarch, or to them!
No wonder he grown jealous, of thy fear'd success,
Envy'd Mankind. the honor of thy wickedness,
And spoyl'd that brave attempt, which must have made his grandeur less.
How e're regret not mighty Ghost.
Thy Plot by treach'rous Fortune crost.
Nor think thy well deserved glory lost!
Thou the full praise of Villany, shalt ever share,
And all will judge thy Act compleat enough, when thou coudst dare.
So thy great Master, fear'd; whose high disdain.
Contemn'd that Heav'n, where he cou'd not reign.
When he with bold ambition strove,
T'usurp the Throne above,
And led against the Deity, an Armed Train.
Though from his vast designs he fell,
O're pow'rd by's Almighty Foe,
Yet gain'd he Vict'ry in his overthrow;
He gaind sufficient Triumph, that he durst rebel,
And 'twas some pleasure, to be thought the great'st in Hell!
11
Tell me ye great Triumvirate, what shall I do,
To be Illustrious as you?
Let your example move me with a gen'rous Fire!
Let'em into my daring thoughts inspire!
Some what compleatly wicked, some vast Gyant
Crime,
Unthought, unknown, unpattern'd, by all past and present time!
'Tis done, 'tis done, me thinks I feel the pow'r­ful Charmes!
And a new heat of Sin, my Spirits warms!
I travel with a glorious Mischief, for whose Birth
My Souls too narrow, and weak Fate too feeble, yet to bring it forth!
Let the unpitty'd Vulgar, tamely go,
And stock for company, the wide Plantations below
Such their Vile Souls, for viler Barter sell,
Scarce worth the damning, or their room in Hell
We are its Grandees, and expect as high perfer­ment there,
For our good service, as on Earth we share.
In them, sin is but a meer privative of good,
The frailty aud defect, of Flesh, and Blood;
In us 'tis a perfection, who profess
A study'd, and Elaborate wickedness:
Wee're the great Royal Society of Vice.
Whose Talents, are to make discoveries,
And advance Sin, like other Arts and Sciences.
'Tis I, the bold Columbus, only I,
[Page 126] Who must new Worlds, in Vice descry,
And fix the Pillars, of unpassable Iniquity.
12.
How sneaking was the first Debauch that sinn'd,
Who for so small a sin, sold Human kind!
How undeserving that high place,
To be thought Parent, of our sin, and Race;
Who by low guilt, our Nature doubly did debase.
Unworthy was he to be thought,
Father, of the great first-born Cain, which he begot.
The Noble Cain! whose bold, and gallant Act,
Proclaim'd him of more high Extract!
Unworthy me,
And all the braver part of his Posterity;
Had the just Fates design'd me in his stead,
I'd done some great, and unexampled Deed!
A Deed! which shou'd decry,
The Stoicks dull Equality,
And shew that Sin admits transcendency!
A Deed! wherein the Tempter shou'd not share,
Above what Heav'n, cou'd punish, and above what he cou'd dare!
For greater Crimes than his, I wou'd have fell,
And acted some what, which might merit more than Hell.

An Apology to the fore-going Satyr by way of Epilogue.

MY part is done, and you'll I hope excuse,
The extravagance, of a repenting Muse;
Pardon what e're she has too boldly said,
She only acted here in Masquerade;
And the slight Arguments, she did produce,
Were not to flatter Vice, but to traduce:
So we Buffoones, in Princely dress expose,
Not to be gay, but more ridiculous,
When she a Hector, for her Subject had,
She thought she must be Tarmagant, and mad;
That made her speak like a lewd Punck, 'oth Town,
Who by converse with Bullys, wicked grown,
Has learn'd the Mode, to cry all Virtue down:
But now the Vizor's off, she changes Scene,
And turns a modest, civil Girl, again.
Our Poet, has a diff'rent taste of Wit,
Nor will to th' common Vogue, himself submit.
Let some admire the Fops, whose Talents lye,
Inventing dull insipid Blasphemy;
He swears he cannot with those termes dispense,
Nor will be damn'd, for the repute of sense.
Wits name, was never to profaness due,
For then you see, he cou'd be witty too:
He cou'd Lampoon the State, and Libel Kings,
Put that he's Loyal, and knows better things,
Than Fame, whose guilty Birth from Treason springs.
[Page 128] He likes not wit, which can no Licence claim,
To which the Author, dares not set his Name:
Wit, shou'd be open, court each Readers Eye,
Not lurk in sly, unprinted privacy.
But Criminal Writers, like dull Birds of Night,
For weakness, or for shame, avoid the light:
May such a Jury, for the Audience have,
And from the Bench, not Pit, their doom receive:
May they the Tow'r, for their due merits share,
And a Just Wreath of Hemp, not Lawrel wear.
He cou'd be Bawdy too, and nick the times,
In what they dearly love, damn'd Piacket Rhymes
Such as our Nobles write—
Whose nauseous Poetry, can reach no higher,
Than what the Cod-peice, or its God inspire:
So lewd they spend at Quill, you'd justly think,
They wrote with something nastier than Ink.
But he still thought that little wit, or none,
Which a just modesty, must never own,
And a meer Reader, with a blush attone.
If Ribauldry, deserve the praise of wit,
He must resign to each Illit'rare Cit,
And Prentices, and Car-men; challenge it:
Ev'n they too, can be smart, and witty there,
For all Men, on that Subject, Poets are.
Henceforth he says, if ever more he find,
Himself to the base itch of Verse, inclin'd,
If e're he's given up so far to write,
He never means to make his end delight;
Shou'd he do so, he must despair success,
For he's not now debauch'd enough to please,
And must be damn'd for want of wickedness.
[Page 129] He'll therefore use his gift another way,
And next the ugliness of Vice display:
Though against Vertue once he drew his Pen,
He'll ne're for ought, but her defence agen.
Had he a Genius, and Poetick Rage,
Great as the Vices, of this guilty Age;
Were he all Gaule, and arm'd with store of spight,
'Twere worth his pains to undertake to write:
To noble Satyr, he'd direct his aim,
And by't Mankind, and Poetry, reclaim:
He'd shoot his Quils, just like a Procupine,
At Vice, and made 'em stab in every Line;
The World, shou'd learn to blush—
And dread the vengeance of his angry Wit,
Which more than their own Conscience shou'd fright;
And all shou'd think him Heav'ns, just plague de­sign'd,
To visit for the Sins of lewd Mankind.

Upon the Author of a Play call'd Sodom.

TEll me abandon'd Miscreant, prithee tell,
What damned Pow'r invok'd and sent from Hell;
(If Hell, were bad enough) did thee inspire,
To write, what Fiends asham'd would blushing hear?
[Page 130] Hast thou of late embrac'd som Succubus?
And us'd the lewd Familiar, for a Muse?
Or didst thy Soul, by Inch'oth' Candle sell,
To gain the glorious Name of Pimp, to Hell?
If so; go, and its vow'd Allegiance swear,
Without Press-Money, be its Voluntiere:
May he who envies thee, deserve thy fate,
Deserve both Heav'ns, and Mankinds, scorn, and hate.
Disgrace to Libels! Foyle to very shame,
Whom 'tis a scandal to vouchsafe to damn.
What foul discriptions foul enough for thee,
Sunk quite below the reach of infamy?
Thou covet'st to be lewd, but want'st the might,
And art all over Devil, but in Wit.
Weak feeble Strainer, at meer ribaldry,
Whose Muse, is impotent to that degree,
'Thad need like Age, be whipt to Lechery.
Vile Sot! who clapt with Poetry art sick,
And void'st Corruption, like a Shanker'd Prick.
Like Vlcers, thy impostum'd Addle Brains,
Drop out in Matter, which thy Paper stains:
Whence nauseous Rhymes, by filthy Births proceed,
As Maggots, in some T-rd, ingendring breed.
Thy Muse has got the Flow'rs, and they ascend,
As in some Green-sick Girl, at upper end.
Sure Nature made, or meant at least t'have don't,
Thy Tongue a Clytoris, thy Mouth a C—t:
How well a Dildoe, wou'd that place become,
To gag it up, and make't for ever dumb?
At least it shou'd be syring'd—
[Page 131] Or wear some stinking Merkin, for a Beard,
That all from its base converse, might be scar'd.
As they a Door shut up, and mark'd beware,
That tells infection, and the Plague is there.
Thou Morefields Author, sit for Bawds to quote,
(If Bawds themselves, with Honor safe may do't)
When Suburb Prentice, comes to hire delight,
And wants incentives to dull Appetite,
Their Punk, perhaps, may they brave works re­hearse,
Frigging the senseless thing, with Hand, and Verse.
Which after shall (preferr'd to Dressing Box)
Hold Turpentine, and Medicines for the Pox.
Or (If I may ordain a Fate more fit)
For such foul, nasty, Excrements of Wit,
May they condem'd to th'publick Jakes, be lent,
For me I'd fear the Piles, in vengeance sent
Shou'd I with them prophane my Fundament)
Therefore bugger wiping Porters, when they shite,
And so thy Book it self, turn Sodomite.

A Call to the Guard by a Drum.

RAt too, rat too, rat too, rat tat too, rat tat too.
With your Noses all scabb'd, and your Eyes black and blew.
All ye hungry poor Sinners, that Foot Soldiers are,
[Page 132] Though with very small Coyne yet with very much cure,
From your Quarters in Garrets, make hast to repare,
To the Guard to the Guard.
From your sorry Straw-beds, & your bonny whith Fleas,
From your Dreames of small drink, and your very small ease,
From your plenty of stinck, and no plenty of room,
From your Walls daub'd with Phlegm sticking on 'em like Gum.
And Cieling hung with cobwebs, to stanch a cut Thumb, To the Guard, &c.
From your crackt Earthen Piss-pots, where no Piss can stay,
From Roofs bewrit with snuffs in letters the wrong way,
From one old broken Stool, with one unbroken Leg,
One Box with ne're a Lid, to keep ne're a Rag,
And Windows that of Storms more than your selves can brag,
To the Guard, &c.
With rusty Pike, and Gun, and the other rusty Tool,
With heads extreamly hot, and with Hearts wonderous cool;
With Stomachs meaning none (but Cooks and Sutlers) hurt;
With two old totter'd Shoes, that disgrace the Town dirt
With Forty shreds of Breeches, & not one shred of Shirt.
To the Guard, &c.
See they come, see they come, see they come, see they come
With Allarmes in their Pates, to the call of a Drum;
Some lodging with Bawds (whom the modest call Bitches)
With their Bones dry'd to Kexes, and Legs shrunk to
Switches;
[Page 133] With the Plague in the Purse, & the Pox, in the Breeches.
To the Guard, &c.
Some from snoriug, and farting, and spewing on Benches,
Some from damn'd fulsome Ale, and more damn'd ful­some Wenches;
Some from Put, and Size Ace, and Old Sim, this way stalk,
Each Mans reeling's his Gate, and his Hyccop, his talk;
With two new Cheeks of red, from ten old Rows of Chalk,
To the Guard, &c.
Here come others from scuffling, & damning mine Host,
With their Tongues at last tam'd, but with Faces that boast,
Of some Scars, by the Jordan, or War-like Quart Port,
For their building of Sconces, and Volleys of Shot,
Which they charg'd to the Mouth, but discharg'd ne're a Groat.
To the Guard, &c.
They for Valor in black too! the Chaplain does come!
From his Preaching o're Pots, now to pray o're a Drum.
All ye Whoreing, and Swearing, old Red Coats draw near,
Like to Saints, in red Letters, listen, and give ear,
And be Godly a while ho, and then as you were.
To the Guard, &c.
After some canting Terms, to your Arms and the like,
Such as poysing your Muskits, or Porting your Pike;
To the Right, to the Left, or else Face about,
After ratling your Sticks, and your shaking a Clout,
Hast your Infantry Troops, that mount the Guard on Foot.
To the Guard, &c.
Captain Hector, first marches, but not he of Troy,
But a Trifle made up of a Man, and a Boy.
[Page 134] See Man scant of Arms, in a Scraf does abound,
Which presages some swagg'ring, but no blood nor wound,
Like a Rain-bow, that shews the World shant be drown'd,
To the Guard, &c.
As the Tinker, wears Rags, whilst the Dog bears the Budget,
So the Man stalks with staff, whilst the Foot-boy does trudge it,
With the Tool he shou'd work with (that's Half-pike you'll say)
But what Captain's so strong his own Arms to convey,
When he marches o're loaden with Ten other Mens pay.
To the Guard, &c.
In his march (if you mark) he's attended at least,
With stinks Sixteen deep, and about five a Breast
Made of Ale, and Mundung as, snuff, Rags, and Brown Crust for,
While he wants Twenty Taylors, to make up the Cluster,
Which declares that his journey's not new to the Muster,
But to the Guard, &c.
Some with Musket, and Belly, uncharg'd march away,
With Pipes, black as their Mouths are, and short as their pay,
Whilst their Coats made of holes, shew like Bone-lace about 'em,
And their Bandileers hang like to Bobbins without 'em,
And whilst Horsmen, do cloath 'em, those Foot-scrubs do clout 'em.
For the Guard, &c.
Some with that ty'd one one side, and Wit ty'd on neither,
Wear gray Coats, and gray Cattle, see their Wenches run hither,
[Page 135] For to peep through Red Lettice, and dark Celler doors,
To behold'm wear Pikes rusty, just like their Whores,
As slender as their Meales, and as long as their Scores.
To the Guard, &c.
Some with Tweedle, Weedle, Weede (whilst we beat dub a dub)
Keep the base Scotish noise, and as base Scotish scrub;
Then with the Body contracted, a Rag, open spread,
Comes a thing, with Red Colors and Nose full as Red,
Like an Ensign, to the King, and to the Kings Head.
Towards the Guard, &c.
Two Commanders, come last, the Lievtenant perhaps,
Full of Low Country, Story, and Low Country Claps,
To be next him the other takes care not to fail,
(Powder Monkey by name) that vents stink by whole sale;
For where shou'd the Fart be, but just with the Tail.
Of the Guard, &c.
And now hey for the King, Boyes, & hey for the Court,
Which is guarded by these, as the Tow'r is by Dirt;
These Whitehall must admit, aud such other unhouse ye
Each day lets in the drunk, whilst it lets out the drowsey
And no place in the World, shifts so oft to be Lowsey.
Thank the Guard, &c.
Some to Scotland-yard sneak, and the Sutlers Wise kisses,
But dispairing of drink, till some Country man pisses,
And pays too (for no place in the Court must be given.)
To the Can Office then, all a Foot Soldiers Heav'n,
Where he finds a foul Fox, soon, and cures Sir Stephen.
On the Guard, &c.
Some at Shite-house publick (where a Rag always goes)
At once emty their Guts, and diminish their Cloths
[Page 136] Though their Mouths are poor Pimps (Whore and Ba­con being all
Their chief Food (yet their Bums we true Courtiers, may call,
For what they eat in the Suburbs, they shite at White­hall.
For the Guard, &c.
Such a like pack of Cards, to the Park, making entry,
Here, and there, deal an Ace, which the Jews call a Centry,
Which in bad Houses of Boards, stand to tell what a Clock 'tis,
Where they keep up tame Red Coats, as men keep up tame Foxes,
Or Apothecaries lay up their Dogs T-ds, in Boxes.
Oh the Guard, &c.
Some of these are planted (though it has been their lucks
Of't to steal Country Geese) now to watch the Ks. Ducks;
VVhile some others are set, in the side that has VVood in,
To stand Pimps to black Masques, that are of thither footing,
Just as Huswives, set Cuckolds, to tend their black Pudding.
Oh the Guard, &c.
VVhilst another true Trojan, to some passage runs,
As to keep in the Debtor, so to kep out the Duns;
Or a Prentice, or his Mistris; with Oaths to confound,
Till he hies him from the Park, as from forbidden ground,
Cause his credit is whole, and his Wench may be sound.
And quits the Guard, &c.
Now it's Night, and the Patrole in Ale-house droun'd,
For nought else, but the Pot, and their Brains walk the round;
[Page 137] VVhilst like Hell, the Commanders, Guard Chambers, does (shew,
There's such damning their selves, and all else of the Crew;
For though these cheat their Men, they give the Devil, his due.
On the Guard, &c.
VVhilst a Main, after main, at old Hazard they throw,
And their Quarrels grow high, as their Mony grows low;
Strait thy threaten hard (using bad Faces for frowns)
To revenge on the Flesh, the default of the Bones,
But the blood's in their Hose, and in Oaths all their VVounds.
Like the Guard, &c.
In the Morning they fight, just as much as they pray,
For some one to the King, does the tidings convey
For preventiug of Murder; Oh 'tis a wise way!
Though not one of 'em knows (as a Thousand dare say)
VVhat belongs to a dead Man, unless in his pay.
For the Guard, &c.
VVith their skins, they march home, no more hurt than their Drums,
But for scratching of Faces, or biting of Thumbs;
And now hey for fat Alewives, and Tradsmen, grow leane,
For the Captain, grown Bankrupt, recruits him agen,
VVith sending out Tickets, and turning out Men.
From the Guard, &c.
Strait the poor Rogue's Cashier'd, with a Care, and a curse,
Fall from wounding no Men, now to cut ev'ry Purse
[Page 138] And what then? Man's a Worm; these we Glow-worms may name.
For as they're dark of Body, have Tails all a flame,
So tho these liv'd in Oaths, yet they dye with a Psalm.
Farewel Guard, &c.

Ephelia to Bajazet.

HOw far are they deceiv'd who hope in vain,
A lasting Lease of joys from Love t'obtain?
All the dear sweets, or promise or expect,
After enjoyment, turns we cold neglect.
Cou'd love, a constant happiness have known,
The mighty wonder, had in me been shown,
Our Passions are so favored by Fate,
As if she meant 'em an Eternal Date;
So kind he look'd, such tender words he spoke,
'Twas past belief such Vows shou'd e're be broke.
Fixt on my Eyes, how often wou'd he say,
He cou'd with pleasure gaze an Age away!
When thoughts too great for words had made him mute,
In kisses, he wou'd till my hand his Suit.
So great his passions was, so far above,
The common Gallantryes, that pass for love,
At worst I thought if he unkind shou'd prove,
His ebbing passion, wou'd be kinder far,
Than the First transports of all others are.
[Page 139] Nor was my love, or fondness less than his,
In him I center'd all my hopes of Bliss!
For him my duty to my Friends forgot,
For him I lost, alas! what lost I not?
Fame, all the valuable things of life,
To meet his love, by a less name then VVife
How happy was I then, how dearly blest,
When this great Man lay panting on my Breast,
Looking such things, as ne're can be exprest!
Thousand fresh looks he gave me ev'ry hour,
Whilst greedily I did his looks devour!
Till quite o'recome with Charmes, I trembling lay,
At ev'ry look he gave, melted away!
I was so highly happy in his love,
Methoughts I pitti'd them that dwelt above!
Think then thou greatest, lovelyest, falsest Man,
How you have vow'd, how I have lov'd, and then,
My faithless dear, be cruel if you can!
How I have lov'd, I cannot, need not tell,
No ev'ry act, has shown, I lov'd to well.
Since first I saw you, I ne're had a thought,
Was not entirely yours, to you I brought,
My Virgin, Innocence, and freely made,
My love, an Off'ing, to your noble Bed:
Since when, y'ave been the Star, by which I steer'd
And nothing else but you, I lov'd, or fear'd.
Your smiles, I only live by, and I must.
When e're you frown, be shatter'd into Dust.
Oh! can the coldness that you shew me now,
Suit with the gen'rous heart you once did shew?
[Page 140] I cannot live on pitty, or respect,
A thought so mean, wou'd my whole love infect;
Less than your love, I scorn Sir to expect.
Let me not live in dull indiff'rency,
But give me rage enough to make me dye!
For if from you, I needs must meet my Fate,
Before your pitty, I wou'd choose your hate.

A very Heroical Epistle in Answer to Ephelia.

Madam,

IF your deceiv'd, it is not by my Cheat,
For all disguises, are below the great.
What Man, or VVoman, upon Earth can say,
I ever us'd 'em well above a Day?
How is it then, that I inconstant am?
He changes not, who always is the same.
In my dear self, I center ev'ry thing,
My Servants, Friends, My Mrs. and my King,
Nay Heav'n, and Earth, to that one poynt I bring.
We'll manner'd, honest, generous, and stout,
Names by dull Fools, to plague Mankind found out;
Shou'd I regard, I must my self constrain,
And 'tis my Maxim, to avoid all pain.
You fondly look for what none e're cou'd find,
Deceive your self, and then call me unkind,
[Page 141] And by false Reasons, wou'd my falshood prove,
For 'tis as natural to change, as love:
You may as justly at the Sun, repine,
Because alike it does not always shine,
No glorious thing, was ever made to stay,
My blazing Star, but visits and away.
As fatal to it shines, as those 'ith' Skyes,
'Tis never seen, but some great Lady dyes.
The boasted favor, you so precious hold,
To me's no more than changing of my Gold
What e're you gave, I paid you back in Bliss,
Then wher's the Obligation pray of this?
If heretofore you found grace in my Eyes,
Be thankful for it, and let that suffice,
But VVoman, Beggar-like, still haunt the Door,
Where they've receiv'd a Charity before.
Oh happy Sultan! whom we barb'rous call,
How much refin'd art thou above us all:
Who envys not the joys of thy Serail?
Thee like some God! the trembling Crowd adore,
Each Man's thy Slave, and VVoman kind, thy VVhore.
Methinks I see thee underneath the Shade,
Of Golden Ganopy, supinely laid,
Thy crowding Slaves, all silent as the Night,
But at thy nod, all active, as the light!
Secure in solid Sloth, thou there dost reign,
And feel'st the joys of Love, without the pain.
Each Female, courts thee with a wishing Eye,
While thou with auful pride, walk'st careless by;
Till thy kind Pledge, as last, marks out the Dame,
Thou fancy'st most, to quench thy present flame.
[Page 142] Then from the Bed, submissive she retires.
And thankful for the grace, no more requires.
No loud reproach, nor fond unwelcome sound,
Of Womens Tongues, thy sacred Ear does wound;
If any do, a nimble Mute, strait tyes
The True-loves-knot, and stops her foolish cryes.
Thou fear'st no injur'd Kinsmans threatning Blade,
Nor Mid-night Ambushes, by Rivals laid;
While here with aking Hearts, our joys we tast,
Disturb'd by Swords, like Democles his Feast.

On Poet Ninny.

CRusht by that just contempt his Follys bring,
On his craz'd Head, the Vermin fain wou'd sting.
But never Satyr, did so softly bite,
Or gentle George himself more gently write.
Born to no other, but thy own disgrace,
Thou art a thing so wretched, and so base,
Thou canst not ev'n offend, but with thy Face.
And dost at once a sad example prove,
Of harmless malice, and of hopeless love.
All pride! and ugliness! oh how we loath,
A nauseous Creature, so compos'd of both!
How oft have we thy Cap'ring Person seen,
With dismal look, and Melancholly Meene,
The just reverse of Nokes, when he wou'd be,
Some mighty Heroe, and makes love like thee!
Thou art below being laught at, out of spight,
Men gaze upon thee, as a hideous sight,
And cry, there goes the Melancholly Knight.
There are some modest Fools, we dayly see,
Modest, and dull, why they are Wits, to thee!
For of all Folly, sure the very top,
Is a conceited Ninny and a Fop.
With Face of Farce, joyn'd to a Head Romancy,
Ther's no such Coxcomb as your Fool of fancy:
But 'tis too much on so dispis'd a Theam.
No Man wou'd dabble, in a dirty Stream:
[Page 144] The worst that I cou'd write, wou'd be no more,
Then what thy very Friends, have said before.

My Lord All-Pride.

BUrsting with Pride, the loath'd Impostume swells,
Pr-k him, he sheads his Venom strait, and smells;
But 'tis so lewd a Scribler, that he writes,
with as much forch to Nature, as he fights,
Hardned in shame, 'tis such a baffled Fop,
That ev'ry Scool-boy whips him like a Top:
And with his Arme, and Head, his Brains so weak,
That his starved fancy, is compell'd to take,
Among the Excrements of others wit,
To make a stinking Meal of what they shit.
So Swine, for nasty Meat, to Dunghil run,
And toss their gruntlinst Snowts up when they've done:
Again his Stars, the Coxcomb ever strives.
And to be something they forbid, contrives.
With a Red Nose, Splay Foot, and Goggle Eye,
A Plough Mans, looby Meene, Face all a wry,
With stinking Breath, and ev'ry loathsome mark,
The Punchianello, sets up for a Spark,
With equal self conceit too, he bears Arms,
But with that vile success, his part performs,
[Page 145] That the Burlesques his Trade, and what is best
In others, turns like Harlequin, in jest.
So have I seen at Smithfields wondrous Fair,
When all his Brother Monsters, florish there;
A Lubbard Elephant, divert the Town,
With making Legs, and shooting off a Gun.
Go where he will, he never fiends a Eriend,
Shame, and derision, all his steps attend;
Alike abroad, at home, 'ith Camp, and Court,
This Knight, o'th Burning Pestle, make us sport.

Captain Ramble.

WHilst Duns were knocking at my Door,
I lay in Bed with wreeking Whore,
With Back so weak, and Pr—k fo sore yo'ud wonder.
I rais'd my Doe, and laid her Gown,
I pinn'd her VVhisk, and dropt a Crown,
She pist, and then I drove her down
Like Thunder.
From Chamber then I went to Dinner,
And drank small Beer, like mournful Sinner,
But still I thaught the Devil in her
Clytoris.
I sat at Muscots, in the dark,
And heard a Tradesman, and a Spark,
A Scriv'ner and a Lawyers Clark,
Tell Stories.
From thence I went with muffled Face,
To the Dukes House, and took a place,
In which I spew'd, may't please his Grace
Or Highness.
Had I been hang'd, I cou'd not choose,
But laugh at VVhores, who dropt from Stews,
Seeing that Mrs Marg'ret Hews,
So fine is.
When Play was done, I call'd a Link,
Hearing some paultry pieces chink
Within my Breeches, how 'dye think
I employ'd em?
[Page 147] Why Sir, I went to Mrs. Speerings,
Where some were Cursing, others Swearing,
Never a Barrel better Herring,
Per fidem.
Seave'ns the Main, 'tis Eight God damn me,
'Tis Six, (said I) as God shall save me;
And being true, they cou'd not blame me
So saying.
Save me (quoth one) what Shamaroone,
Is this has beg'd an Afternoon,
Of's Mother, to go up, and down,
A playing?
Now this to me, was worse than killing,
Mistake me not for I am willing;
And able both, to drop a Shilling,
Or Two Sir.
Well said my Lad, (Quoth Bully Hack)
With Whiskers stern, and Cordibeck,
Pinn'd up behind his scabby Neck
To shew Sir.
With Mangy Fist, he graspt the Box,
Giving the Table bloody knocks,
Calling upon the Plague, and Pox,
To assist him.
Ten Shillings from me, he did snach,
He'd like to have made a quick dispatch,
Nor wou'd Times Register, my VVatch,
Have mist him.
As luck wou'd have it in came VVill,
Perceiving things went very ill,
Quoth he, thou'dst better go and swill,
Canary.
[Page 148] We stee'rd our Course to Dragon Green,
Which in Fleet-street to be seen,
Where we drank VVine, not foul but clean
Contrary.
Our Host Eclipsed Thomas Hammon,
Presented slice of Bacon Gamon,
VVhich made us swallow Sack, as Salmon
Does Water.
Being over warm with the last debauch,
I grew as drunk as any Roach,
VVhen hot Back'd Wardens did opproach,
Or later.
But see the damn'd confounded fate,
Attends on drinking VVine so late,
I drew my Sword on honest Kate
I'th Kitchin.
VVhich Hammonds Wife cou'd not endure,
I told her though she look'd demure,
That she came latly I was sure,
From Bitching
We broke our Glasses out of hand,
As many Oaths, we did command,
As Hastings, Savin, Southerland,
Or Ogle.
Then I cry'd up Sir Harry Fain,
And swore by God I wou'd mantain,
Episcopacy, was too plain,
A juggle.
And having now discharg'd the House,
We did reserve a gentle Souse,
With which we drank another Rouse,
At the Bar.
[Page 159] And now good Christians, all attend,
To drunkenness, pray put an end,
I doe advise you as a Friend,
And Neighbor.
For lo the mortal, here behold,
Who cautious was in days of old,
Is now become, rash, sturdy, bold,
And free Sir,
For having scap't the Tavern so,
There never was a greater Foe,
Encountr'd yet by Pompey, no
Nor Caesar.
A Cunstable, both stern, and dread,
Who is from Mustard, Brooms, and Thread,
Preferr'd to be the Brainless head
O'th' People.
A Gown, h'ad on with Age made gray,
A Hat too, which as Folks do say,
Is Sir-name'd to this very Day,
A Steeple.
His Staff, which knew as well as he,
The business of Authority,
Stood bolt upright at sight of me;
Most true tis.
The Lowsey Currs, that heither come.
To keep the Kings peace, safe at home,
Yet cannot keep the Vermin from
Their Cutis.
Stand, stand, says one, and come before,
You lye, said I, like a Sun, of a Where,
I can't, nor will not stand, that's more
De mutter?
[Page 150] You watchful Knaves, I'll tell you what,
Your Officer, i'th' May-Pole-Hat,
I'll make as drunk as any Rat.
Or Otter.
The Constable began to swell,
Although he lik'd the motion well,
Quoth he my Friends, this I must tell
You clearly.
The Pestilence yon can't forget,
Nor th' dispute with the Dutch, nor yet
The dreadful Fire, that made us get
Up early.
From which (quoth he) I this infer,
To have a Bodies Conscience clear
Excelleth any costly Cheer,
Or Banquet.
Besides (and faith I think he wept)
Were it not better you had kept,
Within your Chamber, and have slept,
In Blanket.
But I'll advise you by, and by,
—A pox of all advice said I,
Your Janizaries look as dry,
As Vulkan.
We came not here to talk of Sin,
—Come—here's a Shilling fetch it in.
Our business now is to begin,
A full Can,
At last I made the VVatch-men drunk,
Examin'd here, and there, a Punck,
And then away to Bed I slunk,
To hide it.
[Page 151] Now these my wishes are to you,
Who will those dangers not Eschue,
That ye may all go home, and spew,
As I did.

On Rome's Pardon.

IF Rome can pardon Sins, as Romans hold,
And if those Pardons, can be bought and sold,
It were no Sin, t'adore, and worship Gold.
If they can purchase Pardons with a Sum,
For Sins they may commit in time to come,
And for Sins past, 'tis verywell for Rome.
At this rate they are happy'st that have most;
They'll purchase Heav'n at their own proper cost,
Alas! the Poor! all that are so are lost.
Whence came this knack, or when did it begin?
What Author have they, or who brought it in?
Did Christ, e're keep a Cusiom-house for Sin?
Some subtle Devil, without more ado,
Did certainly this sly invention brew,
To gull'em of their Souls, and Money too.
FINIS.

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